Staring at that face so close she could count every lash, Mira’s heart skipped a beat like a drum tripping over itself.

In the Elven Realm she’d been this close to her sister twice already; it shouldn’t have shocked her, like seeing a familiar path under morning frost.

But this time…

This time, no waltz spun around them like circling fireflies, no ring of envy glowed on the crowd like candles in a temple, no velvet haze rose like dusk over a lake.

This time, no moon poured a dazed silver veil, no fingers laced with weighty breaths like tides, no reckless confession tossed like a lantern into the night.

No build-up, no room for bracing; the wind whooshed and blew their hair into each other’s eyes like frayed banners, loudly announcing the obvious—the falling clockwork was winding to its last tick like a spent spring.

It was not romantic; both girls were pale as paper, cheeks washed of color like winter leaves, lips iron-blue and dry as a drought.

But this time… it was different from the other two, like a path turning at a hidden stone.

Because this time, it wasn’t a trick of light, and it wasn’t that heart-cracking refusal; it was a real kiss, like a bell struck clean in a quiet hall.

Mira’s eyes flew wide; before thought could catch up, warmth bloomed on her lips like fire under snow.

And sweetness answered at the tip of her tongue, like honey on the blade of grass.

It wasn’t a dragonfly’s brush; it was a hot, binding kiss, a deep pull like a current that won’t let go.

The instant their lips met, Mira got not only panic that stalled her heart like a deer in torchlight, not only the warmth she’d starved for like a hearth in winter.

Above all that, a burning sweetness spread along her tongue like sunrise across frost, catching her off guard, making her body soften like wax by a flame.

Held by her sister’s hands cupping her cheeks like petals, she couldn’t fight; her breath snagged like a snagged kite, only her throat lifting and falling as the sweetness poured deeper like rain into roots.

Meanwhile, Adelaide’s other hand flicked; Matis’s binding on her magic snapped like a brittle twig, and a sacrifice sigil formed at her fingertips like a crimson snowflake.

Most of the time, that profane art that devours the outside brings loss and harm like a blight; seeing her sister send that scarlet sigil toward her, Mira trembled like a leaf in a gust.

But…

It’s okay. Sister won’t hurt you—words like warm smoke at her ear, though neither could spare breath to speak.

Under those gentle red eyes like embers behind glass, Mira let her resistance fall like a dropped shield. She let Adelaide press the sacrifice sigil to her chest like a seal on water.

Then, a miracle happened, like the first rain over a cracked field.

There was no expected pain of flesh being eaten, no gnawing fire; instead, a holy stream rose, a spring overflowing her limbs and bones like clear water, smoothing the curse’s backlash and its wounds like hands over bruises.

The power was so gentle and sacred, almost the opposite of “Blood Magic,” like dawn against soot; yet its source was indeed the sacrifice sigil glowing at Adelaide’s fingertips like a ruby moth.

Warmth poured through Mira’s chest like tea into a cup; the malice crushing her heart crouched and hushed like a wolf before the sun, and chains shattered like ice under a hammer.

At the instant the bind vanished, Mira knew the true body of that warm current like recognizing a scent; she understood what “not yet” had meant the day Adelaide refused her, like a lock finally reading its key.

Her sister really was the world’s most perfect actor, a mask laid over a mask like lacquer on lacquer.

She fooled everyone, made them believe she’d wagered her heart and life on the Savia Rose like a gambler tossing her last coin.

No one guessed that, before Matis’s plot came to light, Adelaide had already chosen her road like a traveler setting a compass.

When the Void Rift burst and she swallowed the Savia Rose, she didn’t fuse that Elven relic into her flesh like a root drinking soil. She sealed it within her blood like a pearl in a shell, waiting; even with a short blade sunk into her heart like winter iron, life on a thread like spider silk, she refused to use it.

She waited, and waited, until this hour like a fruit holding its sweetness for harvest.

With lips joined, she sent that sacred substance into Mira’s body like wine poured from mouth to mouth. Then she sacrificed it, releasing its holy trait as a god-given miracle like a temple door flinging wide.

Like sunlight, the divine power shone on Mira’s heart, leaving the darkest, vilest curse nowhere to hide, like shadows fleeing noon.

Yes, just as everyone said, the Savia Rose couldn’t heal bodies outside the Elven race, like a herb meant for one soil.

But she’d never planned to use the rose on herself, like a gardener saving the bloom for another’s wounds.

As an offering, the Savia Rose delivers unmatched purification like snow cleansing soot. That was enough.

What she wanted to repair was Mira’s heart, like a cracked bell mended.

No ambition, no scheme—simply because she wanted to do it, like lighting a lantern for one person.

That’s all—like a pebble dropped in a clear pond.

Her eyes held simple joy, like childhood sunlight—back when she held Mira’s hand in the Douglas Family’s backyard maze, getting lost like sparrows, then finding odd mushrooms in a quiet corner like moons under leaves.

Mira saw that pure softness and her heart quivered like a string plucked.

Panic drained from her like tide receding; she stopped dodging, stopped retreating, laced fingers with Adelaide like ivy, and met that not-so-romantic kiss like a first sip of rain.

No delirium, no dread; only clumsy sweetness, almost like sisters playing tag under trees.

After all, for both of them, this was the first time, like fresh snow untouched.

The falling girls embraced at ten thousand meters like swallows in midair. The pocket watch at their chests ticked slower like a sleepy cricket; the wind died like a door closing; weightlessness eased like a cradle. Only each other’s touch remained, proof of the moment like ink on paper.

After a long while, their lips parted like petals easing apart.

No silver thread drew between them, no breathy moan; Adelaide eyed the ring of blood on Mira’s lip like a kitten’s mustache and couldn’t help a laugh like a chime.

“You look like a little cat, Mira~”

“…Sister,” a whisper like a moth’s wing.

That was the blood that had overflowed from your mouth—she didn’t finish the obvious, her gaze sliding back to Adelaide’s chest like a leaf riding water.

The short blade had vanished at some point like mist, but the wound remained, sealed only with a thin weave of blood like red stitches, holding back more loss like a dam of reeds.

For a cut that had reached the heart, that patch was crude, like a bandage slapped on a storm. But Mira knew no healing spells; she couldn’t offer better now, like a carpenter without tools.

Seeing her worry, Adelaide lifted a hand and covered Mira’s eyes like a curtain drawn over a window.

“Don’t look like you’re about to cry. Your sister isn’t that fragile,” she said, voice warm as wool.

“But…” Mira shook her head like a branch in wind, trying to pull free; Adelaide kept her hand in place like a lock.

“No buts,” her voice dropped a little like dusk. “Promise me—when I take my hand away, you’re not allowed to look at the wound, okay?”

Mira jolted, thinking Adelaide was still faking strength, hiding how bad it was like a cracked vase turned to the wall. She rushed, “Is it bleeding again? Let me check. I—I can use lightning to cauterize, earth mana to seal—”

Adelaide hurriedly cut her off with a flurry of no-no’s like sparrows scattering, then fell into a small silence like rain pausing under eaves.

After a beat, she squeaked, “Pervert…” like a quail piping.

Mira blanked for half a second, her mind snowed over for a blink, then her face went tomato-red like a ripe fruit.

She remembered the blade had pierced right at Adelaide’s chest, slicing the wrap’s hook like a thread. From afar it might pass, but at this pressed-together angle… well, everything not meant for her eyes had been in full view like a window flung open.

Realizing it, Mira wanted to die on the spot, like a stone sinking in a lake.

So, so awkward—how could she be so slow, like tripping over her own shadow? Shame and self-blame rushed her like a storm; in a way she relived the choking of that curse, a noose of fog tightening.

Only, unlike before, another voice now heckled alongside the guilt, a circus monkey in her head jumping and jeering like cymbals: You already did that with her, so look, so what? No one’s losing a pound of flesh!

At that thought, Mira’s body went stiff again like ice catching.

Too late to think about it now, but… did I really just… with Sister…? The question flitted like paper in wind.

The feel of lips lingered like embers under ash; dizzy, the warmth in her arms turned unreal like a mirage. She couldn’t tell if the heat was shame surging to her head like fire, or blood pooling from hanging upside down too long like wine in a tilted jar—wait.

On that second guess, the fact they were falling rang again like a bell; panic kicked in like a startled horse.

It earned only a bell-like laugh, light as silver beads.

“Whoo-hoo… Mira,” Adelaide slowly took her hand away like lifting a veil. “Look around~”

Light returned like blinds lifting; Mira blinked, her pupils settling like shutters, and saw the world move in slow motion like syrup.

They still hung upside down, less than a thousand meters from the ground like ants above stone. Yet everything—the flying fireballs, shredded flesh of Chaos Spawn, bizarre summons clawing the air, the Type-59 tank’s plasma cannon gathering glows like storm-clouds, even their own fall—crawled at a syrup pace like molasses.

Mira blinked again; understanding opened like a fan—her Time Domain had triggered on its own.

That wasn’t strange; a soul’s innate magic domain acts without conscious thought, like a heartbeat—just as Adelaide doesn’t need to think to invoke her Sacrifice Domain.

Only, for Mira, it had been ages, like a winter without thaw.

Ever since Rockridge blew that flute that woke the curse, sharp as a thorn, her Time Domain had been suppressed like a river under ice; every use was a nail through the skull, a grit-everything effort to cast.

Seeing it unfurl now, easy as breathing, like a sail catching wind, Mira once more understood the price her sister had paid for her.

She wanted to speak, words beating at her lips like birds at a cage; Adelaide’s finger landed on her mouth first, her smile slightly impish like a fox.

“No sappy lines. If you make me laugh out loud, the wound will hurt like a pulled stitch.” Seeing Mira clamp her mouth shut like a sealed jar, she chuckled anyway, then glanced at the figure fleeing in the distance like a shadow peeling from wall. “As for what we do now…”

“I think we ought to repay that ‘senior,’ don’t you, Mira?” A debt like an arrow waiting on the string.