Adelaide seemed to wake to a chorus of sparrows, their chatter pattering across her mind like rain on a tin roof at dawn.

Sleep slid off her like a thin shawl, and blood-red eyes opened onto Mira’s face, a quiet moon with the kind of beauty that could unmake a kingdom.

Yes, beauty that could topple kingdoms, a crown set on a morning lake—she loved that word, gaudy for others, perfect for her sister, her lover.

She belonged to her, a bride to a true king; those gilded praises were forged by bards for thrones, so no silk was too rich for her.

Warmth swelled first, then action—Adelaide buried her face in Mira’s neck, breathing in camellia like a garden after rain.

Her fangs itched like thorns waking in spring; she held the urge with a thread of will, and nuzzled instead, limbs tightening like an octopus around a rock.

Her play met silence; the blonde did not rise, only furrowed her brow, like a dream snagging on brambles.

No, no, how could that be—my sweet sister is just tired, she told herself; last night we played till the stars burned low.

“Phew, such a little sloth,” she murmured, poking her cheek, then poking again, as if tapping a seed to sprout.

Her finger sank into soft skin and felt a jaw tighten like a clenched shell, yet Mira stayed in the tide of sleep.

Boredom rippled, then restraint; forcing her up felt cruel, like tugging a bud before it blooms.

And she had a task today, a day carved in iron; how could she not let her sleep in a quilt of quiet?

She gathered herself like a cat rising, sat up, and stretched long, vertebrae clicking like beads.

“Mm… I’m kinda hungry,” she sighed, palm over her stomach like a hand on a kettle, blaming last night’s dinner and her parents’ dampening words.

Of course, with the Sacred Heart she didn’t need food, but she still rolled her eyes like a cherry under glass, hopped down with a playful heh, and drifted to the window.

Red light bled through gauze, painting the room as if dipped in a basin of fresh blood.

It wasn’t sunlight, but stigma—an entire shield of blood hooded the Douglas Family’s sanatorium, turning day into a profane dusk.

This barrier stood like ironwood, far stronger than the spell Samir and the others had torn; anything Adelaide hadn’t invited was kept outside like rain held by stone.

So this morning’s call couldn’t be sparrows; she only thought so because sparrows woke her most days, and her heart wanted today to wear its old coat—whoosh!

She yanked the curtain, and the red glow hit fabric and died like a tide against a cliff.

Strange, why think so much when her stomach hummed like a beehive, and Mira probably hadn’t eaten either?

Breakfast, breakfast—where was it? The idea popped like a lark from a hedge.

She opened the door, turned a corridor like a river bend, and ran into Anisa, her maid uniform frayed like a storm flag.

The girl wore dark circles like bruised fruit, mind scattered like leaves; she didn’t see Adelaide, bumped shoulders, and yelped, tipping like a sparrow off a wire.

“Oh, my poor Anisa, how did you get so clumsy?” Adelaide’s smile was sunlight on a pane; she held out a hand like a branch.

Anisa flicked her eyes up, then dropped them like stones; she refused the hand and scrambled up on shaking legs.

“S–sorry! Miss! I didn’t—didn’t mean it!” Her bowing chopped the air like a hinge, words tripping like pebbles.

A gentle karate-chop to the head—tap—and the panic halted, like a clock wound back.

“Really now, why act like you saw a ghost? Don’t tell me Anisa’s tired of this old friend,” Adelaide teased, voice ribboned with air.

“N–no, no, how could I—how dare I!” Fear pooled in her eyes like ink, then thinned.

“Good.” Adelaide patted her like smoothing a cat’s fur and brightened. “So, what’s for breakfast? I’ve missed the Douglas Family’s spread.”

“Uh… ah…” Anisa peeked up, then stared at the floor, voice wobbling like a reed. “W–what would you… like to eat?”

“As usual’s fine,” Adelaide said, then paused, tapping her chin like a drum.

“I get it. Anisa doesn’t know what Mira likes, so she asked—how thoughtful,” she chimed, like chimes in a breeze. “You weren’t here when Mira stayed with us, so that’s normal.”

“Ah…?”

“Don’t worry. Just tell Chef Carmel to make breakfast for the two of us. He’s served our family forever; he knows our tastes.”

Anisa’s confusion sat on her face like fog; instinct made her tremble, and the sleepless night painted fear she couldn’t hide.

But no, no, how could that be—she’s just not used to caring for two mistresses, Adelaide soothed herself, and she let magnanimity settle like a cloak.

“It’s sudden, but Mira will be living with me—living with me from now on,” she said, pinching the maid’s cheek like a peach and smiling. “You might feel off at first, even tired.”

“But I know my good friend is capable. Give her time, and she’ll wear the job like a well-cut dress—right, Anisa?”

“Ah… I—I’ll try…” Her answer stumbled like a fawn, but her skill stood like a brick wall.

Without being told, she wheeled the cart into the bedroom, saw the other young lady asleep, and set the redwood tray and breakfast quickly, clean as a blade.

Only one flaw—a tremor that chased her whenever her eyes met Adelaide’s, a winter draft through a crack.

It drew an accident. She glanced up, froze like a mouse in torchlight; her ponytail went stiff like a drawn bow; the hand with the teacup shook.

Thank heaven there was no tea yet; the cup kissed another dish and made a sharp clang, thin as an icicle snapping.

The sound wasn’t loud, but it stitched into sleep—Mira hummed, and her eyes opened like dawn peeling over hills.

Adelaide’s smile wavered like a ribbon slipping, while Anisa jerked into bows, her ponytail snapping pap pap. “S–sorry, I didn’t mean—!”

“Anisa, how can you be so careless—”

“—It’s fine, sister.” Mira’s voice was water over stones; just awake, she grasped the moment at a glance.

She caught Adelaide’s hand, warmth like a hearth, and shook her head gently, a poppy in a breeze.

“Anisa, you can go. We’ll handle breakfast.” Her words were calm as mist.

Anisa fled by relief, bowed, and backed out, closing the door with the hush of a tide.

Adelaide’s face shifted like clouds, but Mira’s hand stayed warm, so she only rolled her eyes, a cat’s slow flick.

“What, I’m not going to eat Anisa. Why make me a monster,” she huffed, like steam from a kettle.

She took knife and fork, cut a tender piece of hot pancake, and dipped it in molten maple–hazelnut butter, gold pooling like sunlight.

She didn’t eat it. She offered it to Mira like a sweet on a silver spoon. “Here—ahhh.”

Her mouth made a long ah, inviting like a finch’s call; Mira blinked half a beat, tucked her hair behind her ear, and leaned in to bite the fork.

“Mm, that’s it.” Joy sprung like a spring. Adelaide fed her several pieces, then cut toast, dipped it in runny soft-boiled egg, and ate.

Truth first, action second—she had worried that Mira might ice her out after last night’s bitter ash.

But she’d overthought it; Mira wasn’t sulking, and she accepted the fork like a quiet wolf being hand-fed, amber eyes steady.

She still spoke little, but never wooden; Adelaide’s topics met answers like stones skipping—no dead water, no awkward drift.

Then Mira took a handkerchief and wiped egg from Adelaide’s mouth, and Adelaide blinked wide, then pouted, head tipping back like a lily.

“Hey, sister isn’t a kid who needs Mira to wipe her mouth.” Her grumble was a kitten’s paw.

“Mm-hmm. Sister’s an adult who can care for herself. Got it.” Mira lowered the handkerchief and made a surrender gesture, hands up like a harmless fox.

For someone so quiet, that was theater; Adelaide’s eyes widened, not for the act, but for a small smile curving Mira’s lips.

A simple, gentle arc, fitting like light on skin; no crack, no strain.

Because it was simple, Adelaide knew it was true—her sister’s happiness, solid as bread, with no pretense.

The fact hit like a tonic shot; her heart stumbled, then ran like a deer.

“Mm… my sister is the cutest in the world!” she burst, tossing cutlery like petals and crushing Mira in a hug.

Her arms pressed to Mira’s back like wings, cheek rubbing cheek, joy ringing like bells.

That voice had been right. It was that lingering Matis’s fault, a shadow clinging like burrs.

Without those useless hopes, Mira turned back into the sister she loved most, the one who belonged to her and only her.

Soon they’d cut the knot and be done, and life would flow better than before, a river no threat could muddy.

“Mira, let’s head out after breakfast,” she sang, excitement flaring like sparks. “We’ll finish that old undead and be back for lunch.”

“Sister will come too?” Mira’s gaze was calm, a pond under wind.

“Of course—ah! I don’t mean you can’t beat that old fossil. I know you can,” she said, words tripping like a foal then settling.

“But just in case, if he even scratches you, that’s bad. I’ll help a little from the side.”

“No worries, I won’t steal your fun,” she added, voice soft as velvet. “I’ll make sure you kill him yourself.”

“Mm. I will.” Mira’s reply was a thread tied tight.

Happiness lingered like honey; Adelaide cuddled her far too long, becoming the weight that slowed the clock.

Still, that syrup-slow, lovey-dovey breakfast finally ended, like honey finishing its last drip from the spoon.

They tidied each other with the ease of morning wind, and Adelaide fastened the little bell hairclip in Mira’s hair with her own hands, like a sparrow tucking a petal behind a friend’s ear.

She’d meant to save it as a prize for when Mira lopped off Rockridge’s head, like a ribbon for a hunter after the stag.

But her mood was bright as a lifted sky today, so she granted it early, generous as spring rain, and Mira’s answer didn’t disappoint—she bloomed with the exact smile Adelaide had hoped for.

“…Thanks.”

“Ah-ah!” She wagged a finger like a playful metronome. “No ‘thank you.’ Right now you say, ‘I love you.’”

“Mhm… I love you, Sis.”

“I love you too, Mira!”

Joy sparked in Adelaide again, quick as flint to tinder, and with a neat click she locked the clasp.

She took Mira’s hand, easy as breathing, and the two of them left the room together like twins stepping into the same beam of light.

The instant their feet crossed the courtyard threshold, the sky-wide blood veil dried and shattered, and it drifted down like red snow from a broken dawn.

They strolled through that gorgeous, profane snowfall, unhurried as a garden walk, sometimes pausing for a roadside blossom like bees tasting color.

It wasn’t that they’d forgotten there was half a day’s ride between Balad and the Douglas Family’s sanatorium, nor were they dragging their feet like actors milking a scene.

The world around them told the truth in frozen brushstrokes: a gaunt hare held mid-leap, hind legs glued to earth like clay; a dandelion stopped mid-sway, trapped in a twisted pose like a calligrapher’s half-made stroke; a sallow villager, cheeks caved like dry gourds, pointing in terror toward the Douglas Family’s sanatorium.

They weren’t delaying; time itself was holding its breath for them, like a lake gone mirror-still.

There was no need to hurry, so Adelaide kept a courtyard stroll’s rhythm, chatting as lightly as wind through chimes.

Mira seemed to agree, her arm linked with Adelaide’s, matching her steps perfectly, quiet as shadow beside flame.

Inside this stalled world, they ambled toward Balad like two notes sliding along the same string.

They passed strange tableaux: conservative nobles fleeing the capital with families in tow, like caravans of pale moths; fighters of the Red Orchid Society hunting Rockridge’s remnants, like red petals scything weeds; Sankachi shoved into an Imperial prison, head drooping like a cut stalk; Lord Padini speaking at the High Tribunal’s bench, his words raised like a hammer; and the King’s Guard encircling the palace in tight rings like iron ripples.

Beyond the line of grim, heavily armored knights, whose faces were shut like visors, they finally stepped into the palace.

Compared to the world’s end outside, the palace felt hushed and hollow, like a grand shell abandoned by the tide.

They walked to the end of the red velvet carpet that led to the throne, a river of plush running to a stone cliff, and there at last they saw shadows shaped into people.

Skela. Hazel. Familiar faces among strangers Adelaide knew by name but not by breath, and it didn’t matter—the truth was clear as a bell.

Everyone gathered here was a powerhouse, famous across the empire, like peaks in a ring of mountains.

They stood in a half-circle, all gazes nailed to one point: the narrow dark door behind the throne, a slit of night behind a crown.

In this near-still time, they were perfect statues—lips clamped like sealed letters, shoulders trembling like bowstrings, spell-circles coiled at their fingertips like sleeping snakes.

Every detail on them whispered tension and unease, the same battle-face painted on each like war paint, as if a demon waited breathing behind that door.

Adelaide saw it all and only lifted a shoulder, a shrug light as dust.

“Looks like we’ve arrived.”

“…Mm.”

“Pleasant walks always end too soon, pity,” she sighed, like wind leaving a flute. “But this won’t take long.

“We go in, you take his head, and the cleanup goes to them.

“Then we pick another road home. We can catch different scenery. What do you say?”

“…,” Mira said nothing, her silence soft as snow.

“…Mira?”

The blonde girl kept her lashes lowered, and after a beat she nodded, a petal falling without sound.

“Another road… heh, that sounds nice,” she said, smiling like a crescent moon, easing her arm from Adelaide’s and setting her hand on her sword.

In that instant, Adelaide saw it in her eyes—a thread of reluctance, fine as silk.

It was like she didn’t want the journey to end, like dusk clinging to the last light.

Why? Was it because she wanted to keep walking with me, like a river that hates to split?

But I said we’d continue soon; why that look, like a tether stretched thin? Could it be…

Could it be…

Could it be the legendary, literal “not wanting to leave me even for a single second”?

The thought made her tap Mira’s forehead, playful as a sparrow peck. “Hey, you clingy little thing.

“How did I not notice you liked me this much?”

“I’ve always liked you, Sis,” Mira said, voice warm as tea. “I liked you from the first time we met.”

“Wha—! When did you learn lines that corny?” Adelaide flushed, pink as dawn. “Nope, not allowed to say that out here!”

Save that for tonight, she scolded, words brisk as fan-slaps. There are other people here! Yet she didn’t spare the crowd a glance, her blood-red eyes holding only Mira like a lantern holds flame.

She knew Skela, the only one here who could sense their arrival, was throwing frantic eye-signals like tossed pebbles.

She didn’t care for the warning, and her calm was a lake that wouldn’t ripple.

After all, standing as they were now, what could an ant like Rockridge possibly do?