Night fell like ink. The command tent, once a buzzing hive, sank to pin-drop hush while the Lina Sisters stood guard, eyes drifting over mileposts of their journey.

Crimson Sun sentries held the watch, wolf-cold gazes combing the dark. Others—men and women scraped from deathfields—let heat flare fast beneath moon-sifted leaves.

“Ah, so sweet,” Rita sighed, envy first, action later, hugging her knees on dew-cool grass. She pouted at lovers joined at the hip, ivy clinging to stone.

Medith had called their names like a death sentence and shoved them onstage in cute green Sprite outfits to sing and dance. Autumn nipped; the wind keened like a flute, and Rita tugged the flimsy fabric tight, a needle of cold threading her skin.

Lina breathed out, a leaf on the breeze. “Who’d look twice at old women like us? And humans burn out so fast—marry one and you’d cry yourself empty.”

Rita flashed white teeth, mischief bubbling like spring water; then memory softened her face. “Speaking of old, besides Sister Sais, Sister Melia’s the eldest, right? I wonder if she’s happy, riding the wind.”

“She… will be,” Lina answered, warmth before motion, bracing on her palms. Her long legs stretched like pale reeds; her cropped green hair danced. She lifted her face to the moon, moonlight pooling with fondness in her eyes.

Rustle—grass whispered like silk torn. Lina’s hand snapped back, a bow in a storm, and an arrow leapt.

Whoosh—

“Wait—wait! Sister, spare me!” A handsome youth, face streaked like claw-marks, burst from the brush like a spooked hare.

The sisters’ bodies eased. Rita flicked Nameless on the head, a knuckle-thunk like a pebble on bamboo. “You silly brat! Sneaking around back here for what? A night raid?”

Running with Medith rubs off; the banter slipped like rain off eaves.

“Who’d night-raid a flat-chested old auntie—hey, wait—sis, my bad!” Nameless yelped as Rita yanked his hair, pain needling his skull, his plea tumbling like stones.

Lina rose, frost on her face, stare sharp as ice. “We can call ourselves aunties, but you dare say it to our faces? Choose—left hand or right.” She pinned him to dirt like a fish to a board, while Rita lifted her brown boot, pride bright as a banner.

The wheel turned; yesterday Medith toyed with her, today she’d balance the books on Nameless.

“Hold up! Two on one? Cheating! What kind of noble saints are you?” Nameless writhed, but Rita’s delicate hand hid storm-iron. Her knee, sheathed in green knee socks, nailed him down, and she bared her teeth like a playful fox.

“Who’s a saint? We’re cute, pretty Sprite girls. Call us sisters!” Lina raised her brown boot, shadow falling like a guillotine.

Nameless stole a glance and blurted, desperation first, wit second, “Sister! Sister! Your… your pink really suits you.”

Lina’s eyes flew wide; three heartbeats rang like bells. She clapped a hand to her short skirt, blush flooding like sunrise, and dropped back in a fluster.

“Hahaha! Ha… ha?” Nameless’s laugh snagged. Above his head, a blood-red character for “death” flickered like a cursed firefly.

Lina’s eyes answered with a red gleam, a winter verdict.

Crack—bones shifted, clean as ice breaking. The boy’s eyes went wide, cheek to earth, and that was probably the end of him.