If it had been the former Shelika—the girl I used to be—she’d have said yes without a heartbeat. But the Shelika of now is not that ghost in old skin. She closes her eyes like shutters against dawn. Her voice drops a frost: “Sorry, Rex. This is my own affair. The debt for saving me—I’ll repay.” She rises, a shadow peeling from the chair. She turns, cool as moonwater, and leaves the room. Rex is left alone, hollowed like a lantern with no flame. His gaze loses light, drifting in an endless fog. “Shelika… why…”
Night drains; dawn spills. Shelika walks the road back to the Rose Traveler. In the outer streets of the Holy City, daybreak is an empty riverbed. The emptiness makes her footfalls slow and lone. Memory returns like a chill gust. She sees again the moment she refused Rex. The thought of his thunderstruck face stabs and softens her. “Did I go too far?” worry blooms before action. She shakes her head like a tree shedding dew. “No. Without hard words and a clean cut, trouble will breed.” “Not just trouble—might end with me on maternity leave.” She sighs, a petal falling, and reaches the inn lobby in a wash of tired light.
She’s about to step into the corridor when the sassy maid at the counter grins like a fox. “Fight with your boyfriend?” Shelika gives her a flat look, a cool lake with no ripple. “Drop the ‘boy’.” Words tossed, meaning caught. The maid’s eyes pop; her hand flies to her mouth. “Eh~~ That handsome knight isn’t your boyfriend?!” “How do you know?” “Eh~~ You don’t know?”
By now, the city is buzzing like a hive. Rex, the Ruin Knight, led a squad to storm the Crimson Temple at night to save his beloved. Thanks to Shelika’s usual quiet in the Holy City, few connect “beloved” with her name. Even so, rumor is smoke that creeps under doors. It weighs on her spirit like damp clothes. After days of tangled events and poor sleep, fatigue paints her petal-bright face a wan shade. “I see…” Weariness etches itself on her features, beauty thinned like silk in rain. The maid tilts her head, casual as a breeze. “You look beat. Go rest, okay~~” “Mm.”
Shelika drifts down the corridor, steps heavy like sand. She stops before her door, the one she rented at the Rose Traveler. A big pink heart-shaped spell-lamp blooms on the wall nearby. The metal knob shines like a small sun. In that gleam, her reflection wavers like a funhouse mirror. Warped, yet still lovely, a rose seen through ripples. Too tired, she lets her mind empty, a pond without stones. Birdsong pricks the silence like silver needles. She comes back to herself and lays a hand on the knob. She doesn’t press. Hesitation pools. “Charlotte should be back.” The thought rises like steam.
She opens the door. As expected, Charlotte has returned. Not dozing on the bed, though. She’s folded over the table by the window, the place drenched in moonlight at night. “What is she doing?” Curiosity ripples before her steps. Shelika steps closer, quiet as mist. Charlotte is already asleep, cheek pillowed on her arm. Even sleeping, she smiles in those silly, adorable bursts, little fireworks of joy. Her lips murmur, blurred by dreams: “My lady sister… little Fulin… please be safe…” The table is a field of paper wings. A sea of thousand cranes, all beaks pointing to hope. Shelika counts by habit. Roughly two hundred. Judging by the number, Charlotte must have started at midnight and folded until dawn. In Nordland, folding a thousand paper cranes is a folk blessing ritual, wishes folded into flight.
Shelika watches the girl who prayed for her through the night, a candle burned to the end. Her heart knots and loosens, storm then calm. “Silly child,” she breathes, half scold, half balm. “Don’t you know I don’t die so easily?” As if the prayer is heard, a morning breeze slips in, the kind that smells of dew. A flock of cranes lifts, whispering out the window like stirred leaves. She stands and watches the scene, a gentle painting in soft light. After a while, she gathers Charlotte up, a careful cradle of arms, and lays her on the bed. She draws the blanket over, tucking in warmth. As her hand leaves, Charlotte hugs that arm and giggles in sleep. “Ehehe~~ My lady sister, you smell so nice…” Shelika eases free, soft as silk from a sleeve. She looks at the unguarded sweet face, a peach in spring. Her voice is weary and warm. “In the end, I’m the one who has to look after you.” She sets down a note. Then she slips out.
In the lobby, the sassy maid blinks, incredulous, like a cat tracking a moth. “Out already? Do you even sleep?” Shelika answers without bite, a straight line. “Not really.” She doesn’t linger for chatter. She steps out of the inn, neither rushed nor slow.
The street is poured with bright sun, a gold river. Shelika raises a gothic parasol, a dark flower against light. She drinks in the fresh morning air, deep as a well. She distills part of its essence into strength and spellpower. Her spirit snaps back like a drawn bow. “Hah~~ feels good.” The relief is like a sip of blood, but not a feast. With her energy restored, her stride quickens.
She won’t rest. There’s work stacked like stones. With Cerise’s eye on Charlotte paused for now, the most urgent task is from the God of Wine. Fetch the tribute bottle from the Crimson Temple. After everything, she understands she needs a weapon blessed by a god. Morning now means the Dark Blood Clan are asleep in coffins of shade. The Crimson Temple isn’t empty, but it’s thinner than night. Fewer bodies in the way means fewer innocents hurt. If they won’t give it, she’ll take it, storm in like rain.
She isn’t without reason. One priest violated her, but the others are innocent. So she’ll ask first, a knock before the storm. If they refuse, if others try to block her path, then her hands will speak.
Not long after sunrise, Shelika reaches the Crimson Temple again. The manservant guards at the gate spot her. After last night’s uproar, their nerves are taut like bowstrings. Yet, for reasons sealed behind their eyes, not one steps to bar her. Shelika walks in unscathed, a shadow crossing red stone. Perhaps they’ve raised their vigilance. This time, the high priest comes to meet her. “Shelika… third child of the Queen. Why do you come to Margaret’s sanctum at this hour? But first, allow me to apologize on Cerise’s behalf for her discourtesy.”
