After Rex was wounded, they carried him to the medical ward of the Earth Mother’s Outer Temple, like a storm-battered banner slipping through incense-lit halls.

Under the priests’ healing divine arts, his dire wounds knit like frost melting under the first sun.

By now, Rex was out of danger, like a boat edging free of a whirlpool.

All he needed was half a month of rest in that clean, orderly ward, like a seed tucked in loam to gather strength.

Shelika, whom he’d shielded with his life, felt bound to visit, like a vow carved in jade on her heart.

By the time the rescue ended, night had settled like velvet across the Holy City.

Shelika entered and saw Rex, pallid with weakness like a washed moon, and his eyes opened at her arrival like shutters at dawn.

“Rex, I’m so glad you’re okay,” she said, a smile breaking like winter sun through clouds.

He let out a weak, relieved laugh, like wind easing through pines. “Me too. I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”

“Rex…” she murmured, gratitude warm as steeped tea spreading through her chest.

After the brief pleasantries, Rex struggled to sit, like a wounded hawk lifting its wings against gravity.

“You’re an injured man—what are you doing?” she blurted, worry boiling up like a kettle over flame.

Rex spoke with earnest fire. “This incident exposed flaws in the Holy City’s security. I need to write a report and send it up,” his resolve hard as a polished mirror turned toward the sun.

“I see…” Shelika didn’t stop him, letting go like loosening the reins on a steady horse.

She fetched his work kit at once, and he began writing on the bed, the pen scratching like crickets singing at dusk.

“Then I won’t disturb you,” she said, leaving like a quiet breeze through a screen door.

“Mm. I’m fine. Just take care of yourself,” he answered, passing the words like a lantern into her hands.

With that, Shelika said her goodbyes and slipped out of the spotless ward, like stepping from a still pond into a trait of wind.

She returned to the corridor of the Outer Temple’s medical wing, incense drifting like mist along stone.

She planned to follow the corridor out and meet Menea in the administrative wing, like walking a river toward its bend.

The administrative wing sat upstairs, so Shelika climbed, her steps rising like moths drawn to lamplight.

She was of the Dark Blood Clan; even without a spell, she sensed Menea’s familiar aura, like jasmine threading through a night breeze.

It matched what Menea had said half an hour earlier; she truly waited above, a promise set like a stone in a courtyard.

Shelika followed the aura down the corridor, like a hunter trailing dew-bright tracks.

Soon, the presence grew stronger in a nearby hall, like a drumbeat drawing near across tiles.

Perhaps by oversight, the door stood ajar, like a clam with its shell slightly parted.

From inside came Menea’s voice, sharp in dispute, like thunder cracking over a ridge.

“General Shulk, explain what happened at noon!” Her words flew like arrows toward a target.

Her counterpart was General Shulk Finch, a pillar of the legion like stone under banners.

He spoke smoothly, his tone like oil on calm water. “At noon? You mean the drill’s grand success—”

“Or how you bravely beat the assassin who tried to murder the Holy Maiden, so you came to claim merit?” His smile lay like a blade wrapped in silk.

“Don’t play dumb!” Menea slammed the table, the bang a hammer on an anvil that rang through wood.

“How did a Nordland assassin of Sky Rank slip in so easily? Didn’t you order the guard to relax?!” Her accusation bit like wolves invited through an open gate.

“Interesting,” the legion’s pillar laughed, cold as winter steel laid on the tongue. “You think I gain from that?”

“Of course,” the earnest lady knight slammed the table again, ink splashing on silk in her fury. “Everyone knows you serve the Empire to your last breath—even if your tricks are filthy.”

Menea was stubborn but not foolish, a pine that bends yet won’t break in snow.

She sat where she did through strength and sharp strategy, like a hawk’s eye sweeping the field.

From the result, she saw Shulk’s aim was to rally public will, like stirring a river to carry a thousand boats.

But the method was grotesque—the ‘Holy Maiden nearly slain’, a funeral staged under festival lanterns that mocked the light.

It was Shulk’s order to relax the guard, loosening the net so a shark could slide through the cords.

“Major Menea, you know deception has its place in war,” he said, words curling like smoke around a hidden blade. “Even the dirtiest trick can win. I’m honored to work with someone upright, but that upright heart may block our road to victory. So you must change—”

Menea cut him off, her voice snapping like a bowstring under pull. “General Shulk, don’t dodge the point!”

“If Shelika had died on that plaza, how would the people see us?!” Her fury was a storm tearing down banners.

“Maybe she’d become a revered spirit as we planned. But what about us?!” They would stand like scarecrows in a field of shame.

“As soldiers failing the city and knights failing our people—” Their armor felt hollow as dried gourds, their oaths cracked like clay in drought.

“Did you not think the Earth Mother would weep for our incompetence?!” Tears would fall like rain on barren soil that refused to bloom.

Shulk was ready to counter with his beloved grand theory, but he noticed a presence in the hall, like a shadow crossing a paper screen.

He smiled thinly, a blade’s edge for lips. “Major Menea, since you’re so fixed on this, let’s hear the party concerned.”

“You mean… Shelika?!” Absorbed in argument, Menea turned and saw Shelika waiting at the door, like a small bird poised on a lintel.

Shelika had been listening; with the door ajar, the voices spilled like water through a gap, and curiosity drew her like a moth to a lantern.

In truth, she had suspected this already but lacked proof, her doubt a fog without a guiding light.

Now she heard the Shadowspirit Legion had set her up, and anger flared like fire leaping through dry pine.

But because she had suspected it, the blaze didn’t last; the knot inside loosened like a taut string softening under rain, and relief came strange as cool shade.

Shulk’s tone turned urbane, silk laid over thorns. “Is this not our Holy Maiden? As for my ‘unintentional harm to you,’ I, Shulk Finch, would be honored to hear your view.”

Like Rex, Shulk was handsome, but his beauty was cold—a hunter in shade ready to spring, like a black panther under moonlight that pricks the skin.

Shelika did not fear; her voice was steady as a lake with wind on it. “I’m more than willing to speak on this—”

“I don’t mind. Even if you meant harm, for the greater good, I won’t hold a grudge,” she said, sliding the blade back into its sheath like peace over steel.

How could she not resent it? Yet the thought of striking their Wasteland Deity balanced the scales, two storms meeting and settling into still air inside her chest.

“Shelika?” Menea could hardly believe it, the sound warping like an echo in a canyon.

After all, no normal person forgives a would-be killer, like a lamb thanking the wolf that bared its teeth.

“Incredible…” Shulk showed disbelief, then smiled, petals dropping to hide thorns beneath. “Such heart, such measure. Crowning you Holy Maiden was our best choice!”

“If possible, I wouldn’t want to be the Holy Maiden,” Shelika said, weariness fluttering like a bird tired of gilded cages.

“It’s done now,” Shulk replied, his promise coiling like a serpent around a branch. “We don’t meddle in Blood Clan affairs, yet you’ve shown us their worth. So, when this vexing war ends—”

“I, Shulk, will use my power to rally all demonfolk to support you as the next Queen of the Blood Clan!” His words beat like drums under a black banner.

“This… then I’ll be deeply grateful for the demonfolk’s support,” she said, bowing in her heart like one beneath lanterns in a winter courtyard.

If you can still find me by then, Shelika thought, her doubt a lone footprint fading in snow.