Panic hit first, a chill wind rippling through reeds; the urgent task was clear as dawn—get rid of the dead pig and the blood on the bed.

She eyed the pig sprawled on its side, its belly carved with twisted sigils coiling like thorny vines.

One look felt wrong, like a crow perched on a gravestone at noon.

Her earlier guess of torment flickered back; the thought curdled like milk—was it a ritual sacrifice?

A shiver ran through her like winter water slipping down her spine.

This thing would out her, like a lantern in fog exposing a lone traveler.

The Lancelot Family hunted cultists of the Dark Deity, a house built on tombstones and old vows.

By her father’s generation, the edge had dulled like a blade nicked by too many battles; death had thinned their ranks.

The heir once meant to lead lay buried like a broken banner, and the mantle fell to her father, the last straight branch.

Because of that, her mother barred her from Dark Deity lore, a door shut like a temple gate at dusk.

Yet her parents would spot this as ritual stock in a heartbeat, like veterans reading scars in campfire light.

Even without secret tools, experience was a compass; they could call it by scent and shadow alone.

Can’t let them see the pig, she whispered, fear a small bird fluttering in her chest, and touched her ring.

At least this world’s craft wasn’t barren; a Storage Ring was a bright trick, like a hidden pocket in moonlight.

If you could stir the magic in your blood, it obeyed like a well-trained hound.

It cost a fortune, a jewel out of reach for ordinary hands.

She willed the ring, and a thin glow slipped out like dawn mist, bathing the carcass.

The light folded the pig away like silk swallowing a stone, leaving silence behind.

Next came the blood, a problem spreading like red leaves on fresh snow.

How to clean it?

The stains had crusted like dried lacquer, stark against sheets white as clouds.

She grabbed a rag from the bedside, bare feet soft as petals, and padded to the washroom.

Water kissed the cloth like rain on moss; she hurried back, heart pattering like hail.

She dabbed at the sheet, trying to thin the color like watercolor bleeding through rice paper.

After a few passes, the red paled like sunset fading, and the rag blushed faintly rose.

But it still shouted on white like poppies in frost; the stain refused to vanish.

In short—not enough. Not even close.

What now?

Roll it into the ring, carry it to the maid, and hope the wash didn’t betray her like ink in clear water?

Hide it outright, and risk the maid discovering missing sheets like a swallow noticing an empty nest?

Wash it herself, and tell her parents she was grown, a sapling standing firm in wind?

She bit her finger, thoughts tangling like vines, when a knock pealed outside like a wooden bell.

Knock, knock, knock—clean and bright as pebbles struck together.

Miss, are you up? The Count and Madam are waiting in the dining hall.

The voice startled her like a fish breaking the surface.

It was her personal maid, Kaeli, the quiet moon that tended her tides.

There was only one path now; roll the bedding and tell the maid not to touch, like guarding a hearth fire.

She moved the moment the thought bloomed, wrapping the quilt, then yanked and rolled the sheet in one sweep.

Maybe Kaeli thought she was still dozing; the door knocked again, then her gentle voice floated in like warm tea.

Forgive me, miss. I’m coming in.

Kaeli moved too fast; the door breathed open like a curtain in a breeze, and Lucimia was still wrestling cloth like a small sparrow with a sail.

She was small, and the quilt rose like a hill, blocking her view; she poked out half a head like a cautious mouse.

Kaeli came in wearing a classic maid’s dress, black stockings like ink strokes, her steps crisp as rain.

My, miss can wake on her own today? Wonderful, she smiled, eyes dropping to the bundle cradled like a river stone.

Miss, what are you doing?

Uh… Lucimia blinked, and the excuse she’d rehearsed lit like a lantern.

You see, you said I got up without a call, so I’m already an adult—so I’ll wash the quilt myself, no need to trouble you!

She put on a child’s face, eyes bright like stars eager to leap.

Surely the maid wouldn’t dampen a young sprout’s zeal, and a family’s lady wouldn’t be refused like a guest at the gate.

She felt her performance glide like a skater’s blade over ice.

Hmm… Kaeli thought a breath, then answered softly, like snow settling.

I’m sorry, miss. I must ask Madam. Only with her consent can you do it yourself.

Right. She’d rushed blind like a moth to a lamp; Kaeli had no authority, and disobedience could draw a lash like thunder.

Kaeli saw her crestfallen face and spoke warm as sunlight on frost.

I can explain this to Madam for you. I’ll try to win her consent. Don’t worry, miss.

Lucimia kept her head down, silent as a pebble, so Kaeli continued, voice teaching like a river’s flow.

I can show you how to wash. See, you should remove the cover first; hugging the quilt wears you out like tugging wet rope.

Once the cover’s off, it’s much easier, like peeling bark from a young branch.

She reached for the quilt, and Lucimia panicked like a bird hearing a hawk’s shadow.

No—no need! I’ll do it myself!

She dodged, clutching the quilt, the motion wide as a banner in wind.

Her small frame met a large bundle, balance slipped like moss underfoot, and she tilted toward the floor.

Miss, careful!

Kaeli moved quick as a striking cat, catching her in time like a hand saving a teacup.

Lucimia didn’t fall, but the quilt fled her hands and dropped open like a book.

Both sets of eyes locked onto the quilt, their focus a shared arrow.

White fabric lay wide as fresh snow, blood speckled it like red plum blossoms; the folded sheet and pinked rag lay in the middle.

Kaeli’s gaze turned back, puzzled as a moon behind thin cloud, and cold sweat climbed Lucimia’s neck like ivy.

Kaeli looked away again, steadied Lucimia, then bent to lift the quilt, studying the stain close as a painter to canvas.

She picked up the rag and examined it, thoughtful as a scholar weighing ink.

Lucimia stood stuck, a figure in frost, not knowing which way the wind would blow.

How to explain the blood? Or just run while she looked, like a fox into reeds?

Miss…

W-what is it? The maid’s voice tolled like a bronze bell, and her words tangled in Lucimia’s throat.

Was the maid going to deal with her here, steel hidden like a needle in silk?

She’d seen enough stories—maids and stewards with strength coiled like springs under calm faces.

Miss, this…

This is… Lucimia’s mind knotted, searching for a path like a stream seeking a channel.

What could make sense?

Her eyes dropped to her pale little feet, still soft as lotus buds.

Wait.

She remembered—she was in a girl’s body; blood on a bed could be a tide as regular as the moon.

Lucimia set her expression, then let fear flutter across it like a trembling leaf.

Actually, it’s my blood…

This is… your blood? Kaeli frowned at the cloth, baffled as a traveler at a forked road.

Lucimia pressed on, voice firm like a stake in soil.

Yes. I said it already—I’m an adult. An adult.

She bit those two words hard, like sealing a knot.

The hint should land like rain on dry earth.

Kaeli didn’t disappoint; the word “adult” clicked like a key in a lock.

Oh—no wonder you said you’re grown. The time matches like seasons turning. So that’s it.

No wonder you wanted to wash it yourself. I’ll inform Madam.

Ah… mm… okay… Lucimia nodded, wanting to say otherwise, but the river had chosen its course.

At least the problem eased like clouds thinning after storm.

Seen this way, a woman’s body had its perks…?

Perks, my foot. In her past life, she was a man, solid as oak.

For now, miss, ease off on exercise; I’ll wash the quilt. I’ll let Madam know first.

Lucimia watched Kaeli roll the quilt, her steps steady as a well-trodden path, and leave.

She let out a breath, like a bellows settling after flame.

That should count as the first gate passed.