To thin the fog of awkwardness, Lucimia asked, “Why can’t you take off your blindfold?”

“Because my eyes can’t meet light,” she said, voice like still water in a night pond.

“But it’s nighttime,” Lucimia pressed, moon-cool and unsure.

“Not even a little. It hurts.” The girl lay on her side like a crescent on silk, answering as calm as frost.

Her words had odd pauses, like stones snagging a stream; I chalked it up to habit.

Lucimia studied her hair again—long pale-pink strands like scattered sakura, not white, so not albinism; something else hid in the shade.

Fine, if she won’t remove it. She shifted her gaze to that pink-haired face, porcelain under shadow.

The fear and devotion I’d imagined toward a Dark Deity weren’t there; only a flat lake, no ripples, nothing stirring.

Lucimia lowered her voice, draping it in smoke and mirrors. “You’re not afraid of me? I’m a Dark Deity. Maybe I’ll eat you.”

Whether she could see or not, Lucimia curled her ten fingers into little claws, casting shadow-puppets to scare her.

The girl still didn’t fear. With a not-quite smile, she coaxed like an older sister, “Honorable Dark Deity, I’m very scared.”

Lucimia pouted, lips like a pressed plum. Same age, yet she feels older, steadier, like a mountain.

No—maybe I’m the child, moth-brained, and my last life was an adult under steady lanterns.

Forget it. She dropped the act like a mask into a drawer.

If I were an offering and the one who took me poked like a playful kitten and spoke so soft, fear would melt like frost at dawn.

A breathing stranger on my bed made my temples throb, drums under silk; I dared not imagine what offerings the faithful would send next.

Good thing I’m female; discovery would draw odd looks like nettles. If male, iron shackles would coil like cold snakes.

Thinking that, being female almost seemed sweet as honey; no, no—thoughts fluttered like moths around a lamp again.

Irritated, Lucimia raked her hair, fingers like combs, and yelped when two strands stung free like needles.

Storing her like yesterday is impossible. The Storage Ring swallows only lifeless things, a silent pond for stones; living folks sink wrong.

She glanced at the wall clock. Dawn inked 5 a.m., thin as paper. Take her out, bring her back in daylight, call her my friend?

It might work in theory; Mother longs like warm sun for me to have companions.

From my last life till now, my field’s been barren of friends; to grow one now would be joy, especially one so lovely.

Yet theory is theory. If I sneak her out and return at first light, what was I doing all night? A tear in my silk alibi.

A minor staying out—Mother’s suspicion would press like a shadow under the door.

Maybe I take her out and hide her, then return alone. In the morning, weather the maid and parents, then fetch her “to play.”

It’s shaky. Deceivers prowl like wolves in fog; her eyes are bad; trouble will bloom; what if I bring back a Deceiver?

If I let it ride, how do I explain her to the maid at dawn? Needles for eyes, questions like pricking thorns.

Do offerings carry any taint? Will the Church sniff it out like incense smoke under temple eaves?

Lucimia bit a fingertip, little fox worrying a grape, and glanced at the girl.

She lay still, obedient as jade—no crying, no fuss—like a delicate doll set under moonlight, strangely lovable.

If taking her out won’t work, lock her in here. Keep her unseen, treat her like a real doll. She looks so well-behaved.

But when the maid cleans, what then? If parents enter, boots like drums, what then?

It’s risk. I trim risk to the bone, because only then can I live like a dried salted fish—lazy, unbothered by waves.

Her mind spun gears like a clockwork crane, cleverness hunting a crack in the board.

Calm, breathe, think, she told herself, snow settling inside.

What’s your aim in hiding the offering? Not being suspected, keeping your face veiled, living steady and warm—tea, food, idle fun.

Then, if a knot won’t untie, cutting the rope might be a way; solve the one who raises the problem.

She cooled suddenly, lake turned to glass; her teeth left her finger. Deep black eyes, wells at midnight, fixed on the doll on the bed.

The doll was beautiful: willow-slim lines, snow-pale skin, curves like gentle hills—a perfect hanger for any finery.

Obedient and quiet, she lay like a lamb beneath the knife, breath thin as thread.

Such a doll would shatter my life, porcelain against stone, shards everywhere.

Suddenly, Lucimia saw a single path, a reed in desert wind, low-risk and clean.

Kill her, place her in the Storage Ring; the night river swallows secrets, and no one knows. Blood can be blamed on biology.

Yes—wouldn’t that please everyone? A tidy ledger, no ink spilled.

Once Father and the Church crush the Deceiver swarm, my life returns: pastries, opera lights, games of ease—why worry for coin?

Friends? I want a confidant, yes; but if a friend topples my tea tray, let the cup go.

Right. I’m a Dark Deity; she’s an offering. What I do is my law. I vowed before sleep to guard my mask for me and mine.

Kill the girl, and no suspicion clings like damp. It’s not evil by taste—it’s protection, silk wrapped around a blade.

Yes. Saying it again, the guilt thinned like morning mist; my act felt like justice, bright as a lantern.

Eyes on her slender pale neck, porcelain curve, Lucimia’s gaze iced over; she weighed the method.

Use Wind Blade to cut? No—blood would pour like a red river; hard to explain.

Then what? Suffocation—air pulled like a tide out to sea.

Thought met action. She raised a hand, spun a silent cage of spell around the girl.

Seal first, then draw the breath. Walls closed like glass; the air slipped away like water through fingers.

The bedroom went eerily still, snow-quiet. Only faint breathing and a rustle of covers moved.

Maybe the quiet was too strange; the pink-haired girl seemed to see through fog. Her voice trembled, a reed in wind. “Please don’t leave me alone…”

Her pleasant tone rang like a bell under temple eaves. Lucimia jolted awake; her spell snapped like a cut string.

Thump. She dropped to the floor, lungs hauling air like bellows, gasps rough as surf.

What—what’s happening? Her thoughts scattered like startled birds.

Heat surged inside, coals under skin, the same burn as that bookshop octopus fight.

It’s autumn turning winter; this furnace isn’t normal, not with frost at the window.

Cold wind slid through the window like knives; her own heat was a stove, and it hurt to breathe.