Town of Tranquility, Lancelot Family.
As the town’s governing house, the Lancelot Family opened its doors like dawn opening a gate, and hosted the arrival of the Purification Knights. Beyond the Church’s order, other nobles often drifted in like birds seeking a warm eave, and joined the Exorcism Ritual firsthand.
On past days of exorcism, the knights came the night before like shadows settling under the eaves. At first light, they prepared what the ritual needed, weaving the Magic Array like a net of glowing threads. At 22:00 they handed out Holy Water like moonlight poured into cups along the street. At 23:00, at the stroke like a bell over a lake, everyone drank together as one tide. Several casters lit the Magic Array like stars blooming on the ground. It drove out hidden malice and illness like wind combing through reeds, and scoured tainted alleys like rain washing stone. Sometimes it exposed lurking Evil Entities and secret believers like rats bursting from straw, and then the knights cut them down like scythes through thistle.
For the people of this world, it was a day like new year’s dawn, heavy with promise. They hung a sprig of fragrant green by their doors, a small herb like a guardian branch to ward storms and keep peace, until it became custom.
It wasn’t always beloved; in the early days the Exorcism Ritual brought out many Evil Entities like worms under flipped soil. Crowds were unsafe then, and the Church went door to door like a lantern patrol. Now, after generations of calm like silt settling in a river, it became a festival, treated like spring fair, with food and games blooming along the streets.
Today, Lucimia had been dressed to a sharper glow, like the moon after rain.
To avoid spooking the snake in the grass, Father still had Miss Kaeli do Lucimia’s hair, like routine masking a blade.
Seated at the vanity like a still pond, Lucimia clutched her feelings tight like a knotted ribbon, and met her own gaze without a ripple.
Her black hair was combed straight as falling ink, with the tips curled inward like new leaves; the sides were parted cleanly like split silk. The back half swept behind and tied with a lilac ribbon like a flower petal, while the front draped by her ears like two black streams and fell to her chest.
She wore a knee-length dress layered like morning mist, white below and pale violet above, with a slightly shorter jacket like a second petal. Over it lay a long-sleeved, dusky outercoat like twilight, its cuffs banded white like foam on shore. At her chest, a pale-violet gem glinted like a drop of dusk, and the last touch was a bow settling like a butterfly.
A silken sash circled her waist like a moonbelt, drawn snug to sketch a willow-slender curve.
All done, the final knot settled like a butterfly folding its wings.
Lucimia stood before the full-length mirror like a blade before a still lake, and blanked at the beauty that looked back.
Even she had to admit—stunning, like frost-lit moon over a calm field.
Dreamlike features, a face like moon behind thin cloud, lent a cool note to every smile like snow in spring. In every gesture there was girlish mischief, like sparrows skipping along the eaves. Her long legs, sheathed in black silk, moved like shadows crossing water. Above them, a slim waist and perfect proportions felt forged by a spell, a glamour like a net that refused to let eyes go.
Even I want to marry me, she thought with a wry laugh like a knife’s gleam; pity, the world won’t allow it.
She drew her gaze back like closing a painted fan; it was time to attend tonight’s banquet.
She had to admit, the fake Kaeli’s styling matched the real Kaeli’s stroke for stroke, like a mirror teasing the moon. How had she learned it?
It seemed that beyond memory, they could mimic anything, even the host’s skills, like chameleons borrowing a soul. Lucimia’s fear of the Deceiver deepened like a dusk shadow lengthening.
…
The Lancelot estate’s gateyard was broad as a parade ground, wide enough for two carriages to pass like boats in a lock. Today the tall iron fence stood flung wide like open wings, with lamps along both sides flickering like a line of fireflies.
With power to rival kings and a name that rang across the world like a bell, the Purification Church deserved honor, so even the host Lancelot Family stepped out to greet them like a household greeting the first snow.
Butlers and servants stood in two rows like reeds in a breeze. Lucimia and her parents waited at the gate like lanterns by a path, and the impostor Kaeli stood behind them like a shadow.
Father wore formal dress like a polished shield, and Mother too, in a long gown, her hair pinned up like coiled clouds.
Yuna was left in the room like a small bird in a quiet cage.
The night wind had a slight chill like thin ice; winter crept closer like a gray line on the horizon.
Soon the knights’ silhouettes sharpened from afar like a tide taking shape, armor gleaming and robes swaying.
The Purification Knights were split into parts, all in blue-toned armor and robes like deep lake and sky. One part were the fighters, the Purification Knights, shields on the road like walls and blades in the ritual like lightning against exposed evil. Another part were the mages, their craft needed to raise the ritual like spiders spinning light. The last were logistics, the quiet backbone like oxen pulling a millstone.
Leading them was a white-haired elder in a blue church robe, beard grown long like winter grass, and rings loading his ten fingers like cold moons. He would preside over the Exorcism Ritual like a helmsman at night.
Lucimia figured he was something like a priest, a high cleric, not quite a pope—labels like hats didn’t matter. Everyone simply called him Executor Bazeroth, with warmth and a little awe like incense before an altar.
A scar ran from his brow to his cheek like a bolt of lightning, and it promised his strength was no small fire.
Bazeroth stepped forward with the steadiness of an old oak, and Alvis met him like a river meeting a bridge; they shook hands and traded pleasantries like warm tea in cold air.
“Long time no see, Executor Bazeroth,” Alvis said, the words smooth as silk.
“Hardly, only a month,” Bazeroth waved, the gesture light as a leaf.
Alvis leaned toward Bazeroth’s ear and lowered his voice like wind in reeds. “This Exorcism Ritual may need extra effort from the Church.”
“Rest easy. That’s the Purification Church’s duty,” Bazeroth murmured like a bell under cloth. “Shall we discuss details inside?”
Alvis nodded and led them in like a current drawing boats through a gate.
Other nobles came along too, trailing like scattered stars following the moon.
Lucimia greeted them one by one like pearls sliding on a string. A few young lordlings nearly stalled in their tracks like colts at a stream, only moving again when parents tugged their sleeves.
Two figures stood out like bright flags in fog.
One was a noble youth from nearby Val Town, named Regino Fuling, of count rank like the Lancelot Family. His estate lay not far, its vineyards rolling like green waves, famed for wine and trading with the Town of Tranquility. He was a regular noble, not of an Exorcist Family, a grape rather than a blade.
Regino was her age, yet early-ripe like an apple in June, every move wearing a small adult’s poise like a borrowed coat.
He wore a formal uniform like a school crest under glass, a rose tucked in his breast pocket like a drop of fire. When his turn came, he gave a mature bow often used by elders like a well-practiced step, then plucked the rose from his chest like a spark lifted from coals.
“Oh—good day, beautiful Miss Lucimia,” Regino said, voice smooth as spiced wine. “A month has passed since we last met, and your every glance tugs my heartstrings like a harp. I’ve been sleepless since, tossing like a boat in wind. I think—I believe—I’ve fallen for you. So please accept this red rose, the little banner of my heart.”
With that, he used magic and made the rose float like a bright moth, drifting toward Lucimia.
The young ladies among the nobles let out a chorus of “wow” like sparrows under a roof.
He did make a show of it, like a stage trick with real sparks.
Faces around them turned to Lucimia like sunflowers tracking the sun; everyone wanted to see how the beauty would answer.
Even Lucimia’s mother watched from the side, eyes bright like moonlight, as if hoping for a nod.
It made sense. Regino’s family held the same count rank as the Lancelot Family, and Regino himself was a top student of the Royal Capital Magic Academy, a Tier Two mage already like a blade ground early. He would reach Tier Three soon, while other children still played in mud like ducklings. He was learning his family’s winemaking craft ahead of time, and at banquets he offered toasts and joined adult talk like a seasoned cupbearer, nothing like a child, a little adult in full.
And Lucimia’s mother wished to shift the family toward a normal house, away from old duties, like a ship angling for calmer waters. If Lucimia and Regino came to something, it would help the Lancelot Family’s change like a favorable wind.
She never forced it, but the intention hung there like a kite string in the sky.
