Her mother actually agreed, like a locked gate finally swinging open.

It looked like Alvis had done real work in private, whispers like water wearing stone.

Bazeroth and her parents started talking about the magic academy, voices like chess pieces sliding on a smooth board.

“Desty’s still studying at the academy, so she can watch over you,” they said, words like a lamp set beside a road.

“Really? That’s great,” a reply like spring wind across dry fields.

“Haha,” a laugh like pebbles skipping over a river.

The scene looked harmonious, like lanterns glowing under calm dusk.

Is it truly fine? Did nothing happen, or is quiet just snow hiding stones?

Lucimia still couldn’t believe, heart fluttering like a trapped sparrow.

She wondered if fear and panic had cracked her mind, spawning shadows like weeds, causing a ridiculous mix-up.

Yuna just helped me out, right? Did I mistake her, painting thunder where there was cloud?

Maybe she never meant to harm me, truly took me as a friend, offering plans like threads of silk.

But one thing was strange: isn’t she blind? How did she know the blue ring, like moonlight on water?

Thinking that, Lucimia whispered, voice like dew: “Can you see?”

… Yuna didn’t speak, silence like fog on a cold lake.

“Speak,” she urged, breath like a small wind.

Still no answer, the pink-haired girl drifting like a soul without anchor.

Pull her anywhere, she went like a doll carried by current.

Back at the plaza, all looked normal again, calm like a pond after rain.

Lucimia’s identity stayed hidden, and the Deceivers were purged by the church like thorns burned from a field.

Things moved in a good direction, a stream finding a clear channel.

Yet doubts gnawed, too many prickles, the whole affair felt off like a crooked loom.

Logic had holes, a net torn in many places.

Take that banquet: why did the fake Vittor attend an ambush feast after exposure, like a fox walking into hounds?

Wasn’t it clever, guiding Lucimia into traps like pits covered by leaves?

Or did she just imagine all that, worries blown like chaff?

Besides, I’m a Dark Deity, so why did the ritual do nothing, like arrows lost in fog?

Hadn’t we already ruled out the Exemption goddess, Reigana, a name echoing like iron on stone?

Why did Yuna know the Exorcism Ritual’s blue ring, that circle like frost light on charcoal?

Did someone back in her village tell her, a rumor passing like wind through reeds?

Even if she meant no harm, why do I trust her so instinctively, a tide pulling me without moon?

And what about those octopuses, tentacles curling like inked vines?

Books say Deceiver Elyssus has survived for centuries, hiding like shadows under deep waves.

If they were that hidden, why show themselves these last two days, surfacing like fish startled by thunder?

Doubts piled high, answers nowhere, three days reading like a ragged novel soaked by rain.

Contradictions and broken arcs, holes everywhere, pages flimsy as toilet paper that won’t tear clean.

Still, questions sank, carried by the crowd’s cheer like leaves on a bright current.

Her parents and Bazeroth discussed enrollment beside her, voices like sparrows; Lucimia let doubts drift away.

Good days are back, right? Why think so hard, when sun breaks through cloud?

She looked at dazed Yuna and remembered the earlier misunderstanding, guilt rising like a tide.

She felt like a child again, without the calm of two lifetimes, heart thin as paper.

“Yuna?” She shook her arm gently, gaze skimming her face, then spotting the scratch on her neck like a thorn mark.

Yuna didn’t blame her; she just nodded, small motion like a leaf in wind.

Lucimia’s guilt deepened, spreading like ink in water.

She brought two cups of fresh orange juice from a stall, sunlight in glass.

She handed one to Yuna: “This orange juice’s for you. It’s good—not sour, sweet like ripe fruit.”

“Mm,” Yuna drank two sips, lips shining like damp petals.

“Sweet?” Lucimia asked, voice soft as cotton.

“Sweet,” Yuna said, word mellow like honey.

Lucimia bought skewers, fat dripping like amber rain.

“Tasty?” she asked, hope rising like steam.

“Tasty,” Yuna answered, warmth like ember under ash.

She bought a bouquet, snapped a stem, tucked it into Yuna’s pink hair like a butterfly.

“This flower suits you, so pretty, like dawn in spring!”

“Thanks,” Yuna said, gratitude quiet as moonlight.

They passed several stalls; at each one, Lucimia bought a gift, stitching hurt like a seam.

After a while, she finally said, words stumbling like stones: “About before… well… anyway… sorry…”

She squeezed out those two words, effort like lifting a heavy lid.

“No need… to apologize, Luci-sister,” Yuna said, voice fragile as glass. “Tomorrow…”

“Tomorrow?”

“No… thing…” Yuna shook her head, then lowered it, sipping juice like a shy bird at water.

Lucimia still wanted to do more for her, thoughts circling like kites.

“Tomorrow I’ll take you out, okay?” she said, tone like sunlight. “There’s a magic show.”

“I haven’t gone lately—ah, I forgot your eyes… sorry. Then let’s listen to music; a concert’s good too,” she added, words like gentle rain.

Yuna thought for a moment, silence like a closed fan.

She didn’t answer the invite directly; instead she said, “Luci… sister. No matter what, don’t give up, okay?”

“Uh…” Lucimia blinked, mind foggy like a misted window.

Why say that now, a crane flying across a quiet field?

Oh—is she talking about when I gave up after blue light covered me while fleeing, like ice flooding a stream?

She’s too gentle, still comforting me, words warm like wool.

Lucimia raked her black tresses. “Got it…” The promise sat like a pebble in her palm.

Back with her parents, other nobles clustered too, a ring like stones around a fire.

Regino, that foolish boy, sought her out, steps clumsy like a foal.

He scratched his cheek, returned the hairband she dropped at the banquet, and said, “Th-this… it’s yours. And thanks for saving me yesterday,” voice quivering like a reed.

Regino blushed, head down, eyes stuck on Lucimia’s legs, courage wilting like a wet banner.

He’d learned the hard way he wasn’t her equal; his old pride fell like leaves.

Lucimia remembered and took the hairband, courtesy smooth as silk.

“Thanks,” she said, tone cool like water.

But Regino didn’t leave. He stared, face red, wanting to speak yet hesitating, words flopping like fish.

He flushed deeper, finally gathered courage, and shouted, “Lucimia!”

He paused, drew a breath, then said, “Your stance last night will stay with me for life. I’ll become a Holy Knight! I’ll catch up to you!”

He spun around and vanished in a blink, running like a startled deer.

“Huh?” The thought popped like a bubble.

Lucimia was speechless, tongue dry like sand.

What kind of edgy oath is that… well, here it’s a heroic vow, a banner in wind.

Becoming a Holy Knight demands courage sharp as steel.

But that’s off; I never became a Holy Knight, so how will he chase me, steps like shadows on water?

Chase a Dark Deity’s stride instead?

Become a believer? Can a man be Olivya’s devotee, a prayer like wine in a forbidden cup?

All that was just a small interlude, a sparrow crossing the sky.

The Exorcism Ritual ended near dawn, curtain falling like night lifting.

People dispersed, footprints fading like waves on sand.

After a bath, Lucimia lay under the quilt with Yuna, warmth pooling like embers.

Soon after, rain began to patter outside, threads falling from clouds that had hung all day.

As folks drifted to sleep, the rain dropped quietly, a lullaby like silver beads.

Listening to its rhythm, wrapped in warm sheets, Lucimia closed her eyes, comfort soft as down.

Tonight, she again escaped the Sacrificial Ritual, fate passing like a knife that missed.