Outside the Shuttered Window, a Weeping Sky.

Last night’s rain kept falling into dawn, the sky a smudge of wet ash, the sun hidden like a coin under gray cloth.

Water soaked the ground; potholes brimmed like small mirrors, puddles blinking with cold light.

From her bedroom, Lucimia heard runners splash through them, footfalls slapping water like hurried drums.

Rain suits a funeral, in its way; grief breathes easier in air heavy with tears.

Rain speaks sorrow without words, like a temple bell rung by clouds.

She woke with a soft relief in her chest; no fear nipped at her heels last night, so sleep wrapped her warm.

A yawn fluttered free; she rubbed her foggy eyes, pale toes seeking slippers like little fishes feeling for stones.

Shoes on, she drifted to the washroom; water cooled her skin like river glass.

Only then did she wake Yuna, her voice gentle as a hand on silk.

She dressed Yuna, brushed her hair smooth as rain-polished wood, and led her toward the dining room.

Yuna was unusually quiet, clinging to Lucimia’s skirt like a child to a raft; even “good morning” slipped past her lips unsaid.

Strange, yes. But Yuna was strange to begin with, a cat that meows only when it matters.

Lucimia let the oddities float away like leaves on a stream; better to savor the present, spoonful by spoonful.

Before that, she needed to ask Father about the funerals—Julie, Vittor, and Kaeli—when, and how.

The Deceiver incident had taken lives, sharp cuts in the fabric of home; her heart ached, because familiar faces don’t fade without pain.

In the dining room, her parents were already seated; she and Yuna slipped into their chairs like birds to a branch.

While the chef hadn’t served yet, Lucimia spoke, voice careful as porcelain: “Father, about Aunt Julie, Uncle Vittor, and Miss Kaeli’s funerals—”

Her words snagged; someone yanked her skirt hard from behind.

She turned. Yuna was the culprit, fingers tight, knuckles pale as rice.

Lucimia stared in puzzlement.

Yuna said nothing, only shook her head, a quiet lantern signaling do not speak.

Why?

Lucimia faced forward—and saw a scene crooked as a broken frame.

Her father and mother stared wide, their irises black stones, their whites veined red like cracked porcelain—eerie, raw.

Not just them. The chef froze mid-step, lifting his head, eyes flushed-hot and fixed on her.

The butler and maids raised their faces too, eyes red as embers, their gaze gnawing at her like wolves that won’t blink.

“W-what’s wrong?” The words scratched her throat; she rose on instinct, breath thin as thread.

Yuna caught her skirt again, nearly tearing the fabric; Lucimia was tugged back down like a kite hauled by a small hand.

Alvis spoke, confusion soft but firm, like a question pressed into wax. “Lucimia, what are you saying? Why a funeral? They’re alive and well.”

“Eh? That’s impossible. They’re already—”

“Miss, what are you talking about?”

“Hm?”

Lucimia turned.

There stood Kaeli, posture straight as a sword in a stand.

When had she arrived? Lucimia had seen no ripple, no shadow.

That familiar smile, those practiced words, that composed grace—each piece clicked into place, saying: it’s Kaeli.

At least, in looks and manner, flawless as painted lacquer.

Lucimia’s own eyes widened, lanterns suddenly bright.

How is Kaeli alive?

No. Impossible. Not Kaeli. She must be—

A cold thought sliced through; Lucimia inhaled like biting winter air.

She’s a Deceiver.

Not just her. Father. Mother. The chef. The butler. Every maid—

All of them.

Lucimia stood again; this time Yuna’s grip slipped, cloth whispering free.

Her body swayed, feet retreating two shaky steps, balance a loose thread.

Her head buzzed like a hive; thoughts stalled, a millstone that wouldn’t turn.

How were they replaced? The ritual ended yesterday. Why are the Deceivers still here?

How did they switch her parents? Didn’t they have the Blessing of Exemption?

Then memory lit a corner.

Last night, Yuna had told her, words simple and heavy: “Lucy, sister, whatever happens, don’t give up. Okay?”

Did she mean this? How did Yuna know? Could she see ahead like a crow flying before the storm?

If she could, why didn’t she say it plain, instead of tying it up like a riddle?

While Lucimia’s mind frayed, “parents” and servants moved with her, like shadows echoing a candle’s flicker.

Father and Mother rose; the chef let go of the cart; the butler and maids abandoned their tasks.

They kept staring, bloodshot eyes fixed, steps slow as night flowing downhill.

“No…”

Lucimia’s breaths came quick, a bird trapped in a jar.

Yesterday was a garden; this morning was a pit. The drop was so sheer, it stole her will to fight.

Thank the sky—Yuna caught the moment and stitched it.

The pink-haired girl stood and spoke, the most fluent line she’d ever woven: “Lucy was just joking with everyone.”

Footsteps halted; all eyes turned to Yuna, red embers cooling a shade.

“That’s more like Lucy, right? She plays. She teases. Isn’t that so?”

Silence draped the room for a few thudding heartbeats.

Then Alvis slapped his thigh and laughed, a dry bark: “True enough, haha.”

“Ha.”

“Hahahahaha.”

Laughter rose, but to Lucimia it sounded wrong—like bells cracked, ringing off-key.

“Lucimia, do not joke about the dead again. Understood?” the false Alvis said, stern as a drawn line.

“…Mm.” She nodded, wooden, her neck a hinge.

Again, Yuna had mended the tear.

“Alright, eat. Everyone, back to work.”

Normalcy slid over the room like a curtain tugged straight.

The chef set down plates, breakfast gleaming, fragrant, inviting as a festival stall.

Lucimia stared at the food, knife and fork heavy as iron; who knew what lay beneath that sheen?

But not eating would invite suspicion, a hook hidden in the polite smile.

She had to pretend she was a Deceiver, a mask over her own face.

“Lucy, sister. Feed me,” Yuna whispered, voice soft as rain on bamboo.

“Ah. Really… is that okay?”

“Mm.”

“Alright.”

Lucimia lifted bites to Yuna’s lips, one by one, like a sparrow offering seeds.

Yuna chewed and murmured, “Lucy, sister, you eat too.”

Lucimia hesitated, then took a piece of sausage.

It was hot at the tongue, salty and rich, flavor opening like a warm door—seemingly harmless.

They finished quickly, clean plates like blank moons.

Yuna raised last night’s plan: the concert invitation.

They could use it, a rope of reason, to leave the Lancelot Family.

Perfect. Lucimia wanted out, fast, like running before thunder catches the field.

She needed to see if people outside were normal, or already replaced; to check other noble houses, like Regino.

And to find Executor Bazeroth, and Purification Knight Desty.

She had questions for Yuna too, knots she needed pulled loose.