It was only Lucimia seizing up again—panic first, like thorns under frost—believing Yuna meant to frame her.

She didn’t even know why the thought bloomed so suddenly, like mold in a damp cellar.

Those days had made her skittish, a dusk sparrow on a wire; the sacrifice’s taint smeared soot through her head.

Every face became a knife under a paper lantern, every glance a shadow at the door.

Would the stain from sacrifice reset with her next life, like rain washing chalk from a slate?

Pollution eats memory, thought, judgment—the inner weather that carries into the next turn of the wheel.

Lucimia had tested it: the Invisibility Spell and the Flight Spell, learned last cycle, rose at a flick like birds from reeds.

So in theory, tainted thinking would ride the same ferry across the river of rebirth.

The taint from sacrifice hadn’t reset; she pinned that thorn under silk in her heart.

As long as her mood didn’t surge like a storm tide, she should be fine.

Yuna had said it last loop, too: laughter can chase off the dark like a lantern pushing back fog.

That was the hint she planted, a seed under spring rain.

All right—most knots are teased loose; time to face the octopus crisis, like a sailor reading a black squall.

If last loop she’d wrecked the ritual, the town would be safe, her parents warm as unblown candles.

It’s a small mercy in misfortune; at least this time she can shield Julie, Vittor, and Kaeli like an umbrella in hard rain.

Now comes the choice: warn Father about the Deceiver and let the Church comb their ranks like hands through grain?

Or let Lucimia alone sabotage and alter the Magic Array, a needle rethreading a midnight loom?

Well, no rush to carve it in stone; first the task at hand, like tying a boot before a run.

They talked a long while, sunlight pouring like honey through the window; by the clock, Kaeli would soon knock.

To normalize Yuna, she’d follow last loop’s steps, a road already pressed like tracks in snow.

No need to fret about Miss Kaeli’s doubts; the cover would hold like a paper screen in calm wind.

She washed Yuna fast, water bright as river glass, then dressed her for quick steps.

Good—like a blade wiped before the cut.

“Remember to hold on tight, okay?” Lucimia warned, voice a thin bell in morning air.

“Mhm,” Yuna nodded, docile as a kitten in sunlight.

Lucimia spread her small hand; mana wrapped the pink-haired girl like mist, and a heartbeat later she vanished.

Only sight was fooled; touch still found her, like a ghost with warm skin.

Lucimia could track her by her own mana, a kite kept by its string.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Milady, are you awake?” came Kaeli’s voice, neat as folded linen.

Before Miss Kaeli could open, Lucimia did, like a cat slipping through first.

“Eh? Milady is early today.” Kaeli’s surprise lifted like willow leaves in a breeze.

No wonder; the old her lazed each morning, until the maid came in with the sun.

“Good morning, Sister Kaeli,” Lucimia greeted, soft as spring rain.

“Good morning, milady,” Kaeli replied, a hearth’s warmth in two words.

“I’ll head to the dining room first, then?” Lucimia stepped out, feet light as swallows.

“Ah, wait a moment, milady,” Kaeli called, catching like a sleeve on a twig.

“W-what is it?” Lucimia turned back, heart skittering like a hare—surely nothing else had changed?

Kaeli smiled. “Your hair’s a bit messy; let me comb it smooth, like water over stones?”

“Eh?”

Lucimia reached up; a tuft stood like a stubborn sprout—an ahoge waving at the sky.

“Well, never mind—no need! I’ll keep it! I’m hungry, like drums in my belly. Breakfast!”

She didn’t wait for Kaeli’s reply; her pace quickened like wind skimming a field.

She didn’t want Kaeli close enough to brush and find Yuna, like a fish flashing in shallow water.

She didn’t want to waste time either; eat fast, then take Yuna out via a public restroom, like stepping from backstage to stage.

Besides, a cowlick looks cute—let it sway like a little flag.

In the dining room, her parents sat already; Lucimia bowed like a reed, then moved to her place.

“Today is lovely—you even remembered to bow?” Mother’s smile was a lamp under eaves. “Wonderful.”

“Ah… mm…” Lucimia licked her lips, then sat, the chair steady as earth.

Last time, she’d forgotten the bow.

Last time, too, Mother had sent hot tea; it warmed her like embers under a quilt.

This time there was no tea; the sacrifice wasn’t that pig, and she hadn’t lied to Kaeli, so no report flowed like a river upstream.

But change still rippled.

The chef came with a small plate, a pastry perched like a small cloud.

Pale yellow bread lay below; white cream spread like fresh snow; a strawberry crowned it like a ruby.

Simple, yet the scent drifted far like milk steam; even cakes from her past life weren’t so fragrant.

The chef set it down; the plate kissed wood like a pebble settling in a stream.

“Eh? What’s this?” She glanced at the chef and her parents, eyes like moths seeking flame.

Mother answered.

“This cream is made from the milk of a gentle magical beast; it promotes growth, like spring rain on a sapling.

“Miss Kaeli said you visited last night; you seem to care about your figure, so we prepared this pastry.”

Mother tucked hair behind her ear, smile as mild as moonlight. “Do you like it?”

“L-like it…” Lucimia stammered, the word fluttering like a leaf.

I love it—sure I do, said the fox to the trap.

She hadn’t even said she cared, not outright; still, Kaeli did well—thoughtful and precise, like straight stitches on a hem.

Her thoughts held a hint of irony, like bitter tea, yet she truly agreed: as a maid, Kaeli was excellent.

Not eating would be wrong; it was their heart on a plate, tied with red thread.

The cake was small; three bites and it was gone, sweetness lingering like milk cloud, leaving her wanting.

Delicious, like sun on ripe fruit.

After that, talk matched the last loop: the Church’s Exorcism Ritual, chalk lines on a floor.

Lucimia sat and listened, a cat by the stove; she didn’t ask about the Dark Deity again.

She’d learned the basics already; no need to walk the same road through the same rain.

More important, she wouldn’t make Mother cry again, tears like pearls on cold stone.

This time, let it lie; once she chose how to deal with the octopus and cut it down as planned, she’d return to her slacker life.

With a pink-haired girl added, fun would multiply like spring sparrows.

When it was over, she’d treat these days as a dream—mist on a morning lake, burned off by sun.