Even so, Lucimia wove Magic Arrays around the family grounds, like nets of light cast over a quiet nest.

Anxiety tightened like a bowstring; at worst, she’d shield her parents and vanish. She wouldn’t show herself, she’d take Yuna and run to the ends of the earth.

Her Storage Ring was stocked like a caravan chest, so the aftermath of fleeing wouldn’t starve her plans.

She decided to set three Teleportation Magic Arrays, three lifelines like three kites tugging at the sky.

The first bound to her ring, its landing set by a river outside the town, a silver ribbon curling through fields.

The second anchored in her bedroom, its landing also by the river, like twin footprints on the same bank.

The third tied to the estate’s Magic Array, its landing on the river’s far side, a backdoor on the shadowed edge.

The river ran west of town; for her parents’ jump, she set the landing to the east, the sunrise side and safer harbor.

There was time before the banquet; she’d anchor the landing points first, like setting stones before the tide comes in.

She had to hurry; the ritual followed the banquet at dawn, sand slipping quick through the hourglass.

With her Flight Spell, she skimmed to the outer moat with ease, a swallow gliding over still water.

Her mana was full, and she flew better than last loop; speed rose like a sail in a tailwind, and she found the fuel-saving draft.

Like driving in her previous life, good technique sipped the tank; flight worked the same, a feather-light foot on the pedal.

For landing, you eased mana early, bled speed, and rode the nearby currents, like a leaf settling on a quiet pond.

She managed it well, padding down like a cat on snow.

Some mages, newly airborne, hit the ground like dropped sacks, bones cracking like dry twigs—grim and ugly.

Lucimia stepped onto the grass and jogged to the moat, dew beading and jumping like strings of pearls.

She peeked out; the clear river mirrored her delicate face, a jade mirror rippling at the edges.

“Good. This is the spot. Where exactly do I anchor it?” her voice fell like a pin in the hush.

“Ah, there,” she chose, swift as a swallow’s turn.

She fixed her gaze on a lone tree standing by the channel, a sentry with roots deep as old oaths.

She hurried to its roots and laid two Teleportation Magic Arrays, sigils coiling like sleeping serpents, and the ring and bedroom nodes were done.

At last she flew east and set the estate’s landing, a lantern hung on the dawn side of the map.

When she returned, the Church’s Exorcist Holy Knights arrived, boots drumming at the gate like low thunder.

“Lucimia, where did you go? We knocked and knocked, and your door was locked. What were you doing inside?” Her mother scolded lightly.

The words were stern, but her face was soft, clouds thinning to show a little sun.

Guilt pricked like a thorn. “I… I was napping!”

Her mother didn’t press; she waved her on like herding ducks. “Go change. The Church is here. And have Miss Kaeli do your hair—look at that stubborn cowlick.”

She couldn’t help a laugh, chiming like a bell in a summer breeze.

“…Oh.” Lucimia muttered, cheeks warming like hidden embers.

Isn’t a cowlick cute? Honestly, like a sprig of grass in spring.

She steadied her heart and returned to her room, thoughts settling like dust in a glass jar.

Miss Kaeli combed her hair, each stroke smooth as rain. But likely, as in the last loop, Kaeli would be gone—an ache like early frost.

Lucimia drew a deep breath, tide in and tide out; though Vittor and Kaeli had been swapped again, the first loop had burned the panic out of her.

Yuna’s power wrapped her like a cloak, warmth on cold shoulders, and safety finally sank in.

Last loop, she had nothing; danger bristled like thorns, and the unknown was a blind fog. Now she walked with a lantern and a blade.

She knew the sequence, the enemy, the lore of the Dark Deity; she’d honed her strength and mapped escape roads like lines on a palm.

At worst, she held her hidden ace—Reversion, a way to turn the river back to its source.

Calm settled over her like night snow; fear went quiet as a spent fire.

Only one thing had shifted: that first morning, a small boy stood where he shouldn’t, a lone chess piece out of line, with no mother in sight.

…

Dressed and coiffed, Lucimia stood like a white swan, poised and tall, greeting the Church with her parents under lantern glow.

Father and Bazeroth traded pleasantries, words clinking like cups over clear wine.

Regino, as before, confessed his love, his lines sticky as honey poured too long.

“Tsk…” Red-haired Desty let out her same old sound of disdain, a spark snapping off steel.

The banquet flowed like the last loop, a river slipping along its old bed.

Only this time, Bazeroth hadn’t planned with father; no Holy Water would be brandished early to flush out the octopus, the lure left in the tackle box.

Regino proposed a magic contest again and took first again, chest high like a rooster on a fence, hunting for worship in her eyes.

Lucimia wouldn’t grant it; she turned away, shutter closing on a window.

He scratched his head and drank gloomily, yet his eyes kept drifting back, a moth circling a lamp, scheming for a single smile.

She ignored him; he felt less than the bold Regino of the last loop, his banner gone limp without wind.

Fair enough—no live capture of the octopus this time, and that scene was cut from the play.

She looked away and studied the red-haired girl instead, an ember bright in a sea of silk.

First impression: the Holy Knight was proper and severe, lightning in her stride, a blade-line clean against stormy sky.

But beneath the steel shone something cute, like a kitten padding under armor.

Desty shut out the world and shoveled food like a famine ghost let loose; even with plenty on her plate, her eyes drifted to the spread, and her fork speared meat on its own.

Curiosity flickered like a candle. Was she just a foodie? Or did the Church live lean, so she feasted when luck allowed?

It matched the last loop, an echo rolling down the same canyon.

Lucimia watched Desty eat and forgot her own knife and fork, entertained like watching a squirrel stash nuts for winter.

After a while, Desty felt the stare and set down her utensils, leaves settling after a gust.

“I was just—”

“Stop!”

Desty started to explain, but Lucimia cut in, a fan snapping shut between them.

“I get it. You march to purge evil, like a soldier. Eating fast and rough is normal under cold stars. I don’t mind!”

Desty fell speechless, a bell without a clapper, surprise bright as a popped bubble.

One line still stuck like an arrow in the quiver.

“A-as long as you understand. I’m not a foodie, don’t get me wrong. We Holy Knights are proper,” she said, spine straight as a spear.

“I understand!”

“Mm-hmm.” Desty exhaled and reached for food, then paused, ears pricking like a wary deer, and glanced back.

Lucimia rested her chin on her palm and watched with a small smile, moonlight on still water.

“Why are you staring at me?”

“Because you’re nice to look at. Can’t I look?” she said, like admiring a bright maple leaf in autumn air.

Desty’s mouth parted in surprise, a hatchling peeking from its shell, fluster rising like warm steam.

She sighed. “Smooth talker. I’m not as pretty as the young lady of House Lancelot, right?”

“You’re both beautiful, each in your own way,” Lucimia said, claiming her own bloom without shame and handing Desty another flower.

She meant it; her words landed like set stones on a path.

When Lucimia fell quiet, a wintry calm lay over her, frost over a hidden spring that whispered allure beneath the ice.

Desty, with a youthful face, wore competence like clean lines, fire-red hair and azure eyes bright as foxfire over a clear lake.

Knightly bearing rolled off her like a fresh wind; though she looked a small girl, she felt reliable and dashing, and still sweet as a peach.

That blend made her no less than Lucimia, twin stars sharing one night sky.