Back home, Lucimia and Yuna slipped into their bedroom, a still pond of pretended routine, then ghosted out the window like two swallows cutting the daylight.
Bazeroth and Alvis ended their discussion and led their team back toward the apartment, boots knocking like pebbles in a stream.
Lucimia wove an Invisibility Spell over herself and Yuna, a veil of clear water over two drifting reeds, because in broad daylight a glance skyward could catch their silhouettes.
She kept her gaze on Bazeroth, a hawk circling quietly, measuring every ripple he made.
Bazeroth reached the apartment and stepped into the bedroom, the room a square of muted light; he’d sent Holy Knights to guard the Holy Water before leaving, and now, as he returned, they withdrew like shadows at dusk.
Lucimia lifted the Imagerecording Stone from the window frame, the pebble of memory cool in her palm, and skimmed through the moments it had swallowed while she was gone.
All morning, Bazeroth had been with his family while she wrestled an octopus, tentacles like spilled ink; to keep the Holy Water from any stain in that span, she’d left the Imagerecording Stone watching.
She reviewed the stone’s record, page after page like ripples on a lake, and found no disturbance; the Holy Knights stayed dutiful as statues, the wooden box still as a sleeping log.
Good—her breath eased, a wind smoothing tall grass.
She set the Imagerecording Stone toward the bedroom again, a single eye on a tripod, and resumed her vigil over Bazeroth.
Bazeroth sat back in a chair, a rooted tree under lamplight, reading; when she edged closer, the pages showed sigils and lines—magic—he was studying like a monk with midnight oil.
Eager, Lucimia tried to steal a fragment of his craft, a moth nosing the flame; but he shut the book, crisp as a blade, and unfurled Magic Array blueprints, pen scratching like rain on tiles.
Helpless, she folded her curiosity and held her focus, a taut bowstring in fog.
From morning into night, Bazeroth made no sly gesture, no fox’s twitch; he lived like an ordinary man—reading, working, brewing tea whose steam curled like incense, then pausing at the window to gaze toward distant hills.
Lucky for her, the Invisibility Spell cloaked her like clear glass; his eyes slid past her like water over stone.
He stepped out once or twice, no more than a crane pacing, only to the site of the Magic Array, checking how the church mages were laying the lines.
Inspection done, he returned alone to the apartment, and on the way he bought a pastry, sweet crumbs falling like snow.
His behavior stayed plain as a clay bowl, without a seam of suspicion.
Lucimia’s mind flickered, a lantern in wind: maybe the real contact is the town’s Deceiver; maybe Bazeroth never meets anyone—his task is perfect infiltration within the church, a blade sheathed, ready.
That possibility felt heavy, like rain gathering over fields.
If Cole was dead and Bazeroth wouldn’t move his plan, this crisis might ebb for now, a tide pausing against stones.
But if—she held the word like a thorn—if this storm passes, what about the next? Would Elyssus let them go like leaves in a stream? Clearly not; she’d still need a chance to remove Bazeroth, cleanly.
Yet without knowing his strength, she steadied her hand and chose patience—a seed buried to grow—while she raised her own power.
Dong, dong, dong—the night bell tolled, bronze waves rolling; Lucimia lifted her eyes to the afterglow, embers on the horizon, and whispered, “Time to prepare to break the ritual.”
Whether Bazeroth held a summoning or not, her resolve was a locked gate—she would sabotage the rite.
She would alter the Magic Array so its spectacle matched the Exorcism Ritual, like a mirror pond, but its true effect flowed elsewhere.
For that, she had studied the bones of the Exorcism Ritual array, chiseling through layers; with Yuna’s Reversion, she rewound the day several times, a fish flicking upstream.
It was a trial—using Reversion to “train”—but caution tugged her sleeve; she still didn’t know its walls or its price.
So far, only one clue: Yuna couldn’t steer it; touch a light source and it triggered by itself, a passive talent blooming, which in turn stole Yuna’s sight like mist over the moon.
Without clear limits, Lucimia chose restraint, a bridled horse; a single misstep could wound Yuna, and that would be unforgivable.
In theory, every gift demands a cost, a frost after harvest; yet there are exceptions, like Exemption and Purification, two clean springs.
Besides, she didn’t need to grind to the summit; her father’s books were good ladders, but they rose only so high.
Leveling meant steamrolling fields, a mountain pushing through fog; yet she didn’t want that—she couldn’t tag who was the octopus and who the Deceiver—random killing would be a wildfire.
Her father would scold her, stern thunder over roofs; the family’s name would tarnish, their standing crumble, and without status there’s no money—without money, no sweet life.
So she refused that path, a boat turning from dark water.
She was selfish, yes, a cat guarding its saucer, but not evil.
The Dark Deity’s taint hadn’t flared lately; her mind sat calm, a lotus on black water.
Even so, she wouldn’t skip training entirely; a blade still needs whetstone.
…
They trailed Bazeroth back to the family estate, footsteps soft as night rain.
Next, Bazeroth and his father would head to the central square to hold the Exorcism Ritual; Lucimia had to alter the array before it awakened, like carving before kiln-fire.
She had drilled it many times, swallows tracing the same arc; she felt sure she could finish fast and precise.
She flew back to the bedroom first, a ribbon looping, showed herself to the family like a lantern briefly lit, then found an excuse to slip away and carried Yuna toward the Magic Array.
The Invisibility Spell unfurled again, thin ice over a stream; they dropped from the sky under the night’s cloak, and behind the backs of the guarding Holy Knights, she worked in silence, needle-quick.
“Done. Let’s get to the central square—if Bazeroth and his father arrive, changing anything will be trouble,” Lucimia said, clapping lightly, dust motes dancing.
“Mm-hmm,” Yuna nodded, a soft bell.
They reached the central square, where a crowd had gathered, a tide of faces whispering; soldiers and Holy Knights held the lines like posts in a fence.
Lucimia swept the scene, a crane’s gaze; seeing the important figures still absent, she hurried to modify the array.
She removed the key core, a pebble taken from the stream, and set in its place a core that eased bodies and soothed minds, a spring wind through wheat.
How to keep the spectacle unchanged? Simple: don’t change the array’s logic—let the gears turn the same, lanterns glow as before.
So the blue circle would still sweep outward, a lake of light; but once it covered everyone, the effect would be comfort, not exorcism—like waking from a perfect sleep, limbs warm, spirit bright.
She finished unseen, her presence a breeze through reeds.
She rushed back to the estate and arrived before Alvis and Bazeroth set out; she changed into a lovely dress, petals on silk, smoothed her hair, then went to the central square with them.
At the square, a high platform rose like a stone terrace; important figures stood atop it, with the crowd spreading below like a field.
“Next, we’ll distribute Holy Water!” Bazeroth’s voice rang through town, a bell over rooftops.
“Good! Good!” The people surged, a wave cresting.
Lucimia received her Holy Water—just her own substituted drinking water, clear as dew—so she felt at ease and drank with Yuna, two sparrows sipping.
Everyone drank; Bazeroth called again, a shout like a drum, “Next, the Exorcism Ritual!”
At his word, mages in a ring began to chant, threads of sound weaving like rain over pines.
Anxiety flooded Lucimia first, a cold river; her palms slicked with sweat, and she pressed them to her chest, feeling her heart pound like a caged bird.
She was tight with nerves; success or failure would bloom in the very next breath, a flower opening or withering under the moon.
