When Lucimia came home, Yuna’s strung-tight heart slackened like a kite line in windless dusk.
“Is it… taken care of?” Yuna asked, her whisper drifting like smoke from damp wood.
“Mm… I don’t know,” Lucimia said, her heart a bottomless well with no stone to stand on.
She sifted her memories like sand through fingers in a stream.
Back when she cut down Cole, about eight minutes slid by from Cole’s death to Ritch speaking with Alvis, like beads on a slow abacus.
In that span, Ritch still held one syllable, “Co,” like a leaf snagged in current, and then the river scoured everything blank.
From Bazeroth vanishing to Lucimia and Desty getting home took ten minutes, like a sun sinking a handspan, and Desty still remembered his name like ink not yet dry.
That meant Bazeroth probably wasn’t dead, like a wolf slipping deeper into the brush.
But his mask was torn off, and the Exorcism Ritual couldn’t run, so Elyssus’s plan should be ash in rain.
Maybe she had cut the octopus crisis clean, like a knotted net finally slashed free.
Maybe she could just go to the magic academy with Yuna, like taking a paved road after storm.
But could anything be that simple, when fate kept flipping like a fish on deck?
Twists had come too many times, and dread rose first in her chest like cold fog, as she feared Elyssus still hid a thorn under silk.
It couldn’t be that her father was bought, could it, that thunderbolt would be too absurd for any sky.
Another path coiled in her mind like a side trail: Bazeroth might have set a Sacrificial Magic Array elsewhere, and he’d run there like a fox to a second den.
Even if he sacrificed, what then, when his face was lit by torches, and no house would open its door.
Would he charge them head-on, like a boar smashing a fence?
If he dared that, he wouldn’t have skulked in reeds, weaving plans like spider silk.
At least, Lucimia couldn’t see how Elyssus would move, and her certainty floated like a lantern in fog.
The less she could predict, the more the reins slipped, and the cart wasn’t in her hands.
Safety felt like thin ice under a dim spring sun.
While Lucimia’s thoughts circled like crows over a field, Desty came knocking like rain on eaves.
At that hour, when Alvis saw Desty arrive alone, his eyes tightened like a bowstring sensing bad wind.
Desty followed Lucimia’s instructions and laid out the tale, like unrolling a map on a table.
The Exorcism Magic Array in Val Town had a flaw, and Regino’s father slipped away like a shadow at dusk, while his son was seized by Holy Knights for deeper inquiry.
Bazeroth was the hand behind the array’s rot, and when exposed he fled wounded, like a stag leaving a crimson trail, his path now lost in thickets.
Alvis sat at his desk, nodded once, and tapped his finger on the wood like a metronome in a quiet room.
Across from him, Desty finished, then asked softly, “You don’t seem… surprised?” like a bird testing a wary branch.
“What’s there to be surprised about?” Alvis met her eyes and smiled, like an old pine in wind. “I’ve seen plenty, though one thing did crack the bark: my old friend Bazeroth is a believer of the Dark Deity.”
“I never thought the Church’s executive officer would be a Dark Deity believer,” Desty said, her words falling like sleet. “Does that mean there are other moles in the Church?”
“Mm, the odds are high,” Alvis said, nodding like a hammer to a nail. “The mages are still coming, right? Don’t rush the Exorcism Ritual—delay it, and comb the mage team like grain through a sieve.”
“Also, we’ll need you, a Purification Knight, to face the townsfolk and explain,” he added, laying out a cover like a cloak. “Say a storm hit midway, lightning struck a carriage, and we lost some supplies, so we’ll wait for the second batch.”
“Don’t tell the truth?” Desty asked, her brow folding like ripples in a pond.
“Not yet,” Alvis said, his voice steady as stone. “If they learn even a Church executive officer was infiltrated, panic will race like fire through dry grass.”
“…Alright,” Desty murmured, nodding like wheat bending to a passing wind.
“So, what will you do now?” Alvis asked, the question set down like a cup. “Rest here, or ride out to meet the mage team?”
Desty frowned, thought a beat like counting stars, then said, “I’ll rest for a while; tomorrow I’ll go meet them.”
“No problem,” Alvis said, offering a spare room like shelter under a wide eave.
“Thank you,” Desty said, rising to bow like a reed, then taking her leave with quiet steps.
When she was gone, Alvis let out a sigh, like steam from banked coals.
“What a tangle,” he muttered, the words heavy as wet rope. “If even the Church’s roots are wormed through, life won’t soften even if I turn into a normal noble.”
It was true, like frost that keeps returning at dawn.
He had listened to his wife’s counsel, to become a simple noble, to trade like other lords, and stop touching the Dark Deity’s shadows.
That path would keep the family line flowing like a river, and his daughter Lucimia wouldn’t have to wade daily into the Dark Deity’s muck like her two brothers.
He had been a Holy Knight, once riding into danger like a blade into storm, but now only he could hold up the Lancelot Family like a beam in a sagging hall.
To shift into a normal noble’s life, he’d been busy day and night, like ants carting grain, with Vittor’s food warehouse just one brick in the wall.
But with a mole in the Church, the start might look bright as morning, and later darken like a sky choked with smoke.
He had no firm ground, only rubbing his temples at the desk like grinding flint for sparks that wouldn’t catch.
“Dark Deity… where did you come from,” he whispered to the quiet, “and how do we drive you out like wolves from a lambfold?”
…
At dusk, Lucimia heard her father’s message: the Church’s team ran into weather, and the Exorcism Ritual would be delayed, like a bell rung later than planned.
Lucimia only nodded obediently, like a cat tucking its tail, and didn’t ask more.
Alvis clearly didn’t want his daughter to panic, like a gardener shielding buds from wind.
In truth, she had panicked more than once already, like tides that kept returning.
That night, Desty stood before the people and explained, her words steady as lantern light in rain, and the townsfolk understood without complaint.
When it ended, Lucimia caught up to Desty, their steps echoing like twin metronomes along the road.
She feigned amnesia and asked, “What was the executive officer’s name again?” as casually as tossing a pebble into reeds.
“Bazeroth,” Desty answered, puzzled, like an owl tilting its head.
“Oh,” Lucimia breathed, a small sound dropping like a seed into soil.
She could confirm it then: Bazeroth wasn’t dead, like embers still glowing under ash.
They talked a little more as the street thinned, like threads weaving and parting.
“So we wait for the Church to send a second group?” Lucimia asked, her voice a quiet stream.
“Yes,” Desty said. “The Church will check identities inside first, like counting beads by hand, then send a verified batch, so the Exorcism Ritual in three days must be delayed.”
“Oh, I see,” Lucimia replied, the words light as falling leaves.
“Um…” Desty began, a thought rising like mist.
“All right, I’ve got things to do, so I’ll go,” Lucimia said, turning like a bird taking wing. “Good luck.”
“Eh…” The syllable hung like dew that didn’t fall.
Desty wanted to ask for some special magic, but Lucimia left too quickly, like a shadow slipping past a torch.
Helpless, Desty watched her figure fade like ink in rain.
“Forget it, there’ll be a chance later,” Desty soothed herself, walking toward her lodging like following a lantern down a lane.
Lucimia returned to her bedroom and closed the door, the latch clicking like a note in a quiet song.
With the Exorcism Ritual delayed, the knot should come loose, right, like ice breaking under noon sun?
The second batch would be checked, and there’d be no problem, right, like grain sifted clean of stones?
Whether Bazeroth was dead or not, he wouldn’t dare step into the square, and even if he lit a Sacrificial Ritual elsewhere, it wouldn’t burn here, so she wouldn’t chase smoke.
If Elyssus came for revenge, she wasn’t afraid, because she wouldn’t stand alone like a lone pine on a cliff.
The whole Church would ride out, and once Elyssus was proven, they wouldn’t let it go, like hounds set upon a wolf’s trail.
