A prickle of dread crawled over Elyssus, like frost skimming a blade at dawn.

Suddenly, Lucimia’s thoughts slipped beyond its grasp, like fog swallowing footprints on a wet road.

In the last few Reversions, Elyssus pressed her with turnabouts like stormfronts rolling in, because it could read her mind like open chess, then herd her along its plan like sheep through a gate, and predict her next step like watching ripples show where a fish will break the surface.

It couldn’t do that now, and the silence felt like a hollow drum under snow.

Has she given up resisting, it wondered, like a tired swimmer letting the current carry her, hoping repeated Reversion keeps me from descending so she can sleep easy as a winter cat?

No, that rang false, and the thought burst like a soap bubble in rain.

She knows how long my ritual takes, it mused, like counting incense sticks from dawn to noon, and she could enjoy that window instead of tightening the Reversion intervals like a noose.

“My great lord—” a whisper brushed its mind, and then whoosh, the world flipped like a page in wind.

Elyssus flared in fury, a tentacle hammering the void like thunder on a cliff, sending waves of energy rolling like black surf.

No, she’s pulling some trick, it thought, a thorn pricking the heart like a splinter of ice; I need to see it clear like moonlight on still water.

It chose a sharper tool, like pulling a hidden knife from the sleeve.

Its Deception Power could fool a Magic Array’s progress like paint on a cracked wall, so it could also keep a believer from resetting like a candle shielded from a gust, preserve their memory like ink pressed between pages, and set them from the start to hound Lucimia like hounds loosed at dawn.

It would cost absorbed energy, and the price felt like blood leaving a vein under cold steel.

That Authority Power unlocked only after enough energy pooled like a reservoir behind a dam.

Elyssus was a banished thing, a Dark Deity in exile, and to make Authority Power touch the real world it had to burn what it had swallowed, like feeding oil to a hungry lamp, a heavy drain it disliked like sand grinding gears.

But now it had to spend, the urgency nipping like winter wind at exposed skin.

It feared Lucimia had cooked up something to block its plan like a stone lodged in a river’s throat, even if it couldn’t see how; its Magic Arrays were many like stars in a cold sky, its descent needed only one last push like a foot at the threshold—what could she use to bar the door like a bar across the latch?

First, preserve the believers’ memories like knots in a cord, then strangle the threat in the cradle like frost killing a sprout, and wipe out the variable like erasing chalk from a slate.

Yes, its energy was enough, and Lucimia’s life no longer held value like a burnt-out wick in the dark.

It knew her combat strength bit like steel under snow, so to make sure its followers could end her, it would spend more energy, granting them teeth like wolves under moonlight.

It could simply absorb more, it thought, like taking one more ladle from a deep well, even if time crawled like syrup.

No rushing, no tipping the pot—steadiness first, like stones laid in a garden path.

With the plan set like ink dried on rice paper, it summoned its believers like crows gathering at dusk and gave them tools to deal with Lucimia like thorned vines around a gate.

Just as Elyssus moved to announce the plan, the scene flashed like lightning behind clouds.

The crowd of believers vanished like snow melting to black earth, leaving only a dark, chaotic void like night swallowing a lake.

Its octopus face grew stormy, the breath tight as a drumskin.

Lucimia had Reverted again, and the interval shrank like a wick burning short.

Wait—where is Bazeroth, it thought, a sharp spike of doubt like a fishbone caught in the throat.

In every Reversion before, Bazeroth spoke that same line like a bell tolling, yet now he didn’t—he didn’t even show, like a shadow failing to follow its man.

“Bazeroth,” Elyssus reached out, its will like a cold hand on wet stone.

In the plan, it meant to grant Bazeroth a black fog ability like smoke slipping through doors, so he could use Instant Movement like a hawk’s dive and stab Lucimia clean like a needle through silk.

“Bazeroth,” it called again, its intent like iron tapping the rim of a bowl, but no response came, only silence like snow falling in a pine forest.

What’s happening, it thought, an uneasy ripple like wind across bamboo.

It tried several times, and found the link cut like a string snapped under a blade; their souls couldn’t connect like two lanterns whose wicks refuse the same flame.

What is this, Elyssus thought, surprise cracking its mask like ice breaking on a river, and on its horrid octopus visage a tremor of fear flickered like moth wings.

It, Elyssus, a Dark Deity, felt terror for the first time, like a temple bell struck in a storm.

Was Bazeroth dead, it wondered, the question cold as a nail in winter wood.

How did Lucimia do it, it asked itself, its mind pacing like a tiger in a cage; she needs minutes to fly and use Instant Movement, right, like clouds gathering before rain; can she kill Bazeroth in a blink like lightning to a dry tree, leaving him no time to resist like straw under fire?

Oh—she seemed to gain something strange, it recalled, that Fuzzy Orb could gulp down the Bazeroth it had fabricated like a carp swallowing a fallen plum.

What is that ability, it thought, curiosity coiling like smoke.

In Val Town, that noble’s family head was also its believer; test his line, it decided, like tapping a drum to hear if the hide holds.

Soon, a portly man appeared before Elyssus like a ball rolling into a hall.

“My great lord—” the man began, his voice like a reed under wind.

“Hm. Tell me, where is Bazeroth,” Elyssus asked, its tone cool as moonlight on steel.

“Oh, my great lord, Executive Bazeroth is currently on standby at my house,” Regino’s father answered, sweat beading like dew along his brow.

On standby, Elyssus thought, the word floating like a leaf on a stream—so he isn’t dead?

Why won’t he answer this Octopus King’s call, it asked, the edge hidden like a thorn in a rose.

“This… I don’t know…” Regino’s father gulped, a fine sweat sliding like rain on slate.

Hmph, forget it, I’ll see for myself, Elyssus said, a cold snort like frost on a window.

It had another way, too—spend energy again, and possess a believer without a Sacrificial Ritual, like slipping into a glove without lacing.

As Elyssus stretched a tentacle to possess Regino’s father, the scene flashed again, a white flare like a fish flicking silver in the dark.

Regino’s father vanished like mist, and Lucimia triggered Reversion again like a bell rung twice in a breath.

Hmph, Lucimia, I’ll see what tricks you’re weaving, it hissed, its temper slick like oil on water.

Elyssus reached for Regino’s father and found him still reachable like a lantern still lit, then, without a word, drove a tentacle into the man’s body like a spear slipping through cotton.

Regino’s father opened his eyes like shutters lifted at dawn; his name was Robin, and Elyssus wore him like a cloak.

Elyssus blinked through Robin’s eyes and saw the bedroom around him like a still pond, then thought for a breath, and walked to the parlor like a shadow crossing tiles.

Bazeroth sat there sipping tea, steam rising like mist from a valley.

He blew the heat away like wind over soup, took a small sip like a bird pecking, and sighed, “Good tea, Robin, this tea’s fine,” like spring rain on thirsty soil.

Elyssus looked at Bazeroth’s ease, and anger rose like smoke in a closed room; it strode over with a face dark as thunderclouds.

It lifted a hand and patted his shoulder like a cold leaf touching skin, and said, “Come to my bedroom,” the words sharp as a knife.

Bazeroth turned, shock flashing in his eyes like lightning, not at Robin’s face but at the mind handshaking behind it like two winds meeting; the contact restored their line like a string retied, and Bazeroth knew the man before him wasn’t Robin but Elyssus.

Bazeroth followed, respectful as a monk under a bell, into the bedroom, closing and locking the door like a lid on a jar.

He dropped to his knees, his posture flat as rice on a tray.

“My great lord—” he began, voice trembling like reed flutes.

“Stop. Answer this: why did our link break,” Elyssus asked, the question cold as a blade kissed by frost.

“I… do not know… I’ve waited in silence for your command, like a soldier at night post, and if no command comes, I act per the plan like a script read under lantern light,” Bazeroth said honestly, his words plain as sand.

“Hm,” Elyssus sat on the office chair like a king on a stone seat, thinking, thoughts circling like hawks.

Strange, it said, the word falling like a pebble into a well.

Strange—what do you mean, my lord, Bazeroth asked, careful as a cat on wet tiles.

I find it strange there’s no Reversion yet, Elyssus tapped a finger on the desk like rain on a roof, puzzled.

Reversion, Bazeroth echoed, confusion clouding him like smoke in a room.

By the last few intervals, the time had reached the previous Reversion point like a sun at zenith—why did she stop, Elyssus wondered, the puzzle tight like a knot in silk.

So strange—so—uh, the voice cut off like a candle pinched.

Elyssus lowered its gaze, and an icy blade had burst through Robin’s heart from behind, a shard glittering like winter starlight.

Heh, a girl’s voice cooed behind him, cold with a playful lilt like snowflakes dancing over black stone.

Shock stabbed Elyssus, and it flung a surge of black fog like a squall, its Deception Power smothering Robin’s death like soot over flame, and blocking its own wound like bark sealing sap.

It turned, and there she was—a black-haired girl perched on the window like a swallow on a branch, cheek propped in one hand, calves crossed and swinging like a lazy pendulum, all ease like shade under willows.

Her chin lifted, a faint smirk curling like a crescent moon, her eyes proud as a falcon, and in her other palm a second icy blade condensed like frost weaving crystal.

The girl was none other than Lucimia, a shadow stitched to moonlight.

As expected, Elyssus, she said, certainty ringing like a bell, I finally have confirmation—heh.