Dawn hung like a thin gray veil, barely lifting.

A little girl stepped outside with a bucket, like a brave seed in frost.

She wore a tattered burlap shirt whose threads frayed like wilted grass.

Her burlap shoes scuffed dirty mud, an ash-colored skin without pulse.

She looked around; withered trees stood alone like gravestones sunk in soil.

No blade of green showed; the dirt was a dead, gray smudge.

No insects chirped, no bird or beast stirred, the world a barren husk.

Air swelled with a choking stench, breath tasting like rot.

She lowered her gaze; corpses lay at her feet, rank and rotting like pulped logs.

Some had skin and nails blackened like charred bark.

Some were drained to husks, like leaves sucked dry by frost.

Some bulged with tumors, bodies flowering with sickly lumps.

Every sight crawled cold along her spine like a creeping hand.

Fear tightened her chest; she covered her mouth and nose with cloth.

She swallowed hard and carried the bucket toward the river, trudging through smoke.

The river had long been tainted, its surface a poison rainbow of floating scraps.

They drifted in colors like bruises and leaked a rancid breath.

One glance said no one should drink it; even washing would stain deeper.

Even so, she crouched, dipped the wooden bucket, and lifted a brimming weight.

She had no choice; without water, she and Granny would die of thirst.

In this plague-ravaged land, living was a thin flame in wind.

Thank heaven, Granny knew fire-element magic and boiled every drop like a rite.

Granny said heat would kill most filth, like sparks purging darkness.

Bucket raised, the girl stood dazed by the river, thoughts drifting like leaves.

After a moment, she whispered, “The river’s all polluted… is the River God still alive? Did it die?”

Staring at the muddy current, she set down the bucket and reached into her rough pocket.

She drew out a small dead fish, its dull scales like a faded silver petal.

She’d caught it before the plague to keep as a pet, like a friend in a bowl.

Then the plague came; food thinned like a vanishing harvest, and the fish starved.

Granny said to eat it today before it rotted, one last meal in bleak weather.

She couldn’t bear it; they believed in fallen leaves returning to roots, a gentle homecoming.

If the fish had died, it should return to its river, back to its waters.

She knew it was foolish, yet that wasn’t her only thought, threads crossing in her heart.

She tossed the little fish; it traced a perfect arc like a new moon.

With a soft plop, it fell into the river, a note swallowed by murk.

She quickly clasped her hands, fingers interlaced, and prayed with all her breath.

“River God, River God, I let the little fish return home; please help us and end this plague.”

Her devout voice repeated like beads on a string, tumbling one by one.

Granny’s stories said the River God would grant a wish if pleased, like rain after drought.

The locals never believed; they trusted other things, their faith carved elsewhere.

Her idea was naive, but it was the only path she could see.

Her house had no food left, only this last fish, the final ember in ash.

Eating it might buy one or two days; then death would come anyway.

If death waited either way, let the fish return home; let hope ride the hidden River God.

To others, her thought and act would be naive and foolish, like playing with smoke.

As if the River God answered, two figures drifted down from upstream like ghosts.

She spotted them at once and ran, joy a spark in ash.

Two young women floated upon the river, bodies cradled by an unseen hand.

One had red hair and wore damaged armor, a warrior asleep in gray light.

The other had long black hair and held the redhead tight, a guardian vine.

Both kept their eyes closed, life or death unclear, faces pale as water lilies.

The little girl studied them and found something very strange, like glass over skin.

Yes, very strange; a clear film seemed to wrap them, a second skin of light.

The river’s foul water didn’t touch them at all, the storm held at bay.

Incredible, a miracle opening in gray dawn.

They must be saviors sent by the River God to end the plague.

She believed it with a child’s certainty, a candle set aflame.

“I-I’ll pull them ashore!”

She reached out, but her short arms fell short, a bridge too small to span.

She pulled back, glanced around, and picked up a branch, hope like a hook.

She pushed at them, but the branch snapped the instant she pressed.

“Ugh…” The sound fell like a pebble into silence.

The trees here were brittle and withered; twigs shattered at a touch like dry glass.

The two girls drifted farther; panic fluttered in her chest like trapped sparrows.

“What do I do, what do I do?” Her whisper skittered like ants.

No, this was the River God’s chance; she had to seize it like rope.

She clenched her fists and scanned the banks, eyes darting like minnows.

She soon found a target: a skeleton lying in the mud like bleached driftwood.

She walked up, bowed, and murmured an apology, a soft wind over bone.

“Sorry, I’ll borrow one bone for a moment—ah, don’t worry, it’s for ending the plague, not for anything bad.”

She picked a longer bone, sturdy and straight, like a pole from a ruined tent.

She ran back to the river and used the bone like before, nudging them closer.

At the near bank, she dropped the bone and grabbed their arms with both hands.

She hauled with all the strength she had, a tiny body straining like a bow.

When it was done, she plopped down on the ground and panted, breath ragged.

It was normal; she was only a child, smaller than Lucimia and Desty.

She hadn’t eaten much; pulling them up was her limit, a burst of flame.

After a brief rest, she returned the bone with a bow, then crept back.

She lay beside them and poked their cheeks with a curious finger, tapping clay.

“It… doesn’t feel wet; what is this film?” Her brow pinched like a knot.

She lifted her hand to pinch the membrane, and—

“Cough, cough, cough…”

Lucimia’s coughing cut her short, a harsh rasp like thorns.

“Cough, cough, cough…” She coughed several times and even coughed up blood.

Lucimia opened her eyes slowly, mouth tasting of murk; she spat blood aside.

“…Where… is this…” The words stumbled out, thin as thread.

She tried to sit, but pain spiked through her skull, nausea swirling like fog.

“Tss… urgh…” She retched up some unknown fluid, then a small ease returned.

Relief cooled her first; then she checked Elyssus in her mind, listening into a cave.

Thank heaven, Elyssus was locked tight in the Fuzzy Orb’s jaws, unable to slip free.

After briefly Devouring her mind, Elyssus had nowhere to act and lay restricted, quiet now.

She exhaled a long breath, then took in the scene, eyes sharpening like steel.

She turned her head, and a pair of round eyes like bronze bells stared back.

“Uh… who are you?” Her voice rasped like paper.

The little girl saw Lucimia awake and talking; her eyes grew bigger, even shining.

She hugged Lucimia at once and cried out, “Great! Savior, big sister, you finally came!”

“Huh?” Lucimia blinked, baffled, thoughts stumbling like goats on rock.

What savior? Was this the Town of Tranquility? No, she’d said finally.

Then where was this place… confusion pricked like nettles.

Lucimia turned and looked around, senses sweeping like a cold wind.

Withered trees, ash-gray soil, corpses twisted in fright, and air sour with rot.

A thin veil of mist hung above, a web across the sky.

The sight struck her heart like a gong, a dull shock in the ribs.

“Where… did I end up?” Her whisper fell like dust.