“I…” Desty glanced at Shebelle, then at Lucimia, her eyes fluttering like startled sparrows, indecision pooling like fog.

After a long churn of thoughts, like a millstone grinding grain, she caught a spark of an idea.

“How about this: I write you a letter. When you get back, hand it to the Church. I’ve got a special mark, like a branded seal, so they’ll know it’s from me. I can describe the situation in it too. They might send help. Doesn’t that give us the best of both worlds?”

Desty’s pride puffed up like a small campfire; for once, she didn’t feel like a fool.

Lucimia weighed it, her gaze cool as moonlight on water, then said, “Alright. Write it now.”

“Now?” Desty’s eyes went round like a full moon. “Where are we supposed to find pen and paper…”

Before the words fell, Lucimia fished pen and paper from her Storage Ring, the motion smooth as a magician’s sleeve, and set them before Desty.

“Write.”

“…”

Desty took the pen and paper, her fingers tight as a bowstring, and began to write, the nib scratching like night crickets on bark.

Watching Desty’s earnest strokes snake across the page like vines, Lucimia’s temper swelled like a stormcloud; she could almost kick Desty’s backside like a ball.

This girl was infuriating.

Back in the Town of Tranquility, Lucimia had admired the red‑haired Holy Knight, thinking her steady as a mountain, noble and just.

At the Lancelot Family banquet, Regino had challenged her, and with one clean line she sent him off like wind beating down a flame.

What was it she said?

Oh right—“My sword only points at Evil Entities.” Stylish as a drawn blade in cold dawn, it made Lucimia think she lived by her own creed.

Now that creed scratched at Lucimia like thorny briars.

Protect the weak, help those in need—fine words drifting like incense, yet I need help too; I’m a soft‑hearted girl as well, and she chose that little girl over me. It stung like winter wind.

And I saved her life.

Even with this tidy fix in hand like a neatly tied knot, Lucimia stayed sour, because her first answer to me was no.

Turns out helping others doesn’t guarantee a helping hand back; the lesson settled in her chest like a closing shell.

While Lucimia’s thoughts circled like crows, Desty’s did the same, dark and fluttering.

She’d thought Lucimia was her kind of person, and that rare feeling of finding a partner rose like dawn—only to find a selfish shadow instead.

Too cruel, too heartbreaking, like rain on a candle.

In her mind, she’d placed Lucimia with those who help others and hunt Evil Entities, so she assumed the help would come; that’s why her shock flared like a snapped string, and her reaction went sour, as if Lucimia had betrayed the faith.

Not anymore; she moved Lucimia into the group that needs help, a basket of fragile things, because from the start they hadn’t shared the same flame—she’d just imagined it.

In the end, it was still just her, alone like a single lantern on a vast road; she’d been a top student in the Academy’s Swordmaster track, graduating second and joining the Purification Church with bright steel in her heart.

Her peers scattered like migrating birds—some became adventurers, some nobles, some royal guards—safer paths with warm hearths, while she alone chose to be a Holy Knight and face the world’s darkness.

Not that they were wrong, but the years as a Purification Knight felt lonely, like walking through winter fields; most in the Church were older, the age gap a quiet river, and she’d hoped—finally—a peer who fought Evil Entities, a friend, a shared fire; turned out it was wishful mist.

Boo‑hoo, the thought stung like smoke.

Desty cut a sidelong glance at Lucimia, lips pouting like a petal.

Lucimia caught it, folded her arms like closed wings, turned her head, and let out a cold snort, frost‑sharp.

“Hmph.”

Not as good as Yuna.

Yuna’s better, Lucimia thought, the memory warm as tea.

Soon the letter was finished, the last line drawn like a horizon; Desty folded it with careful hands, and gave it to Lucimia.

Lucimia opened it, eyes skimming like swift fish, then tucked it into her Storage Ring once she was sure, the paper swallowed like a pebble into a pond.

“Alright, we go our separate ways now,” Desty said, her tone carrying a small ember of anger.

“Oh.” Lucimia’s reply fell cold as sleet.

To be honest, Lucimia still thought Desty was a hot‑blooded fool, diving into the local mess like a moth into flame.

Lucimia herself couldn’t do it; her Devouring was already seventy percent locked against Elyssus, grinding like gears.

If this plague came from a Dark Deity or an Evil Entity, she couldn’t end it with a snap; even if she devoured the culprit like swallowing a viper, the scattered sickness would cling like frost.

They’d need Purification from the Church, or a high‑tier mage’s healing, or… doctors with steady hands.

Only their work could sweep the disease away like a rising tide and bring life back like spring.

How could Desty do it alone? It smelled like death.

Either an Evil Entity would shred her like paper, or the illness would seep in like damp.

Lucimia’s Devouring wouldn’t guard her forever; she was leaving, like a ship slipping from harbor.

As the moment hardened like cooling iron, Shebelle panicked.

“W‑wait!”

Shebelle bolted over, arms wrapping Lucimia’s right leg like a lifeline, and cried with a trembling voice, tears falling like summer rain.

“Please don’t go, sister. I know you’ve got urgent business. I don’t want you to end the plague—just save my little brother, please. He’s sick. Uncle Anjelo can’t cure him. Uncle says he’s only got a few days left. Please, save him.”

Shebelle had seen that Lucimia carried a way to save lives, so she held on tight, like clinging to a tree in a flood.

Desty opened her mouth, words evaporating like mist; if she had a method, she’d go, but she didn’t, so her eyes slid back to Lucimia, seeking an answer like a star.

Lucimia looked down, calm as still water, at Shebelle’s pleading face; she didn’t refuse, but she didn’t agree, and the silence hummed like a stalled clock.

Only Shebelle’s soft sobs rippled through the air like a reed flute.

Desty drew a deep breath, sharp as cold air, clenched her fist, stepped forward, and whispered, “How about… we do this one favor?”

At that, Lucimia raised her eyes to Desty, her gaze cutting like winter light.

Under that look, Desty flinched back two steps, fear pricking like nettles, and rushed on, “Anyway, your problem’s handled. Going back is just a matter of time. Why not… use the time for a little trip?”

“Trip?” Lucimia’s face darkened like a storm over the sea. “Please, my home’s gone. How am I supposed to feel like traveling?”

“Uh…” Desty twisted a lock of hair, fingers looping like ivy, then darted for another thought. “Then… an adventure?”

“…I’m not an adventurer.”

“Then…” Desty’s mind went blank, empty as a wind‑scoured field.