“Kalan Village, Karan City, Lowegar Kingdom…” Lucimia murmured, the names skimming her tongue like pebbles over a frozen pond.

Was there a thread between Kalan Village and Karan City, like two beads on one cord? Or were they just names drifting alike, like twin leaves on separate streams?

If there was a link, had the Lowegar Kingdom named things loosely, like paint flung on a wall? Maybe Kalan Village sat under Karan City’s shadow, like a hamlet under a watchtower.

Maybe there was even a Kalan Town tucked between them, like a stepping stone in the river of roads.

Whatever it was, she set her compass to the Lowegar Kingdom, like an arrow choosing a sky.

Beyond Yuna’s trail pulling like a red string, the key was the Time Ability User, a clock buried in that land’s sands.

After a quiet breath that hung like white silk, Lucimia nodded to Nirael and let gratitude show like a small lantern. “Got it. Thanks.”

“No need,” Nirael said, voice flat as cold iron. “Goodbye, Lucimia.”

“Mm. Goodbye, Nirael,” she answered, calm as still water.

They parted like forked paths in a winter wood, each footstep soft as snow settling.

Both knew the next meeting would likely be a storm on a clear day, one losing control and one forced to kill.

“…I hope that day never comes,” Rexi said, eyes lifting to a sky pale as bone.

“What did you say?” Lucimia glanced back, her gaze sharp as a drawn string.

“Ah, nothing,” Rexi chirped, jogging over like a sparrow and looping her arm through the girl’s.

“??” Lucimia blinked, her confusion a ripple across a lake. “What are you doing?”

She tugged to pull free, like a reed slipping from a stream, but Rexi moved fast and hugged tight, a cat clinging to warmth.

“Hehe, nothing—just feels like this brings us closer,” Rexi said, grin bright as a small sun.

“No,” Lucimia said, and she pulled her arm back, clean as a blade leaving a sheath.

“Eh…” Rexi’s face fell like a petal in rain, eyes dimming.

Lucimia sighed, her breath curling like smoke. “Hungry? If you are, let’s get something good.”

At the word, Rexi lit up like a lantern at dusk. “Hungry! I haven’t eaten in forever! What do we have?”

“Hold on,” Lucimia said, and she drew out a bowl of hot soup from her Storage Ring, steam lifting like a thin veil—tomato beef brisket soup.

She’d bought it in Jaha Town, a small memory sealed like amber inside the ring.

“!” Rexi’s eyes sparkled like dew. “For me? For me?”

“Yeah,” Lucimia said with a warm smile, a hearth in winter. “Drink. It’s cold, and heat is a good friend.”

Rexi cradled the bowl carefully, like nursing a bird, then found a stone stool and sat, palms soaking in warmth like sun through glass.

Wanting more, she leaned in, letting the steam brush her face like soft fingers from a brazier.

When it felt right, she sipped; the heat slid down like a golden thread, and warmth bloomed in her belly like spring under snow.

“Wow—this is great,” she sighed, voice melting like butter.

Watching Rexi glow like a candle, Lucimia felt her own heart thaw a little, and she handed over a spoon from the Storage Ring like passing a baton.

Rexi nodded thanks and dug into the beef, each bite a drumbeat of joy, like rain on dry earth.

“So good,” she mumbled, eyes shining like stars. “I haven’t had this in ages.”

“Eat more if you like it,” Lucimia said, voice easy as wind, then found her own stone seat and sat tidy, knees together like a folded page, and drew out her bowl.

The rising heat painted her chest with a thin warmth, like sunlight through gauze, so she set the bowl on her legs to drink in the temperature like a held ember.

She lifted it, blew lightly like a flute’s first breath, and took a careful sip, a leaf touching a stream.

She expected bright tang and deep warmth, like red sun and brown earth, but what hit her tongue was something else—a rankness like old salted fish rotting in a dark jar.

It was bitter and stinging, a sour note tangled with a cloying sweetness, like spoiled fruit wrapped in smoke—indescribable and knotted like brambles.

“Peh!” She spat it out, sharp as a thrown pebble.

What was that? Spoiled? Wasn’t time in the Storage Ring supposed to be still, like a pond with no wind?

No—Rexi seemed fine, calm as a meadow. Then what…

Lucimia looked into her bowl, and her heart jolted like a struck gong.

It wasn’t tomato beef brisket soup; it was a slurry of flesh—unspeakable tissues coiling like worms, red meat pulsing like something alive.

Startled, she flung the bowl away, reflex quick as a bird breaking from a branch.

The bowl landed in the snow with a soft hush, no crack, only powder shifting like sifted flour, while soup and meat slopped out like spilled entrails.

Rexi saw it and ran over, worry bright as a flame, voice quick. “What happened? Did you burn yourself?”

“N—ugh!” Lucimia tried to answer, but a spike of pain hit her skull like a hammer on iron.

“What’s wrong, Lucimia?” Rexi’s voice trembled, small as a reed in wind.

“I…I’m fine…” The pain came fast and went like a passing thunderclap, and Lucimia shook her head as if shedding rain, eyes dropping to the spilled meat.

It had changed, like a mask swapped in a blink—just overcooked beef now, limp as old leaves, and diced tomatoes bright as embers.

…What was that? A hallucination, like heat shimmer on stone?

“Are you sure, Lucimia? Maybe you’re exhausted,” Rexi said, holding her up like a prop under a sagging beam, her own soup forgotten and cooling like an abandoned cup of tea.

Lucimia didn’t answer; she drew out another bowl of tomato beef brisket soup, the action steady as a ritual, and narrowed her eyes to watch it like a hawk.

No writhing, no wrong colors—just normal soup, clean as a mirror.

She tasted; the flavor was right—savory and bright, a red wind that woke the appetite.

…Corruption? Tch. The thought rose like a dark tide.

She pressed a palm to her temple, the ache a dull ember. Devouring the seal Vosh once forced open had cost her more than she’d wanted, like paying with blood for borrowed fire.

“Lucimia…” Rexi’s voice sank, a leaf settling on water.

Lucimia looked up at once, a smile lifting like a paper lantern. “I’m fine. I just burned my tongue. Sorry for worrying you.”

“R…really?” Rexi asked, doubt flickering like a candle in a draft.

“Really,” Lucimia said, steady as a hand on a hilt.

“Oh…” Rexi drifted back to her spot, shoulders small as folded wings, and kept sipping the hot soup, though her thoughts wandered like smoke.

She had amnesia, not stupidity; she could tell Lucimia was in a bad way, the taint brushing her mind like black frost.

Mm… I’ll find a way to ease your corruption, she vowed inwardly, a seed set under snow.

After soup, they waited for night to fall like a curtain, slept till dawn cracked like thin ice, and readied themselves for the road.

“Where are we going?” Rexi asked, her breath lifting like mist.

“The Lowegar Kingdom,” Lucimia said, voice straight as an arrow.

“The Lowegar Kingdom? We’re really going there?” Rexi’s surprise jumped like a fish.

“What, you know the Lowegar Kingdom?” Lucimia asked this time, eyes curious as new leaves.

“Nope, not at all,” Rexi said with a sheepish shrug, hands spreading like empty plates. “I just thought you’d go home first.”

“Home…” Lucimia fell silent, the word heavy as a stone in a well, then said, slow as winter sun, “I’ll go home one day. For now, I’m looking for my family.”

“Uh…” Rexi winced like she’d stepped on a twig, feeling she’d said the wrong thing, then remembered how little she knew and asked, voice soft as rain, “Can you tell me about you?”

“Me?” Lucimia tilted her head, the motion light as grass.

“Mm. I want to know,” Rexi said, earnest as a clear spring.

Lucimia met that gaze, sighed like a breeze through chimes, and nodded. “Alright. I’ll tell you slowly.”

“Mm,” Rexi answered, a small hum like a bee.

So the two girls walked toward the Lowegar Kingdom, steps steady as beads on a string, and one began to speak while the other listened.

The story moved like fireflies over water, and the listener’s heart stirred like reeds in a night wind.

“Home, huh…” Rexi looked up at the sky, a wide pale sea. “Where’s mine?”