Since nothing seemed wrong, Lucimia let the matter float off like a leaf on water.

“Since the room’s set, let’s just stay in and rest,” Lucimia said, her voice even as a still pond.

“No, no, no, Lucimia, how can we?” Rexi fired back, sparks in her eyes like fireflies at dusk. “We’ve gotta watch the ship start from the deck!”

“I haven’t even seen the anchor yet,” she added, curiosity flaring like a paper lantern. “It’s part of the experience, or the ride’s wasted.”

“...” Lucimia fell silent, the sigh in her chest like wind skimming canvas. “You’re right...”

They returned to the deck, where tar and rope smelled like rain on stone, and the crew had wrapped up their checks.

Two burly men turned the wheel, and the anchor chain clattered like iron rain ringing down a bell.

Rexi leaned over the rail, her hair blown like grass by the river wind, watching the anchor rise.

The iron anchor loomed, a steel claw larger than a man, heaving up like a river-beast breaching.

“Wow, that’s wild—how do you even make that?” Her voice flickered, half to herself, half to Lucimia, like a candle wavering in a draft.

Lucimia didn’t answer, her patience curling in like a fern, knowing Rexi’s questions would climb like vines without end.

She could say: cast iron or steel. The next roots would drill in: what’s the process?

She’d say: design, prep materials, cast, heat-treat, cut, grind. The questions would sprout like bamboo after rain.

How to design? How to prep? How to cast and heat-treat and cut? Every why would peck like a sparrow.

So Lucimia chose not to hear, letting the words pass like clouds over eaves, and she didn’t reply.

Turns out, a chatterbox beside you buzzes like cicadas, sweet and maddening at once.

Rexi didn’t mind; her gaze chased motion like a kite in wind, watching sails unfurl and angle.

A crewman raised a horn at the bow, his stance braced like a pine in wind.

“Woooo—” The low note rolled out like fog over the river, a call to departure.

The captain guided the ship along the current, and the river pulled them like a dark ribbon.

People leaned on the rail, their faces lit like moon on water, watching the world slide.

Rexi did the same, feeling the gentle bob like breath underfoot, eyes on the far shore, then the shrinking port like a toy town.

“Hey, little miss, careful not to fall,” a honest-faced sailor said, his warning warm as a smooth stone.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Rexi waved him off, her hand fanning the worry away like smoke.

The weather held, a calm lid on the sky, but evening sails are rare, and night swells breathe bigger.

The ship rose and dipped like a slow whale, and the deck’s rhythm tapped in the bones.

Boredom drifted over Lucimia like gray rain; the river view stayed a painted scroll that never changed.

She turned to head back, her steps quiet as cat paws, when Rexi caught her wrist.

“Hm? What is it? You watch here,” Lucimia said, her tone flat as glass. “I’m going to rest.”

“No... wait, Lucimia...” Rexi kept her head down, her voice thin like wet paper.

“What is it?” Lucimia moved closer, concern opening like an umbrella.

“I... I...”

“Hm?”

“I—I think I’m... seasick!” Rexi lifted her face, color drained like ash from a hearth.

She barely finished before she retched, the sound sharp as a snapped reed, thankfully into the water and not onto Lucimia.

“You...” Lucimia’s words stalled, her patience wobbling like a teacup on a rolling tray. How is she amnesiac, afraid of heights, and seasick?

“Uwah...” Rexi threw up again, her shoulders shivering like leaves in wind.

Softness first, then action; pity tugged Lucimia like a tide, and she patted Rexi’s shoulder. “Want me to use my ability to ease it?”

Rexi shot out a hand, a stop-sign stiff as a branch. She spat, swallowed nausea like a bitter pill, and forced words out.

“No... don’t. This is... an experience too,” she said, a crooked grin like sunshine through rain. “I think seasickness is kinda good...”

“...” Lucimia stared, her thoughts tilting like a boat—this girl’s mind is a cuckoo clock with extra springs.

Since Rexi insisted, Lucimia yielded like bamboo, and patted her shoulder again, ready to leave.

Rexi grabbed her arm and pulled her back, her fingers hooked like a fishhook. “Why are you—”

“Wait, I want to ask... why do people get seasick?”

“...” Silence pooled like ink. Then Lucimia saw her earnest eyes, bright as a lake, and relented.

“In simple, professional terms,” she said, voice steady as a metronome, “your inner ear and eyes send mismatched motion signals.”

“Your eyes see the outside as stable, like a painted wall, but your inner ear feels motion, like a swing.”

“That mismatch scrambles the brain like stirred sediment, and you get dizzy and nauseous.”

“I see.” Rexi nodded, a student lantern lighting up. “Then—”

“Stop!” Lucimia raised a hand like a gate. “You’re seasick. Rest with me. And stop asking me—I'm not your encyclopedia.”

“No!” Rexi shook her head, stubborn as a pebble in a stream. “I still want to watch!”

“Fine... then watch,” Lucimia said, helplessness falling like rain. “I’m resting. Don’t fall in the water.”

“I won’t, I won’t. Don’t worry,” Rexi waved, her promise light as a paper fan.

“Sigh.” The breath left Lucimia heavy as a stone, and she walked toward the stairs.

Rexi never lets a heart rest, like a drum that won’t stop; Desty is simpler, steady as a millstone, and even shares local lore.

Yuna’s even better—gentle as spring rain, and soft-hearted as moss.

Rexi isn’t dumb; her mind is quick as a hare, and she completes tasks like a clean cut.

But her thoughts jump like sparrows, and her words spill like a brook, always asking about shiny, strange things.

Maybe the questions sprouted after her memory loss, Lucimia thought, compassion opening like dawn; she needs to learn, at least she hungers for it.

“Mm... Yuna, Desty, wait a bit,” Lucimia murmured inwardly, resolve bright as a blade. “This trip to the Lowegar Kingdom is to gain the Temporal Authority...”

She was stepping down when a clear splash rang from afar, a “plop” neat as a thrown stone.

Lucimia whipped around, alarm blooming like fire, and Rexi was no longer at the rail.

Tourists leaned over, their necks craning like geese, faces lined with worry at the dark water below.

“Save her! Someone fell in!” a man shouted, his voice cutting like a bell.

Crew rushed for life-saving gear, boots thudding like drums on boards.

“...” Lucimia had no words, her disbelief flat as iron. How did she fall right after swearing she wouldn’t?

Forget it, use Reversion, she thought, the decision crisp as frost.

She sighed, breath cool as night, and just as she gathered power, a pale green figure vaulted up from outside.

In three quick steps and a flip smooth as a swallow, Rexi came over the rail and landed inside.

She brought a sheet of river water with her, splashing out like spilled jade, startling the crowd.

“Uwah, scared me to death,” Rexi said, patting her chest like a drum, the tremor in her voice fading like ripples.

She beamed at Lucimia, a sunrise of a grin, and flashed a thumbs-up, pride shining like polished steel.

Oh right—this girl moves like a cat on rooftops, and her skill cuts clean as wind.

Lucimia only shook her head, helpless as a tide against stone.