When Auril told Lucimia, a stormcloud sank into her chest like wet ink spreading through water.

“What do you mean? You’re saying everything about me was arranged by you?” Her voice cut like frost on glass.

“Yes,” Auril said, his tone steady as stone on a riverbed.

“...Details.” Her breath was a blade; her words fell like pebbles down a well.

—

“What do you mean?” Auril had asked the same once, like an echo rolling back from a canyon.

“It’s simple,” Olivya said, calm as moonlight on a still lake. “First, I won’t lend her Authority Power directly. I want her to awaken it herself, like fire struck from flint.”

“This… that’s not good, right? It’s already hard. You’re piling trouble on,” Nirael said, her brows knotted like tangled vines.

“No. It has to be this way,” Olivya replied, voice level as winter air. “We can’t hand over Temporal Authority either. Use a Decomposition Authority to split it apart. Give her Reversion, but not at Authority Power level, so we don’t get another Test Subject Four. I’ll play the mysterious benefactor. She’ll gain abilities through separate events, like stepping-stones across a river. I’ll stage a major incident to drive her forward and temper her wit, like a whetstone on steel.”

“What incident?” Auril asked, the question hanging like a lantern in fog.

Olivya turned her gaze to their fourth companion, her eyes steady as a compass needle.

Nirael and Auril looked over at the one who rarely spoke and never fought head-on, a shadow in the wings.

She had long pale-violet hair, a lilac waterfall spilling to her hips. Bare feet crossed at the knee, one hand propping her head, she lounged on a chair like a cat in a sunny window.

Olivya studied the girl and spoke, voice faint as dew. “Elyssus.”

The pale-violet-haired girl lifted her head a fraction, like a bud opening to light. She stared at Olivya, silent, her eyes bright with questions.

“Offer your soul,” Olivya said, her tone as calm as still water.

The girl blinked in brief surprise, like a bird startled from a branch. Then she nodded.

“Okay,” she said, her agreement light as a falling leaf.

Now it was Nirael and Auril who froze, shock flaring like lightning under their skin.

“What do you mean?” Auril asked again, his words sharp as flint.

“Elyssus is about to lose control,” Olivya said, each syllable a measured drop of rain. “We devoured Temporal Authority mostly thanks to her. Now I want her undercover. I want her to lose control. I want her persona erased, to become an extreme proxy of the Dark Deity. Then we seal her, like chaining a storm inside a mountain.”

“Elyssus’s greatest advantage is that she never showed her face. Even Vosh doesn’t know she exists. She’s the perfect mole, a needle slipped through silk. You both know what comes after she loses control. She’ll become the Dark Deity’s agent, help it fight me, break the seals, and drink power like a tide. We can use that current.”

“Nirael,” she turned, her gaze a steady flame, “in the Empire there’s a girl named Rexi who wants Authority Power, right? We need a doer. Give it to her. Give her Memory Power. Have her alter Elyssus’s memories, weave different lives like threads on a loom. After Elyssus loses control, weave another memory: it only absorbs energy; it plans to replace everyone in the Exorcist Family to resurrect itself; it won’t fully obey Vosh; it has only its own goal. And lay down sustained memory erasure, a mist that lingers, so Vosh can’t spill our secrets to Elyssus, and her power after losing control stays dimmed.”

“But… Vosh is clever,” Nirael said, worry fluttering like a trapped moth. “It’s too late to plant a mole now.”

“There’s time,” Olivya said, certainty ringing like iron. “Use Temporal Authority to send Elyssus to the First Epoch. Have her start undercover from then, or from the dawn of the Second Epoch.”

“Then I want Lucimia to awaken her Authority Power only by Devouring another’s life, like drinking fire to light her own. She’ll gain Reversion. With her talent for magic and my Authority, she’ll be enough to face Elyssus. And Elyssus will be enough to temper her, like storm to a sail.”

“As for the target of Devouring…” Olivya looked at Auril, her eyes cold as a winter star. “Offer your dearest. Let your daughter Yuna give her life. Use Temporal Authority to bring her here. Have Rexi alter her memory, so she won’t resist. Use that emotional tether to bind Lucimia, a red thread tight as fate.”

“This… it’s too risky,” Nirael said, heart thudding like drumbeats before a cliff. “If control slips, the whole stack collapses. And you sound a little mad.”

“It’s our last chance,” Olivya said, the words low as thunder far off. “Lancelot’s side is empty, like a campfire gone cold. I’m near my limit. If Lucimia fails, I see no path left. We must go all in, like casting the last die.”

Nirael fell silent, her thoughts a dark lake with no wind.

Auril and Elyssus said nothing either, their quiet heavy as snow.

Olivya paused, then went on, voice steady as a metronome. “If Lucimia also just wants a good life, to live quietly under blue skies, then she must deal with Elyssus. She must Devour Yuna to obtain Reversion. With Yuna dead, she might hate the Dark Deity and act, like a blade forged in grief. Or she might run herself ragged to revive Yuna, but that’s not a problem. We’ll guide her steps like stones across a stream.”

“When she finds that Reversion can’t reset someone who has been Devoured, she’ll seek Temporal Authority. Then lead her here, like guiding a traveler by starlight. We can stop her from getting Temporal Authority. Or we can let her claim the full Temporal Authority.”

“It sounds like a contradiction, but it isn’t,” Olivya said, palms open like empty sky. “If she can give up Temporal Authority, Reversion is enough to finish the plan. If she insists on Temporal Authority, let her win it through a Duel, blade to blade, step by relentless step. After she finally gains that Authority Power, she’ll discover one thing, a truth like cold dawn, and she’ll choose to carry out the Dark Deity expulsion plan on her own.”

She looked to Nirael. “Nirael, offer your memories. I need to change them. You’ll guide Lucimia here. We’re actors on a stage; we bring no extra props.”

Silence gathered like evening fog.

Nirael hesitated. She disliked the plan. It was madness, a bridge of ice over deep water. Everyone would be sacrificed—Rexi, Auril’s daughter, herself, Elyssus, even Olivya. But she knew the board was cornered; there was no other move.

At last she nodded. “Okay,” she said, the word thin as a reed in wind.

Olivya looked at Auril. Auril understood at once. He didn’t think; he answered like a hammer striking. “Alter mine too.”

“No. You don’t need it,” Olivya said, gaze firm as granite.

“Why?” Auril asked, his breath a brief cloud.

“You forget?” Her voice was gentle as muted rain. “You must provide the Duel, and you must be the only one left who knows. You can choose whether to tell Lucimia the truth as the weather shifts. If she’s driven by revenge, no need. If she’s driven to resurrect, tell her. Without the truth, she’ll ram the wall until she breaks, and that hurts the plan.”

That was Olivya’s second plan. She followed every thread like a weaver at dusk. Luck favored her. Lucimia was sharp as a hawk. She took down Elyssus and gained the Disguise Power, a mask smooth as still glass.

—

Auril’s story ended there, the last note fading like smoke into trees.

Lucimia leaned against a tree trunk with her eyes shut, her mind churning like black water. The whole thing felt absurd, like a painted sky peeling.

“So, by your telling, most of what I lived was fake?” Her voice trembled like a taut string.

“That’s right,” Auril said, calm as a stone lantern. “I praised you because you earned it. You have the strength to finish the plan.”

“You’re saying if I obtain Temporal Authority, I’ll still carry out your plan?” Her doubt fluttered like crows from a field.

“Yes,” he said, voice steady as a keel.

“Tell me why,” she asked, a knife of breath in cold air.

“I don’t know,” Auril answered, honesty bare as winter branches. “Only Olivya ever used Temporal Authority. We never felt it in our bones. But she said so. So we trust her, like sailors steering by stars.”