—A race… to see who lifts the ‘curse’ first?

Amelia’s face flickered with stunned blankness, like starlight smothered by sudden cloud.

“Hey, hey… We’ve studied that curse for almost seven years, like roots gnawing into stone. You, a sudden outsider, plan to surpass us in half a day? You… aren’t hiding another agenda, are you?”

You couldn’t blame Amelia; the move felt like walking into a storm on purpose, rain cold as needles. Playing dumb to pounce later? Not likely. The Elvenfolk are famed for magic like moonlight for night, and what takes us seven years would take other races ten or twenty just to touch the threshold. With that in mind, every path but ulterior motive looks like mist over a cliff.

“Nope. Our aim never changed, like a compass set north. We’re here to win over the Elvenfolk.”

—Don’t trust it… absolutely don’t trust it…

The words sounded true as spring water, but a Queen wears masks and keeps knives; if she trusted only tongues, the elves would’ve gone the way of fallen leaves.

Still… across from her stood a little sister with pure-blood Dragonfolk strength, and a loli built to melt hearts like sugar in tea. Behind Amelia stood a forest of elves, bows like crescent moons. What’s there to fear?

A dangerous smile curved on her lips, like a fox’s tail swishing in tall grass. In her mind she painted Alicia as a maid under command, a blade in lace—useful for clan and pleasing to self, a prize worth trying for.

“I accept your challenge. I hope you remember your promise.”

She clapped, palms ringing like a bell through pine. An elf maid arrived like a leaf on wind, and Amelia arranged quarters so they’d rest and rise sharp for the contest. Alicia didn’t refuse the courtesy; she cradled the dozing Ling, light as a cat in arms, and followed the maid out of the parlor.

Clack…

The wooden door shut like a lid on a lantern. A soft draft slipped in and kissed the room’s lone candle; the flame guttered out, and darkness poured in like ink. In that sea of black, two pairs of eyes glowed—one beautiful and perilous as a jeweled dagger, one dim and wise as embers under ash.

“What do you think?”

“Reporting, Your Majesty, this old minister smells a trick, like thorns under roses, but…”

“Hmph. Trick or not, when did elves fear fog or thorns? Tell me when our magic can be ready to cast.”

“Reporting, Your Majesty, blame my dullness. If we start now, fastest completion is by the third watch—around three past midnight. The weave’s thick as winter bark.”

“That’s fine. They won’t be awake yet, like owls nestling till dawn. Even later, we’ll lift the ‘curse’ before them.”

“Then… this old minister will withdraw. There are preparations to plant and prune.”

“Mhm… go.”

The wise, muted glow faded first, like a coal winking out. Not long after, the dangerous brilliance dimmed too, like a blade sheathed beneath velvet.

—

Alicia laid the sleeping Ling onto a wooden bed covered with layered leaves, soft as moss after rain. Perhaps the motion rustled too loud; the small tremor jostled Ling awake like a ripple on a pond.

Two tiny fists rubbed her eyes, pink as peach buds, and her mouth opened in a round little O, warm breath spilling out with a soft, adorable “Haaah~,” like mist leaving a cup.

“Tsk, tsk.” She smacked her lips twice, hoping saliva would turn her mouth into a spring again, but dryness clung like dust on a road.

“Sis, how’s it going? Did we pull it off?”

“Mm… call it half a win, like a bridge built to midstream. Next, we need to lift the ‘curse.’”

“Do you even know how to lift a ‘curse’?”

The question cut to the root like a spade, and Alicia only smiled, a crescent moon hiding a fox. Her hand slipped into her pocket, rummaging like a squirrel in leaves.

“Ta‑da~”

An older-sis type playing cute is lethal—sugar on a blade. Alicia proved it as she pulled out a phone and struck a darling pose; Ling almost sprang a nosebleed like a burst pomegranate. Lucky for her, her odd constitution dammed the flood, or who could’ve withstood that?

“What do you mean?”

Ling couldn’t help asking. What, was she going to whack Elfe’s head with the phone, like fixing an old TV with a few taps and a prayer?

Alicia didn’t feed the curiosity immediately. She turned sideways, showing half a face and half a silhouette, a smirk like a cat on a windowsill. Knowing what Ling didn’t made her glow like a lantern in fog.

“Good grief~ Being the big sister is exhausting, like carrying firewood up a hill. I’ve got to care for my silly little sister and answer a mountain of questions. Sigh~ If my sister would call me ‘Esteemed Big Sis’ right now, with a doe-eyed look and a little quiver in her voice, maybe I’d tell her what this phone does… right away~”

!?

What was that?! Did she nap and transmigrate again, like waking on a different shore? How else to explain this unscientific Alicia?

Shock hammered Ling’s heart like hail, but she knew showing it meant losing the game. She pinned her face still, muscles ironed flat. Her lips shaped a cool, blank, quiet smile, and her eyes filled with a thin sheen of contempt, like frost on glass.

Alicia, rebuffed, drooped like a wilted flower, but she didn’t plan to waste time bickering. Action is the straightest road. She lit the screen, the glow like a pond under moon. Fingers flew over lockscreen and home, swift as swallows, dodging the moment a certain hot-tempered loli could spot the loli lockscreen and wallpaper with a foolish sleeping face. She opened Contacts and tapped [Remi].

“Beep… Hello?… Haa… Miss Alicia?”

“Mm, it’s me. Ask Flan if there’s a spell to lift a ‘curse’ tied to death.”

“O‑okay… haa… got it!”

—Why does Remi sound out of breath, like a fish on shore?

Before Alicia could ask, the line fell into rustle and hush, but the call stayed open. She heard the soft scramble of clothes, like leaves flitting together, and Flan’s urgent mutter, like a bee behind a petal: “Hurry, don’t let Alicia notice.”

Soon the call flipped to video. Two lolis sat prim and proper, straight as reeds, faces shining with a fine film of sweat like dew. The camera also caught a heap of messy quilts behind them, a tangled nest like a storm-swept thicket. They didn’t seem to like folding blankets—never a good habit, like leaving ropes in knots.

She resolved to remind them later, like tying a ribbon on a finger. For now, back to the river at hand.

“Flan, do you have any magic for lifting a death-type ‘curse’?”

Flan shut her eyes at once, thoughts flickering like fireflies, then opened them bright and steady.

“Yes. I’ve got three spells in the grimoire, but since you’re in the wild with no room for a large array, we’re down to two. One has a fifty percent chance, takes four hours, slow as sap but safe as bark. The other hits ninety percent, triggers instantly like lightning, but it shaves off the cursed one’s life—light damage is skin-deep, heavy damage risks the brain. Which stream do you choose, Miss Alicia?”