Maybe she truly wasn't afraid of death, a moth diving at flame. A fox-eared girl, fur black as ink, sprinted in like a shadow. She shot up her sprung claws and stabbed for Ling's head, three icicles aimed to pierce.

Ling caught her wrist with one hand, an iron clamp biting bone. No matter how the girl writhed, the three claws didn't creep a millimeter, roots snagged in stone.

Her face iced over, and she lifted her other hand like a blade rising from its sheath. Thinking she'd switch hands to strike, Ling raised her off-hand, a wave meeting a wave.

But the expected blow never came. Instead, her honeyed voice slid into Ling's skull. Ling's ears tingled, like catkins brushing the eaves.

"Don't think you can insult me. I'd rather die than let you stain my body!"

As soon as she spoke, the raised hand drove for her own throat, a knife to silk. Luckily Ling was ready; she seized that hand, and the claws went no further, like rain held by glass.

A strange tableau hung in the air. One of the fox girl's hands was pinned by Ling, unable to reach her, a puppet string cut. The other was forced to her neck, as if Ling would make her kill herself with her own hand, a grim mirror trick.

"Bastard! She's trying to kill the goddess! Everyone, get her!"

Not even gods or ghosts could follow these Beastfolk's logic; another pot of blame got dumped on Ling's head out of nowhere.

"Dammit! I'm not your damn scapegoat—stop strapping so many pots on my back!"

Ling felt herself toeing the cliff-edge of fury, wind howling in her chest. If nothing stopped her, she'd drop a big move—Magic Cannon: Summer Uproot Boom—and level this place like wheat.

"Stop!"

The savior of the world finally stepped out, like a sunbeam punching through cloud. Who else but Edmund? He'd done it on purpose, no doubt, waiting till she was a hair from blowing, then peacocking before his people.

It's like being a student, daydreaming in class about danger storming the school. Your goddess gets attacked, the whole class plays dead, and you jump out and end it in minutes—win the goddess, flex for the crowd, mmm... That's Edmund's headspace, probably. When we get back, I'll hammer it out of him and tell him that mindset's trash, like weeds choked by fire.

But Edmund's heart tasted bitter as dandelion sap. Alicia had pinned him from the start, hissing not to move, or he'd spook the Beastfolk like skittish horses. Then, just now, she booted him out, so he had to step in and play peacemaker, a broom for their sparks.

"My lord!"

So yeah, he did know this lot; he barely showed his face and someone called to him, like a bell on a collar. In a sense, Edmund needed a bit of re-education, a tap to the snout.

Still, him stepping out did help. The fox girl in Ling's grip stopped trying to off herself, like a moth pulled from flame. The nearby Beastfolk stood stunned, eyes glazed with surprise; the crisis felt like a tide ebbing.

Thinking that, she shoved the fox girl away, then hopped back to open a breath of space. The Beastfolk tensed again at Ling's motion, like startled deer before a bowstring. Edmund rubbed his face with his right hand, helplessness pooling in his eyes, like rain in a gutter.

"Everyone, there's really no need to be on guard. These two are my saviors. The one you just attacked is Lady Ling. The other—"

Alicia timed it and stepped out from behind, like a moon from cloud.

"Just call me Alicia."

"Yeah, that's right. They're not only my lifesavers, they're my masters. So treat them with the same respect you'd show me, and bow like you would to the mountain."

The Beastfolk froze. Then an elderly, dog-bodied elder dropped to his knees. His forehead pressed to the ground, and the instant it hit there came a sharp thud, like a stone on a drum.

It sounded... pretty painful, huh.

"We're sorry! Lady Ling, please forgive our rudeness. If you feel any displeasure, I wish to trade my life for your pardon!"

The others saw the elder kneel. They shelved their doubts and followed him down, and crisp thud thud thuds rolled like hail on a drum.

In truth, from the moment she leaped out, Ling had planned to meet their attack. So she had no complaints, like a blade ready for the rain. But that was before this so-called elder opened his mouth, and the wind shifted.

Ling couldn't feel any real respect in his words. Instead, discomfort crawled up her chest, like hearing someone toss out, "Fine, fine, I'm sorry, okay?" It was an apology as thin as paper.

That was it: an apology that held no water. That last line—"if you feel any displeasure"—painted her as petty if she didn't accept it, a hook baited with virtue.

With the rest kneeling in a wave, the moral ropes tightened, obvious as chains in daylight.

Since she was pissed, Ling wasn't letting it slide. So what if it made others uneasy? It's not like they'd punish her for breathing fire.

"Hey! You, the old one over there!"

"My lord, what do you command?"

"You said you're willing to die, right?"

"...Yes."

"Then, there's a storm in my chest right now. You know what you should do."