Duke Prine and his lady—confession and a bow to the law.

If your heart’s clean, you don’t fear ghosts at the door; their nerves frayed, and guilt spilled like ink in water.

“Don’t reach where you shouldn’t; the hand you stretch gets seized,” Princess Korol said, voice cool as moonlight on stone.

Even she hadn’t foreseen this; Aniel’s craft was smoke and mirrors, a trail wiped clean like rain over sand.

She’d found the cannon workshop, iron dust on the air, yet no line ran to Duke Prine, no thread for the needle.

They’d used poor iron, the kind the army ignores, gathered through tiered peddlers like leaves swept by a wandering wind.

She turned to the workers, but they’d retired a month ago, gone like birds before frost, tracks swallowed by earth.

Just when the road felt walled like a well, the culprits walked in like fish leaping into the net.

Maybe it was the first knot that untied itself; Kelor’s brows loosened, a winter branch easing toward spring.

Guard Xueyu stood with her sword like a still ripple, and asked, “Your Highness, does this count as turning oneself in?”

“Handle it by the book,” Kelor said, one hand to her temple, weariness like a cloud. “Don’t corner me; my head aches.”

“It’s not voluntary,” Lingcai muttered, eyes like flint. “We caught them.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Kelor sighed, a fan folded shut. “By the book. Strip the title first. Sentencing goes to a military court.”

Is that it?

No commendation gilded like sunlight?

We’re five-star model citizens, rescuers with bright halos!

Lingcai and Scarlet Leaf practically glowed, eyes like coins in lamplight.

What did they hope for? You don’t even have to ask.

Money, like rain in a dry field.

Or anything with weight—gold, jade, shine.

Maybe a local lordship, a small city under their sleeves like a tucked fan.

Kelor saw it clear; they were rooted there, waiting like cranes for tossed grain.

She wanted to be stern, yet credit is credit, a merit carved into stone.

Still, that smug grin fanned her temper like wind on coals.

Kelor drew a breath. “You. Come with me. I’ve got business with you.”

Must be a bounty, bright as a ribbon.

Lingcai elbowed Scarlet Leaf, eyes smiling like crescents. “Back in a flash. Bet she’s rewarding me—maybe knighting us too.”

She trotted after Kelor, steps light as drifting petals.

Xueyu watched it all, the whole dance in clear water, and only sighed.

Let her preen; luck’s a tailwind you can’t catch with a net.

Rustle, rustle—behind her, a soft sound like mice in straw, followed by a girl’s voice sweet as a silver bell.

“Big sister—may I borrow something?”

Xueyu’s heart lifted like a kite; a voice that clear promised a face like dew.

If she’d really listened, she’d have heard LilyBell in it, a bell under silk; if she had, she’d have vanished like smoke.

Desire fogs the mirror; she didn’t think twice. She turned, eyes bright as stars. “Borrow what? I’ll lend it!”

A black-haired girl stood there, hair straight as a waterfall, red-trimmed Eastern dress flowing like lacquered silk.

She hid half her face behind long sleeves, like a fan shielding a smile, unreadable as masked moonlight.

An Eastern ojou-sama—black long hair, straight and glossy—luck blooms like peach petals today!

Xueyu leaned in, smile playful as a fox. “If you need more, you can borrow me too.”

The girl lowered her sleeve; her face was blank as a polished mask, no eyes, no mouth, a smooth white moon.

She flung up her hands and howled, voice like a cold wind through reeds. “Please lend me your—eyes—!”

“Aaaaaah—!”

For those who fear ghosts, a jump-scare is thunder under your ribs; Xueyu bolted, scrambling like a startled cat.

She fled the cathedral hall in a tangle of arms and legs, a streak of panic under stained glass.

The black-haired girl plucked off her wig and mask; fox ears flicked out, soft as autumn fur.

It was LilyBell. The wig was paper magic, ink turned to hair, trickery neat as origami.

She really took Lingcai’s advice; the haunting slid out smooth, like a brushstroke on rice paper.

LilyBell beamed at her own craft; the scare mixed Eastern ghost lore—no-face tales and temple whispers—crowd-pleasers among spook lovers.

Yet doubt pricked like a pin. “Weird. Even scared, Lady Xueyu didn’t look happy...”

———

Inside the cathedral, the wave ebbed; outside, the air opened like a fan.

Kelor led Lingcai toward the back door of the North Azure Grand Cathedral, footsteps thin as thread.

Beyond the door lay a cliff, the capital spread below like a painted scroll if you dared the edge.

Perfect for a confession scene, roses and wind—if not for the gravestones like teeth in the grass.

It was a cemetery; pretty sky, heavy earth, each stone a shut door with a sleeper behind it.

Why here?

Lingcai wondered, but kept quiet, her thoughts a still pond.

Kelor stopped at a tall cross-shaped marker, gaze pinned to the carved name, fingers brushing dust like frost.

She drew a long breath, as if weighing a blade; then she let the weight go and spoke.

“I should’ve taken you to the Emperor for formal credit,” she said, words neat as stacked tablets. “But I’m leaving for the Seven Northern Towns.”

“Better to see him less. Here’s something I want to give you.”

She slipped something from her wrist, turned, and tossed it, a flash of silver like a falling star.

“Yours. You’ll probably like it.”

What is it?

Lingcai caught it by reflex; a silver, cross-shaped little knife, irregular serrations like teeth in moonlight.

Different, she felt it at once; a sealed thrum, like a rusty faucet hiding a spring.

Alchemy, surely—legend whispered in metal; she looked up, eyes bright. “Where did you get this? This thing is—”

“Don’t ask. I don’t really know,” Kelor said, helpless as an open hand.

“If you insist on the tale,” she added, a wry curve like a bent reed, “it’s a long story.”