My name is Elina—full name, Alina Helen; yes, the same surname as the royals of the Purified Nation Helena, a moon-pale crest shining on a quiet river.

But I’m beastfolk, a willow bent by another wind; everyone knows different races can’t marry, so royal blood couldn’t have flowed in me like springwater.

I carry that surname because I was adopted, a fallen leaf gathered gently; I was a roadside abandonling found on a mountain pass among beastfolk tribes.

It was said the current king—Father back when he was a prince—picked me up there, like lifting a sparrow from frost; I was too young to remember.

A palace maid told me later, her voice soft as evening rain; I listened like a pond holding stars and let the ripples pass.

Mm… I’m not unhappy, just quiet as dusk; feelings settle like dust on lacquer, then breathe away.

I grew up in the human realm, in warm halls and winter courtyards; I only heard that mountain beastfolk lived harsh as bare stone.

In famine years they abandoned infants to keep others from starving, heavy as iron; for me to survive and live like a princess felt already like sunrise.

I don’t truly feel it in my bones, perhaps because I already took myself as human, like a migrant tree grafted to new soil.

They say Father saw my water-blue hair, a river-glint like the royal sign; thinking of his barren queen, he brought me home like a rescued ember.

My life was good, gentle as bread scent; siblings were kind, maids and consorts smiled like garden lamps along the night path.

Yet it was never quite the same; my ears and tail were banners in the wind, always reminding me I was another color in their tapestry.

I am a stranger, a reed by the city wall; they were polite and kind, but there was a thin glass still between us.

No malice, just hesitation like hands near porcelain; they didn’t know how to hold me, so they stood back, afraid to break something delicate.

Treat me as ordinary, and the tea would cool sweetly; it’s all I asked, a sparrow among sparrows.

Sometimes Father and Mother took me to the slums with unused royal goods, like rain carried in jars; the children played with me like sunlight.

But adults knew more; like palace folk, they stood courteous and grateful, yet kept a distance from Father and Mother, a river between two banks.

They didn’t believe we were the same kind of people, a seam stitched but not blended; concern too deep becomes a stone in the shoe.

Mother saw my dim mood, a cloud veiling noon; she asked Father to send me to a monastery, where under the Divine Being all stand equal like grass in dew.

Father wanted my choice, his voice steady as a hearth; and my heart warmed like incense in a quiet shrine.

I’ve loved religion by nature, a moth to temple flame; my room is a shelf of scriptures, and my favorite is Genesis, an old dawn breaking.

I agreed gladly, like a bell rung; before leaving, Mother asked what to clean and what to leave untouched, her hands soft as spring.

I keep my room neat myself, with corners clear as polished jade; only the drawers must not be opened, where my little romance novels sleep like hidden roses.

No one wants their adolescence laid bare like laundry, their flutters toward the opposite sex hung like kites for all to see.

Soon I left for the monastery; the younger siblings cried like summer rain, and we soothed them till the clouds parted.

My eldest brother—the next king—drove me himself, wheels hum like low chants; he explained monastery rules, asking me not to trouble the Divine Healers.

I’m sorry, but I didn’t listen closely; my mind was a lantern turned to the mountains.

I felt a call more sacred, more vast, like a tide under the moon; forgive me, words fail, think of it as a summons across snowfields.

When I reached the monastery, before any baptism by a Divine Healer, my body already knew how to bow, how to pray, how to ring the mind like a bell.

I, this humble self, beheld the true Divine Being, a peak in clear air; the sight rose like a sun over a silent sea.

That matchless greatness needs no deed to praise, no words to cage; existence itself was the summit, the final harbor of sanctity and salvation.

Unnameable, unspeakable; my breath stood like frost, my knees like roots in soil.

I didn’t dare meet His gaze; the light behind His silhouette pricked my eyes like noon blades, yet His hand brushed my face and pressed my head gently.

My heart shed its narrow room like a birdcage opened; old sickness and childhood scars lifted like mist, and I knew why I entered unbaptized.

“I shall pick your name from a thousand thousand like a star, and make you my agent, to proclaim my righteousness upon the earth,” the voice flowed like riverfire.

The Divine Being baptized me Himself, a dawn poured into a cup; I felt my soul ascend like swallows updrafting.

“There is no pay, no prospects; your gain is only glory,” the wind said, clean as high snow.

Beneath a light where all things stand equal, how could I complain; my heart bowed like wheat in a golden field.

“Do you trust me?” the question rang like a lone bell.

I nodded, simple as a leaf turning; I answered yes, my pulse steady as drumskin.

From that day, I became the Divine Agent of the Wide-Realm Divine Being, Infinite; I was the closest to Him, a lamp near the altar.

My Divine Being doesn’t mind me speaking His name, like sky not bothered by birds; He cares for the good and the great, not formal knots of etiquette.

At least the Temple of the Wide-Realm asks little in ritual; no fixed prayer hours, only faith as your compass, like stars to a sailor.

I studied Divine Arts for two years in the monastery, under maple shade and bell-toll; there were many Divine Agents there, a grove of steady trunks.

One senior Agent told me sadly that if doctrine and rites were systemized, we might spread the Divine Being’s justice more widely, like canals in dry land.

But the Divine Being forbade it, His word firm as mountain; such a net would catch freedom like fish in winter.

If we demanded harsh rules and praised “the believer shall be saved,” then what difference would there be between my god and demons, a knife dressed as a rosary.

It’s the greatness above all things that my voice praises, like gold sunlight through old glass; I speak His name because it fills the throat with warm light.

Now I’m on my study-travel, feet dusted like road sparrows; every Divine Healer must wander to learn people and lands, then return to deepen our Divine Arts.

As a Divine Agent, I’ll wander always, a pilgrim lantern; tradition is the thread we won’t cut.

Perhaps I won’t keep the princess’s life; but this road is good, like bread shared among friends.

Only yesterday, my travel funds ran dry, my purse flat as autumn leaves; luck rustled away like a startled fox.

I asked the local church how to earn travel money; they thrust a big sum into my hands like a sudden harvest, but that defeats the point.

I refused the aid—one must taste the world’s salt—and turned to the Adventurers’ Guild, hoping to find a squad that would take me in.

I do believe I studied my Divine Arts hard, an anvil under patient hammer; confidence is a small fire that warms a long night.

The first notice that struck my eyes was a giant poster swallowing the board, colors vivid as festival lanterns, a girl singing into a mic like a skylark.

Beside it, big letters read, “Though I’m charming and cute, I bring death,” stark as black ink on snow; my breath caught like a moth at flame.

I’ve always loved songstresses; I think Divine Healers and singers both carry happiness like pitchers, so I thought it was guard duty for a touring performance.

But it was the infamous Hero Squad, dangerous as cliff paths; perhaps they hid it because they were short on people and feared the board’s cold silence.

If the posting named the captain as a Hero, no one would join, a stall left in shadow; old tales gather like crows.

In travel I heard many rumors, the Adventurers’ Seven Oddities, whispers like alley cats: “Once a team is full, the next newcomer will die and become a memory.”

Most were grim, a fog that chills; I had no wish to test them, dying for a silly curse would be a candle wasted.

Still, I admit the phrasing was clever within Guild rules, a fisherman’s lure; if I get tricked, I get tricked—my skill is a blade I trust.

“Stini! Where’s my wallet? It vanished when I woke—did you steal it?” The shout snapped like a branch.

“I didn’t take it. There’s no IOU inside; why would I need it?” Her voice bobbed like a cork.

“How do you know there’s no IOU if you didn’t look?” Sparks flew like flint.

“Uh, b-because… guessing!” She brightened as if a lantern flicked on, a logic flimsy as paper.

It doesn’t hold water, a sieve under rain; our captain, the Hero’s heir, Stini Saya, is… a delightful fool.

At first glance I knew she was a fool, a dove bumping glass; later in battle she showed high skill and sharp instinct, quick as foxes, but still—an airhead.

Andor calls her a “natural airhead,” a phrase like a pebble that fits; I don’t fully grasp the term, but it feels right like a shoe.

Sure enough, the black-haired man—our only male—Andor, ran toward our gleeful captain, anger snapping like wind; he drew a Greatsword from shadow and swung.

He’s strange, loud as crows, no noble polish; unlike my courteous siblings in Helena’s palace, he’s a drumbeat in a quiet hall.

But—my heart tipped like a boat—I really like him; it was love at first sight, a lightning line across the night.

Andor is the true manager and coordinator, our vice-captain and a main striker; learned, strong, words quick as sparrows.

He’s a rare Shadow Sorcerer, a night river kind of magic; he cracks mildly risqué jokes, yet treats girls with care, a cloak held against rain.

He carries a dark past like a scar under cloth, yet doesn’t sink; he keeps stepping forward, boots steady on gravel.

Oh no—my thoughts drifted like smoke; my hands forgot their work, and my Divine Art failed with a soft sigh.

Ordinary people use mana drawn like dew from air, refining elements into energy; Divine Healers are similar, but our internal mana is blessed, raised into Divine Grace.

It’s not just efficiency or raw power, not a simple blade honed; it’s elevation in a greater sense, a banner lifted in clean wind.

For example, my current Divine Art, Sacred Provision, can turn Divine Grace into actual bread and milk, born from air without any tools.

None but the Sorcerer Emperor could match that with magic, so they say; our loaves rise like dawn clouds.

My colleagues often head to famines to provide relief, feet dusty as pilgrims; a trained Divine Healer can feed a hundred people.

As a Divine Agent with a closer bond, my casting is easier, a door open at touch; I can feed thousands every day, a field of hands filled.

The strongest Agents can let countless loaves fall like gentle rain, feeding tens of thousands, a miracle harvest across gray towns.

But that’s just plain black bread; for tastier bread or white bread, you must add the effect of the Divine Art “Mana,” a higher rank that demands full focus.

Elina, Elina—don’t fall so fast just because he’s like the hero of your novels; be steadfast, draw him by a girl’s bright, honest qualities.

Speaking of drawing, isn’t it the boy’s role? That first night I even tried a midnight visit—my cheeks burn like embers—how shameless.

Even if I blame beastfolk breeding instinct, my face flushes like a sunset blaze; stones would laugh if they could.

“Uuu… will they think I’m a loose woman?” The whisper drooped like wet linen.

Mood sank like rain-dark soil; I abandoned the bread-making and sat on a Construct chair, cool as worked steel.

Across from me, Miss Raven rested her chin in both hands, staring tight as a cat before pounce; her gaze pressed like glass.

They say she’s a top student from the Magitech Department, cheeks often puffed like storm clouds; in truth she’s diligent and proper, a good girl in plain cloth.

For some reason Andor calls her a “thin-personality deadpan,” a tag like a sticky note; I don’t really get it, like a word with missing strokes.

“Um, Miss Raven? You’re making me nervous,” I said, voice soft as rain on leaves.

“Ah, it’s nothing,” she waved, limbs drawing huge meaningless arcs, like flags in a wind; she’s said to be of noble stock, but you wouldn’t guess.

“I was thinking you seemed troubled; your face went red, then pale, like a paper lantern. I’m worried,” her tone warmed like tea.

“It’s just Andor said something strange, and I didn’t understand,” my confession fell like a pebble in a pond.

“Oh? What did he say?” Raven wriggled a little, expectant as a sparrow.

“Um, well, it was… in short, a weird line I couldn’t grasp,” I stammered, words scattering like leaves.

My cheeks flamed again; I can’t hide my heart, a window with thin curtains.

“If you don’t say it, I can’t help,” Raven sighed, palms up like empty bowls; she just wants to hear someone’s secrets, nosy as a magpie.

It’s hard for me to say, like speaking through mist on a lake, but chatting with Miss Gloria I heard Andor’s father was killed by a high-ranked Demonfolk, something called… a Fiend Wraith, and a long shadow of grief followed like winter rain.

“Mhm. And then?” Raven asked, her tone flat as still water under stone.

Back then, Andor looked at me and said, “Who sent you?” His voice felt like a bowstring drawn tight in the dark.

That line stuck like a fishbone in my throat. What was he guarding against, a hedge of thorns around his heart? He knows I’m a Divine Proxy, and Demonfolk can’t possess me, so why was he a coiled spring?

Andor often keeps a straight face like a mask, but his gaze is gentle like warm lanterns. Yet in that moment his eyes were nothing like his usual self—full of hostility, vigilance, the iron tang of blood, and a nameless darkness, like a well with no bottom. It was a bramble patch I shouldn’t touch, a night forest without a moon.

So I keep wondering if he’s still entangled by Demonfolk or some curse, like cobwebs clinging to the eaves. When I confessed, he mocked me with a steady calm, like frost that doesn’t melt—did he take me for an envoy sent by an enemy? Miss Raven, what’s wrong, your color changed like a blown-out candle!

I was swept out of my thoughts by a spray of milk like a startled fountain, and I found Raven coughing nonstop, like a bell rung rough and wrong.

Think fast, Elina—what Divine Art drains the lungs like opening a sluice?

“Cough, cough—I’m fine,” she wheezed, her voice thin as rice paper. “No healing needed, really.”

“Are you sure?” My words fell like a pin on a quiet floor.

“Sure, sure—cough—You said you confessed to him?” Her words tumbled like marbles down steps. “And that lecher didn’t agree? He didn’t even pin you down on the spot?”

“Yes. He gave a cold laugh like ice cracking and said he already had someone he liked. The tone felt odd, like a warped string.”

What was odd about it, a pebble in a shoe that won’t sit right?

“If it’s just coincidence, could Andor actually be into me…” Raven rubbed her chin, thoughts drifting like smoke. Then she remembered I was waiting and snapped her head up like a startled bird. “Ah, nothing, just a thought, haha.”

Her face paled like moonlight behind clouds; the choking must have rattled her body like a struck gong.

I still feel he’s tangled by something bad, vines tight as knots. I want to help him be freer, like wind over grass, closer to the Divine, like a mountain at dawn.

“Uh, no slight to your faith,” she said, her tone dry as laboratory chalk. “I’m a scientist, not a temple-goer, so doctrine might lose me like fog swallowing a road.”

We chatted a few more lines, pebbles skipping on water, and then the distracted Miss Raven left on the excuse of tuning a Construct, her shadow slipping away like smoke.

She walked heavy with thought, like stones in a satchel. It seems I lack the makings of a good Divine Healer, yet my Divine Being still keeps a lamp lit for me like a warm shrine at dusk.

“Bread ready? Thanks. With meat? Better,” came a voice as solid as loaves on a board.

Her Highness Princess Golia walked over like a blade of wind. Using her hand as a knife, she sliced the fresh bread, clean cuts falling like leaves in autumn.

Whoa—she really used her hand, and the cuts gleamed like clear ice with no crumbs clinging like burrs.

So this is martial mastery, quiet as a stream and sharp as lightning?

I can’t fathom it, like staring at a hawk in the sun; how can her cute small hand hide steel like velvet sheathing a blade?

“Thanks for the food,” she said, words rolling even with her mouth full like stones in a stream. “The bread’s good. This Divine Art—done with care?”

She seems to have a skill for speaking clearly with a full mouth, like a flute playing through bread, yet I heard a thin blade of mockery beneath silk.

Am I overthinking it, a skittish deer hearing wind in grass?

“Ah, don’t mention it,” I said, words dry as fallen leaves.

“Raven, what’s wrong,” she asked, voice dropping like pebbles one by one. “Not very lively. You too.”

Princess Golia, like Andor, often wears a mask of calm, a face still as lacquer; but Andor’s eyes carry starlight in deep water… ah, did I say that aloud like a bird escaping the cage?

But Princess Golia… she’s usually silent as stone, and even when she speaks, it comes in fragments like broken beads. At times her eyes flash with an inorganic gleam, cold as mica, and she feels like an armed Construct ready to strike, emotion sealed away like a sheathed spear. My instincts whisper danger like reeds in wind.

“About Miss Raven, I’m not sure,” I said, words clicking like small stones. “She told me Andor keeps dodging her ambushes now, which bottles her anger like steam in a kettle, so she’s thinking of training a little.”

“Then you?” That inorganic sheen swept over me again like a targeting laser before a shot, and fear crawled like ice down my back.

“Me?” I rubbed my hands like trying to warm them at a small fire. “My main knot is that I called him a pervert. As a Divine Proxy, the Divine’s image on earth, I shouldn’t curse like throwing thorns. I don’t know if Andor is angry at me.”

“Relax. He won’t,” she said, calm as a broad river. “Andor’s generous. Go to a high-end restaurant, pluck him like a few feathers, and he won’t complain.”

That sounded like a crow alighting on the windowsill, dark and unpromising.

“But still, I shouldn’t have cursed,” I murmured, the words catching like briars.

“It’s fine. Wait—switching mode,” she said, like a gear clicking into place. “You know? Your gentle smile is your best expression, warm as spring sun. It’s your frown, heavy as rainclouds, that troubles Andor most.”

She patted my head with a touch light as a feather, then took another slice and a jug of milk, white as a small stream, and went aside to eat alone like a quiet cat.

A gentle smile… is it really my spring blossom?

I could try. With no mirror, I could only shape my face with my hands, like sculpting clay by moonlight.

It wasn’t easy at all, like teaching a crescent to rise. Even when Captain Stini called us to keep exploring the labyrinth, a stone sea breathing cold, I couldn’t find a smile I liked.

Captain Stini gave a long, rambling encouragement, fireworks of words in a night sky. Then she warned us not to slack just because it’s the last floor, a bell sounding over fog, and told many tales of adventurers who died from rashness, like cold wind through old gravestones.

She was unexpectedly good at storytelling, weaving voice like smoke above a campfire. It felt like a ghost-story circle, yet her warmth made it bright as lanterns.

I teamed up with Catherine, another new recruit, two leaves caught by the same current. She probably came after seeing the poster, a bright lantern in a crowded street.

I’ve known her for a while, a bridge of light reeds between us. Our relation… should be fine, like morning mist that doesn’t chill.

She’s a girl who breathes the military, stance straight as a spear. A tall, pretty Aerian, wings folded like banners, more soldier than girl, and I’m clumsy with such steel.

“With respect, Lady Elina, your expression is terrible,” she said, words sharp as a salute.

“I-is it?” My voice fluttered like a moth at a candle.

Blunt indeed, like a blade without scabbard. Her face stayed solemn like carved stone, and her words flew straight like arrows.

“It’s like you ate half a pound of beans,” she said, deadpan as a parade-ground. “Then someone said they’re castor beans, and at the edge of despair you’re told no, they’re a newly engineered deadly bean. You can only laugh at life’s theater.” The image landed like a slap of cold water.

“So blunt!” I yelped, my cheeks burning like embers.

“Lady Elina, do you like the Vice-Captain?” Her question struck like an arrow to the center.

She lifted a brow and shrugged, a wingtip flick with no malice, and shifted the topic like turning a page.

“L-liking and all that…” My words tangled like loose thread.

“I think liking is liking,” she said, steady as drumbeats. “No need for guilt. As far as I know, the Divine’s doctrine doesn’t praise giving your whole life to the priesthood. On the contrary, it favors marriage and birth—especially the Goddess of Life. So what knots you?” Her logic laid flat like river law.

Indeed, without birth, the world’s spring fields would be bare. The Divine Beings who guard the world are mountains that won’t permit that winter.

“…I’m troubled that Andor and Miss Stini seem well matched,” I admitted, the two names twining like vines in my chest.

I said it anyway, setting the lantern down between us. We haven’t known each other long, but girls share warmth like steam over shared tea.

If Andor already likes a girl, as he said, is it Miss Stini, like a name written in frost?

Right—at the team meet, Stini had already arrived at Andor’s estate, a memory like a Polaroid warming in my palm. She wore the same maid outfit as Miss Vega, skirts fluttering like ripples. That sounds like cohabiting, like two shadows under one lamp.

C-could I be about to become the other woman, a ghost in someone’s house? Ah, how shameless, like red tide rising! My Divine will never forgive me for tearing a home, thunder over a shrine.

“In my humble opinion,” Catherine said, voice a steady bridge over water, “you needn’t fret, Lady Elina. We don’t grasp the complex ties around the Hero, a storm of threads, but the Captain and Vice-Captain’s bond may not be the romance you think. Lady Elina can boldly pursue her love, like raising a bright flag.”

She unstrapped the longbow from her back, a crescent moon sliding free, drew an arrow like a sleeping comet, and watched the dim labyrinth, a throat of stone, while explaining in polished-brass tones.

“Is that so?” Doubt drifted in me like a small cloud.

I’m a Divine Healer, yet I read people poorly, my eyes fogged like glass after rain.

“Mm. The Captain’s mental age matches her looks; romance is far for her, like two hills apart. The Vice-Captain seems interested, but expects little, like a lantern low on oil.”

“So I still have a chance?!” My heart leaped like a silver fish.

“Mm, maybe. But love can’t be forced, like a flower pulled before spring. During Aerian leave, we hold big balls, constellations of lanterns, so our people can meet a true match, cranes meeting over lakes. That’s why other races call us a strict yet romantic people, a seal cut neat and sweet. Personally, I hope you find happiness, a hearth in winter.”

“But I don’t know what to do…” My hands felt like lost birds seeking a branch.

“It’s okay, Lady Elina. I’ll help you,” she said, offering a wing like shade in noon sun. “If my instructor knew I abandoned a girl yearning for love, the drumbeat of his scolding would split my ears.”

After a joke she wasn’t built for, she raised a smile, a cracked cup still holding tea, and warmth spread through me like sun on a winter window.

Thank you so much! Keep going, keep going! I’ll surely find happiness, like dawn peeling back the night.

“Next, we should send the others away,” she said, plans moving like chess pieces. “Win you two some alone time, thaw the ice first, or the bond can’t soften… wait.”

Catherine stopped short, a blade catching the light, and cold sweat burst from me like dew in night wind.

“Sorry, Lady Elina. The Vice-Captain asked me to craft enchanted arrows,” she said, time stretching like slow honey. “It takes long. I might not help you before this expedition ends, a road that won’t end at noon.”

So it was just that, and it scared me like a sparrow leaping from a branch.

“It’s nothing, really. Proper duties should go first, straight as a pilgrim road.”

“Please don’t say that,” she answered, scales balancing like twins. “To me, this expedition and a girl’s romance are equally important. I was asked earlier by the Vice-Captain, so—sorry.” Her apology bowed small as a reed in wind.

She lowered her head, solemn as a shrine visit, and apologized.

“It’s nothing. Truly nothing,” I said, voice a calm pond under stars.

A girl’s affection doesn’t vanish so easily, like an oil lamp that keeps burning. For love, I can wait, a pine standing through snow.