"Uh... hey, Stini, are you..."—my voice snagged like a fishhook in my throat.

I held a basket of Balo cakes in my left hand and a roast skewer in my right, both lifted like altar offerings for Stini to pluck at will.

We got grabbed by the constable, got lectured, and got spat back out. By then, Princess Golia had slipped away like a fish and gone to play on her own. With no better plan, Stini and I drifted through the market in tandem like two leaves on a stream.

"Yeah," she said, crisp as a pebble dropped in a pond.

I tipped my head back. Stini rode my shoulders, thighs snug around my neck, devouring meat and biscuits like a sparrow at dawn; the sight dried my mouth to dust, and I almost bought her water.

"No, no, I mean..."—my words fluttered like moths against a lantern.

"Yup," she tossed out, as offhand as flicking ash.

She tossed the empty skewer without a glance, letting it clatter like a bone; the street cleaner’s eyes slid over with a slice of contempt.

I bowed an apology and crouched to pick it up, like gathering a fallen leaf.

"I’m saying, you..."—the rest stuck like mud on my tongue.

If you’re in a skirt, maybe riding my shoulders isn’t, you know, the best idea—like balancing tea on a rocking boat.

I didn’t expect it. Stini cut me off, swallowed the last mouthful in one lump, and let the words drop like a stone.

"Oh, right. I’m not wearing underwear."

"..."

No wonder my neck felt slick and soft, like sliding through silk; a touch that lured you to drown and never come up.

She said it light as breeze through clouds, like listing breakfast; but my heart lurched like a boat in a squall.

My captain’s a streaker maniac—who knew—like a fox sprinting through moonlight with no shame.

I tried to tilt up and see her face, curiosity pricking like thorns; she palmed my head down, grip sharper than an eagle’s talon, locking me in place.

"Now you know, I can’t let you look," she purred, smug as a cat with cream.

"I don’t wanna look, please—have a shred of decency," I blurted, flustered like steam from a kettle.

She heaved a sigh like a sack of grievances hitting the floor.

"We’ve fought for days. Every spare pair I brought got torn to ribbons; I’ve got no choice," she said, words falling like dull rain.

"That’s not a pass for perv behavior. If your underwear’s shot, call me—uh, I mean I’ll take you shopping. And don’t wear a skirt if there’s nothing under it," I sputtered, waving like a windmill.

"Sounded like you carry women’s underwear on you," she said, a sly grin like a knife. "So, Andor, are you one of those ‘why wear panties if you’ve got pants’ people?"

"Don’t you dodge—wear pants," I snapped, words cracking like a whip.

"You said we’d shop on this street," she murmured, hope fluttering like a paper kite. "I thought you’d buy me a wedding necklace, so I wore my prettiest dress."

"..."

"It was Mom’s gift for my sixteenth," she added, voice sinking like dusk. "It borrows from elven bridal styles."

"..."

"Andor? What’s wrong? Why go quiet?" she asked, her tone light as a feather drifting.

Guilt hit first, heavy as wet sand. "Fine. Hold your hem tight. Clamp it, good. And we’ll let this go," I said, swallowing like a man drinking brine.

Stini framed her deviance with saintly calm, like reciting temple rules. I could barely argue, because the root was me—no, the Devil, though she knew nothing of that shadow.

Time to use a novel’s sacred art—turn the page and pretend nothing happened, let the ink dry like rain.

Nothing happened. I strolled with a girl, happy as lanterns at a festival, full stop.

"By the way. To thank you for the necklace in advance, here’s a perk," she said, laughter glinting like fish scales.

"Hey, hey—what are you up to..." My alarm fluttered like startled birds.

She flipped up her skirt and dropped it over my head, a sudden nightfall.

"Bonus, bonus. Well? Happy?" she chimed, voice tinkling like bells.

"I feel mortified. I can’t see a thing, okay," I groaned, heat rushing like a wildfire blush.

"Hahahahaha! No panties, Andor, you perv," she crowed, laughter bubbling like a spring.

"I said let the underwear thing go, I beg you," I barked, plea thin as paper.

Stini laughed with her whole lungs, a skylark at noon; I raged like a kettle, yet didn’t lift the curtain of her skirt, afraid she’d flash the sun.

The constable nearby tapped his cuffs in rhythm, click by click like a metronome; the stallkeepers wore helpless faces, like weathered stones.

That’s the sugar of wandering: a moment so sweet even Divine Beings would sigh, a beauty that makes time pause like a held breath—

Yeah, right. A leisure fit for idle souls doesn’t match my pact with the Devil; if he doesn’t stir the pot, I’d sue him for breach, I thought, tongue sharp as chili.

As expected, the wind died, flat as a blade laid on silk.

Then sound and air froze, the world sealed under a glass bell.

Even my blood pooled at my soles, sluggish as cold syrup, refusing the climb back to my heart.

All things move by law. Now every change was shackled and crushed, bent beneath a higher iron edict like grass under frost.

A ladder of ranks overlaid the world, step on step, all leaning toward a single throne like mountains bowing to a peak.

The nameless grip released us a heartbeat later, like a fist unclenching.

Immunity Privilege. When an Immortal exercises authority, we’re granted full exemption within its grace, a small lantern in a storm.

She hopped off my shoulders and faced the way we’d come, light as a cat. A three-story building ahead turned to ash in an instant—true ash, no in-between.

Within thirty meters, everything flashed to chalk-white dust, thin as moth wings, and drifted upward like winter.

She stepped down invisible stairs from midair, each tread a note on silence.

Nivifar’s body was crawled over by pitch-black sigils, eldritch and obscene, like ink serpents writhed on skin.

She wore not a stitch, yet moved with a dancer’s grace, each step a lure, each sway a blade of moonlight.

In her hand hung a sword—the Holy Sword, "Galewind," keen as a winter gust.

"Th-that’s..." My breath snagged like cloth on a nail.

"Your sword... I should own half," I muttered to Stini, words thin as smoke.

Nivifar’s face looked like a mask stretched over muscle, rippling wrong; beneath it, a hundred faces clawed, howling, weeping, raging like a hive.

The outermost skin was thin as rice paper, yet it spoke with a steady calm, a lake under moon: "I’m your counterpart. The crown should’ve been ours to share. You wore it alone, and I said nothing. It wasn’t theft; you didn’t even know I existed. But must you take everything else? Mother will praise you, the crowd will sing for you, even Andor leans toward you. Could you not leave me anything?"

Her tone lay flat, but lava boiled beneath, red and raw as a volcano under snow.

The pressure returned. The Immunity Privilege zone shrank like ice in a furnace; even beside Stini, I felt the choke of a giant hand.

I couldn’t push out a word. Damn it—if Stini were a step closer, my trash talk might patch this crack like paper on a window.

I don’t read hearts. Stini only knows my Greatsword is pawned; a solo against Nivifar is a dead end. She slid in front of me and shielded me like a wall.

"Nivifar, you..." she began, voice tight as a bowstring.

Nivifar touched the ground with one step, only one; space bent to her like reeds to wind, and fifty meters vanished in a blink. She stopped before Stini, left hand on her throat, right hand setting the blade before her eye.

"I’m going to kill you!" she roared, fire and jealousy and desire exploding like meteors in her gaze.

She raised the Holy Sword and cut down, a thunderhead falling.

And she would take Stini and me with it, like two leaves in a scythe’s sweep.

See you tomorrow, Stini.

See you tomorrow, Nivifar.

The joke flickered in my chest like a match; then I shut my eyes and let the sweeping swordlight and thunder-blast carry my mind away.