Three days in Skyward City Atlante, and the street food’s glow had faded like lanterns after a festival, leaving only a queasy tide roiling in her gut.

Frustration first, then motion. Nivifar sighed, the sound thin as a reed in wind, and prodded the Qingsen fruit in her bowl with her fork.

She’d been a retainer of the Demon King for a while now, a shadow granted shape. Under Vega’s tutelage she’d learned this new body’s tricks and quirks, like a swimmer learning a moonlit lake—though did lessons really require being naked and touching each other? Heat flushed her cheeks like dawn; she hadn’t asked her master… Andor.

At least she knew she’d slipped the leash of matter, like mist slipping a mountain; nothing she swallowed could give her stomach trouble anymore.

But the old human mind still lit red lanterns of warning in the dark: Don’t eat it. Don’t eat it. This is against humanity.

What a joke—she wasn’t human anymore, just a moth drawn to a different flame.

Annoyed at herself, Nivifar stabbed the fork into the Qingsen fruit, juice beading like green dew, raised it to her lips, teeth touching the flesh—

—and still couldn’t cross that last step, as if a thin sheet of ice refused to break.

Her body heaved on instinct, a dry gag like a struck bell, and she tossed the fruit back onto the table, the splash a small green starburst.

“What? Waste is a bad habit, y’know.” The voice cut like a bright blade.

It was the captain of the Hero Squad, her half-sister, the current Hero, Stini. She didn’t care at all; she popped a Qingsen fruit into her mouth the way a sparrow plucks grain, swallowed, then speared another, then another, then a third, chewing with stuffed cheeks like a squirrel packing for winter.

Ugh. Was this girl truly a Hero? The thought fluttered through Nivifar’s chest like a startled bird, a confusion she’d felt often since they’d started traveling together.

The Qingsen fruit grew on the “Qingsen tree,” or so the stories flowed like spring water. Long ago, a sage named Qingsen meditated in Skyward City Atlante, his mind wandering like a kite close to the stars.

SkywardCity drifted near the firmament, and once brushed a star, the hem of the Goddess of Life’s robe grazing its towers like light on glass.

The sage’s lifeforce surged like sap in spring, and he slowly became a towering tree, roots drinking moonlight. He was close to an answer, so he endured the pain like a monk on nails, refused the temple, and kept thinking.

At last he seized the answer like a fish from a river; dying, he carved it into the trunk with his final breath, a line of truth cut like a scar, and left in peace.

Later, the Council of Sages named the giant tree “the Thinker,” a stone-steady monument to Sage Qingsen—details aside, Nivifar felt the legend fit the fruit perfectly. Physically, even.

The Qingsen fruit’s skin was soft like silk cloth, and residents of SkywardCity used it for garments. That was fine. But the flesh inside mirrored muscle fibers, like threads of sinew; the cut felt like parting meat, the bite like chewing ham. The only comfort was its jade-green color, not the red of blood.

After the guide finished the tale, she added, bright-eyed as fireworks: “They say the Qingsen fruit is the sage’s flesh.”

How was anyone supposed to eat that, with a straight face and a quiet stomach?

And raw, at that. When Nivifar asked if it could be cooked, her usual villain-face slid on like a mask—yet the timid guide puffed up as if injected with lightning, glared daggers, and snapped, “You think this is Balo rabbit meat? Would you ask a Divine Healer to add mustard to the sacrament?”

So the Council of Sages had wrapped this fruit in ritual, like red thread around a wrist.

Knowing she was in the wrong, Nivifar hugged her plate and retreated to a corner like a cat under eaves.

Green juice ran from Stini’s lips like paint, and if it had been blood, the picture would’ve been a horror scroll. Stini looked more suited to be the villain, Nivifar muttered, a clouded whisper her heart refused to clear.

“What’s wrong? Not eating? Don’t tell me the legend spooked you and you’re scared it’s human flesh, little coward.”

Stini wiped her mouth, let out a satisfied burp like a drumbeat, and spotted Nivifar’s nearly untouched plate. Her grin curved like a hooked blade—more villain than Nivifar’s practiced scowl.

“I am not! I—I’m just a bit… uh…” Pride rose like heat; courage lagged like a late sun.

She didn’t want to show weakness in front of Stini. Nivifar threw back a fierce glare like a thrown knife, but the steel rattled thin.

It seemed all the obsessions from her human days were preserved like flowers in resin. She’d prepared to let her old self die, yet it turned out unnecessary. As a retainer, the weight of killing floated away like ash—but the refusal to eat human flesh, and the reflex to bristle at Stini, remained rooted like old trees.

“Ah, thanks for grabbing me an extra portion. I asked you earlier and thought you’d forgotten.”

Her master… Andor, seated beside her, reached over and tipped all the Qingsen fruit from her plate into his, the motion smooth as pouring tea.

Where Stini couldn’t see, he smiled and flicked her a wink, a tiny star behind a sleeve. Heat rose to Nivifar’s face like steam; she turned away, unable to meet Andor’s eyes.

Big liar, she grumbled inside, lips pouting like a sulky crescent. Not a word of truth, always a trick, a fox in fine clothes.

She’d seen Andor’s true night, known how deep his darkness ran, an ocean without shore. He lied with silk, schemed with gears, worshiped efficiency like a cold sun; in this world, the only thing he truly loved was the easternmost star in the sky.

And yet, she liked him, stubborn as ivy on stone.

She liked how Andor would always come to save her, like a hawk finding its mate. She liked how he overpowered every dead end, like a river cutting rock. She liked the gentleness in his smallest gestures, a hidden spring under snow. No doubt, Nivifar knew she loved him.

He complained about this and that, always forging reasons he “had” to act; Nivifar knew he wasn’t fake-evil but truly evil, like a blade that never rusts. And still, he was gentle, and he carried that gentleness to the end, like a lantern that wouldn’t go out.

Fake flowers aren’t as bright as real blooms up close, but they don’t wither; they wait for you forever on the windowsill. Dreams are false, but if a sweet dream can last a lifetime, Nivifar would be content to sleep under that sky.

Was his deceit too beautiful, or was she too simple, asking too little? She didn’t know. This was her first love, a boat launched onto fog.

And this love had already cost her dearly, turning her from human to Demonfolk retainer. So she decided to ride it to the end like an arrow to its target; with a decent ending in sight, she refused to be fooled a second time.

She chuckled to herself, soft as wind through reeds, and Andor glanced over, puzzled, like a cat hearing an unseen bell.

“Stini, that’s too far.”

Raven always looked a bit puffed-up, like a sparrow in winter fluff. She chimed in for Nivifar, tapping her plate—half a serving of Qingsen fruit still glistened like emeralds—then gave Nivifar an apologetic smile, warm as candlelight.

She was the girl Andor truly wanted to “conquer.” Like with Nivifar, Andor’s word was “conquer,” not “love”—and that word stung Nivifar like a small thorn.

Soon she’d have to stall the childlike Stini and the unreadable Gloria, and carve out time for Andor and Raven to be alone like two boats sharing one quiet bay.

Nivifar sighed again, a tiny raincloud. I like Andor too. I want a date under the same sky, ahhh.

But Andor had said, “A retainer’s life has no limit. We can be together till forever. Raven’s chance is a comet—blink and it’s gone. So she comes first.”

Even if he put it that way, her heart pouted like a cat.

They’d shared a bed recently, but something still felt missing, like a picture lacking its final stroke.

After breakfast, Andor went to the counter to pay, footsteps easy as falling leaves. Stini focused on carving the ice in her juice, chipping at it like a sculptor. Princess Golia slipped to Nivifar’s side, quiet as a shadow.

The Colonna Empire’s third princess, a hidden blade. When Andor told her who the girl was, Nivifar had been shocked like a struck gong—she’d once traded blows with someone that important?

“You, like, Andor?” The princess asked in a whisper, voice cool as steel.

“Ah… yeah.” Nivifar thought a breath, then nodded. Nothing worth hiding under this sky.

“You, plan to, be with Stini, and me, together?”

“Well… Andor seems to like Raven. Haha. He won’t kick me out, right?” The laugh felt brittle, like thin ice in spring.

An inorganic gaze slid over Nivifar, measuring like a merchant’s scale, leaving her skin prickling.

“He will, kick you. So, go be, with Andor.”

“Eh, but Stini…”

“I’ll hold her. You go, be with Andor, and Raven.”

The mechanical cadence held no warmth, yet Nivifar’s heart bloomed like a peony opening to sun.

“Is… is that okay? But Andor likes Raven…”

“I don’t love, and I don’t know what love means. But I hope others find their ‘love.’ Watching it, I feel as if I’m watered by love, too.” Princess Golia spoke a whole smooth sentence like a river without stones, her tone old as autumn wind, as if she’d watched too many sad stories pass.

Nivifar blinked. The princess could talk without stumbling; it sounded like a bell rung true.

“That’s my father’s words.” The princess’s tone clicked, like a recording chime.

So it was a borrowed voice?

“I don’t know what love is, or what meaning is. I don’t want to know. But I think…”

For a heartbeat, Princess Golia’s expression twisted into something uncanny, like a puppet testing a new joint—“like human” instead of “is human,” like a glitch becoming an upgrade.

A heart, the princess seemed to stand on the border between having one and not having one, a foot on each bank.

It matched what Andor had said, yet a subtle error hummed like a misstruck note.

“I think, you should, catch up, to Andor.”

She drew a deep breath, the decision sealing like wax.

“You’re right. We’re all growing; staying still is a dead branch. Then, can you keep an eye on Stini, and stop her from messing things up?”

“Exactly. Exactly.” Her face stayed still as porcelain, yet she looked easier on the eyes now, like stone warmed by sun.

“Alright! I’m going to fight for my own happiness!”

Nivifar smacked the table—smack!—and stood, fist raised to the ceiling like a small banner. Stini startled, then rolled her eyes like a tossing coin.

This time Nivifar didn’t care. She had time beneath the same sky to date the one she loved, and that was enough.