Many Demon Kings returned from the siege empty-handed, like hunters back with damp bows.

Anna was grievously wounded, a candle guttering in wind.

Andor fled, wounded too, his state hidden like moonlight behind stormclouds.

After seeing Andor’s power, the Demon Kings let it drop, like wolves backing from a fire.

Put plainly: he was too strong, so they feared. He wasn’t seeking payback, so they relaxed, like frost melting at dawn.

The twenty-four Sons of the Demon King invaded the human world, and the board clicked into place like stones in a riverbed.

In the ruins of a Western pioneer enclave, there lay a nameless grave-mound, a lone hill under ash.

On it sat the tiniest carving knife, well-oiled and gleaming, cherished like a talisman by careful hands.

Beside it lay a stack of postcards from famous landmarks of the human world, like fallen leaves from far trees.

Now and then a youth in a black coat came and laid down another card, like a fresh petal.

Rare fruits and delicacies appeared at times, and with the turning seasons the offerings grew like a slow tide.

“I’ve made amends, Polly, like coins dropped into a deep well.”

This time the black-clad youth spoke, his voice low as rain on slate.

He lingered before the grave and set down a Tidebloom from the Endless Western Sea. Rootless and leafless, fed by the roar of waves, it grows on reefstone and is rare as a blue moon.

“Everyone remembers this mask. I’ve fulfilled my compensation and my promise, like seals pressed and wax cooled.”

“So your forgiveness doesn’t matter. The gods saw my offering, like stars watching from cold heights.”

“Seriously, why did you have to die, like a moth rushing the flame?”

“I could’ve paid you, taken you to the Iron Kingdom Colonna to open a mask shop, and sent you customers like a steady stream.”

“Once you were satisfied, we’d cut ties for good, like two rivers parting at a fork.”

“You take your bright road, I’ll take my narrow plank bridge. Wouldn’t that have been neat as a clean cut?”

“But you died nursing hatred. Now you trouble me to come pay respects every year, like a knot in the calendar.”

“Congratulations, Polly. You’ve claimed zero-point-zerosomething of Savior Demon King Andor’s life, a pinprick on his map.”

“As a mortal, be proud, like a spark that left a fleck of ash.”

The grave stayed mute as stone, and no answer rose.

The youth clicked his tongue, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and stared at the mound like a statue in drizzle.

Rain began, fine as needles from a gray loom.

Behind him, a maid with shoulder-length black hair drew an umbrella from beneath her skirt hem, popped it open, and kept her master dry like a moving awning.

“My self-dramatic master, this is a grave, cold as a closed book.”

“I know, like a stone knows its weight.”

“There is only ash in the grave. You yourself placed her soul in the realm of death, to endless sleep, like a boat moored in fog.”

“I know, like thunder that rolls and says nothing.”

“Whatever you say, Miss Polly won’t hear it, like wind talking to reeds.”

“You’re killing me, Raven. I know, like a drum beaten past rhythm.”

“Then are you… feeding your own heart, like stuffing rags into a leak?”

“No, like a door that won’t open.”

“Do you still hold so-called guilt for Miss Polly, like frost clinging to glass?”

“No, like a blade wiped clean.”

“Regret, then, for the good life she might have had, lost because of you, like a ship that missed the tide?”

“Don’t feel it, like a lantern with no oil.”

“Do you feel pity for your own clumsiness? You could have steered words and hands to a better ending. But you failed for face and manners, those useless ornaments, like silk strangling a bird?”

“Feel nothing, like a pond without ripples.”

“You won’t even try to revive Miss Polly, like calling a tide back with hands?”

“It was her choice, like a path she stepped onto alone.”

“I see, like clouds parting an inch.”

The maid couldn’t help a small laugh. She stepped in, stroked his back, and leaned on him, nuzzling his shoulder like a cat.

He stayed still as a carved idol.

“So, my master of glib theater, you’re only striking a pose of caring for Miss Polly, a play for the gods, pure utility with no heart in it.”

“In truth, utterly and entirely, not a drop of feeling, not a mote, like a cup bone-dry. Right?”

“That’s right… That’s right.”

The first answer sagged like wet paper. The second hit the ground like iron.

The youth let out a long breath. He lifted his face to the sky, where black clouds rolled and fine rain feathered down.

“My master who’s afraid of loneliness, like a wolf that howls at empty hills.”

“What? Vega, where did you get that I’m afraid of loneliness, like a ghost chasing its echo?”

“I’m always here, like a lamplight at your door.”

“…”

“I, Chief Steward of the Savior Demon King Army, ‘Venomous Vega,’ will understand your logic. If I can’t, I’ll stake my life to understand it.”

“I stand on your side, always, like a shadow at noon.”

“…”

“I’m always here,” the maid added, like rain that keeps falling.

After a long moment, the youth seemed to understand something. He nodded, slipped free of the maid, and walked into the rain like a blade into water.

“Vega, let’s head back, like turning the page.”

“Yes, my master,” she answered, like a bell answering a call.

The maid lowered the umbrella, tucked it back beneath her skirt, and followed close, like a swallow tailing a boat.

They strolled together in the rain, footsteps soft as fish in a stream.

Tall trees shouldered the raindrops, and the shaded path smelled of fresh rain, like earth after thunder.

The youth put on the mask he’d carved and recarved, still ugly as a cracked moon, and walked on with his maid.

He looked pretty happy, like a winter branch finally budding.