"Why do you think that? Because you're pitying us, because you feel sorry for us—"

"—or out of duty, or some knot in your heart, your conscience biting like ants?"

The air went cold like sudden frost. Eve and Opa turned, eyes strange as mirrors, and stared at Stini.

The twins asked softly, feathers on the tongue, but their malice flashed like knives in moonlight.

"Hey, Stini—"

"Andor, shut up right now! Let me talk!" The girl drew a long breath, then let a storm she'd bottled all the way here break like thunder.

"Why do you have to die! Isn't living good? Nagash is dead—he died right in front of me! He won't rise again! So live, and guard your beliefs by living!"

"Enough, we've already come this far!"

"I can't stand it! Why does it have to be killing!"

"That is—"

"Wait, Mr. Andor, we'd love to hear the Hero—"

"—how about we hear Miss Stini's thoughts before we judge?"

Their focus locked on Stini like twin gun muzzles; their gaze was a barrel pressed to the chest.

Damn it. I shot Stini a glare, and she glared back, sparks snapping in the dark.

I've cleared the trial; the one who might die now is you, idiot Stini.

She'd spoken on impulse; when she felt the killing intent in the twins' eyes, she flinched like a deer in a torchbeam.

And that ordinary flinch, as plain as rain—

"...that's all. Can't we sit down and really talk? We don't have some blood feud..."

—didn't make the cut.

"So, you think it's better if we're alive, no matter how, that there's no need to choose death—"

"—so you think our choosing death is wrong, that we lack the courage to witness our own resolve?"

"No, I don't—"

Stini tried to argue, but the door slammed shut like iron.

Brutal killing intent burst out; magitech components forged a steel cage, snapping around us like a trap.

Heat from the muzzles washed over us like desert wind. Stini backed two steps to my side, and her green hair curled like leaves near flame.

"Unqualified!" the twins roared together.

Madness flooded their eyes, almost tangible, and the Lunarfolk turned from laughter to slaughter like the moon showing a new face.

The Lunarfolk's minds never ran steady; we'd sailed through quiet seas, but I'd feared Eve and Opa would snap, skip words, and open fire.

They're not like Teacher Alpha, who holds back; they fight like explosions, fast and final as lightning.

If we really traded blows, with Lunarfolk might, I'd be greeting the Divine Being of Death again.

The one who saved us was Paroti.

"Stand down, Opa. Eve."

He stepped between us like a wall and spoke to the twins.

"A champion can go—"

"—but the Hero can't."

"Because she's not qualified!"

They said it, yet mana in the barrels slowed like a river at dusk.

Their frenzy drew back a little like a tide; riding their magitech components, they floated and shouted from midair.

That's enough.

If we can talk, it's enough.

Inside, I tugged my mouth into a crooked grin, a thorn blooming with thorns.

I still believe: for a Hero, words bite deeper than steel.

As long as we can talk, it's my win.

"Mr. Andor plans to walk out of the Hall of Truth as the one under doubt, while gifting credit and glory to the Hero."

The one under doubt?

Ah, right. In short, I play the bad cop, stand where cracks spread fastest—the part people call the villain.

"Exactly." I stepped forward and showed the twins Stini's Holy Sword.

"This is her blade. Stini doesn't need to grasp evil, or steel herself to it, or stand inside it.

She stands with heroes and justice; her words carry like a bell."

"But that kind can't bear the pressure that falls on an accomplice of evil. She'll betray Raven—"

"—we've seen too many Heroes. Every generation is the same, pure enough to scare you."

Easy. As long as we can talk.

The gods' canon says: when you speak with the Demonfolk, you've already stepped into their snare.

It's not nonsense; in the game of words, only sages can match us among mortals.

"As I said, Stini doesn't need to stand inside the evil. She stays spotless.

She can not understand; she can stay on the bright side.

Let her, as the Hero who 'defeated every heretic leader,' vouch for Raven."

"Not enough, not enough. A pure-white Hero can't shoulder the pressure of defying a Divine Being—"

"—far from enough. The Heretic Inquisition spends more effort than you think to crush our remnants."

"That's why I hang all credit on Stini. A Heretic Inquisitor can't brand a pure Hero as a heretic's accomplice.

Her record stays spotless."

"Then the Inquisition's pursuit of us pushes its malice onto Raven.

They need an ending that lets them say, 'All heretics purged'—"

"—our deaths as Nagash's disciples won't satisfy them.

The last head those Heretic Inquisitors aim at is Raven's.

If she must not die, who will carry that black, pent‑up malice?"

That's the hinge.

Those who posture righteous, or roar with noble passion, or wear visible resolve—the Inquisitors smell theater and toss the case.

Not qualified.

The qualified one looks past it, doesn't care, lets the blade pass like wind through reeds.

He calls no evil evil, calls no pain pain.

So I spread my hands and smiled.

"Me."

"As you said, I've passed the trial. Even inside the evil, I won't betray Raven.

Let me draw the malice, and you'll get the result you want."

As I said: one person—Stini—stands bright and great, a hero vouching for Raven.

Another—Andor—bears the stain, and takes the Inquisition's malice in Raven's place.

"Our princess won't die."

I ran my hand along the Holy Sword. It burned as before, yet felt a shade lighter, like a blade shedding frost.

At last, Eve dropped the stalemate; her tone held no frenzy, clouds parting after rain.

"Fine, fine. We did our best. Either way, we can face Teacher."

"Since sis says so, I'm fine too."

Opa recalled the magitech components that made the cage, stood by his sister, and gave us an apologetic smile like a paper lantern.

They reset their stance, then struck a theatrical pose, actors in moonlight.

"Then, please enjoy Eve Frida—"

"—and Opa Frida's—"

"—final performance!"

They tossed the magitech cores to me, then kept only a few components circling the room, swooping with grace like swallows.

They sang in a lilting tone, words like streamwater.

"There are no fairies in this world, ah, because the Creator was lazy and never made such adorable beings—"

"—so the bard said, what a pity. If there were tiny, golden, winged little people, wouldn't that be lovely."

Golden light climbed from their feet to their knees, to their waists, to their chests, and brushed their cheeks like dawn.

Then, from their most radiant toes, gold began to fall, first a few grains, then a rain.

No—those weren't grains. The glittering motes folded their glow and slowly shaped into tiny winged people, little bodies haloed like sunrise.

Stini cupped one. The mote became a cute little person, sat in her palm, rubbed sleepy eyes, wobbled up, and tested dragonfly wings.

It tried to fly. It wobbled like a fledgling, then found air, and followed Eve and Opa across the room.

Two golden streams gathered, bright as twin rivers, breathtaking as a waterfall.

Eve and Opa's bodies shed so many motes that their calves were gone, marble weathered by the tide.

Stini frowned.

"But Eve and Opa..."

"They'll die."

"I know. It's their will. I won't force them to accept my right and wrong.

But... what can we do for them now?"

I looked up at the golden ring overhead, thought for a beat, then told the girl, "Praise them."

"What?"

"Cheer. Clap. Praise the show. That's what would make them happiest."

Is that so?

She didn't say it, but doubt brushed her face like a thin cloud.

Even so, she shouted and clapped, loud as rain on tiles.

"Thank you, Andor."

That line hid in the cheers, but I'm sure I heard it, clear as a bell.

The golden streams poured out the window like twin banners.

With roaring magic and Divine Art, the two lights blazed brighter, spiraled, met, and burst like a sun.

"Eve Frida—"

"—Opa Frida—"

"—our curtain call, 'Golden Fairies.' Thank you for watching!"

Golden motes drifted over the wide earth like warm snow, and tiny golden fairies flew without aim, blooming their best selves.

A long time passed before the glow vanished without a trace, embers dying in the night wind.

This world had two heroes, two idols, who would never perform again.