“So you were hunted by forest elves, then rescued, then crated like netted fish and sold off to Northfort with the rest?”

“Yes…”

Cerqin’s words jammed like a knot in rope, her thoughts fogging like a cold breath over glass.

They weren’t citizens of the Empire; greedy eyes would stalk them like wolves, and hunting crews would sell them like livestock at dusk.

If their identities had been exposed, the fall would’ve been worse, like tumbling into a ravine with no ledge.

Sent to Northfort, they’d haul stone in the mines, chains clinking like rain; without a heavy sentence, some freedom would still flicker like a candle.

If their small-kingdom royal status surfaced, those hunters would send them straight to the Imperial capital, like arrows finding the heart.

Plenty of foul nobles collect girls with special bloodlines, like butterflies pinned in glass.

“If you’re telling the truth… uh, at least a full inquiry could lighten the sentence, like clouds thinning after a storm.”

“…”

The scarred woman shook her head; silence pooled like ink, then resolve hardened on her face like frost.

“I want the Sanctuary to reduce the lady’s—no, Her Highness’s—charges. She’s never harmed anyone. Running was my idea.”

“Why are you so riled up? If it’s true, neither of you should carry much guilt, like dust brushed from a sleeve.”

“The prisoner the Demon Race seeks is Her Highness…”

“Uh?”

“Suggesting they release more prisoners was my idea too…”

“Uh?”

Cerqin’s mind stuttered like a wheel in mud.

“Wait—you mean the Demon Race’s target is the princess? They found you, and you told them to release more prisoners?”

“Yes…”

“…”

Too much at once hit like a wave, and Cerqin reeled; if this was real, they’d hooked a big one, like a whale in deep water.

In every sense.

Cerqin looked to Silver Luan. Silver Luan nodded. Cerqin frowned, and Silver Luan caught her doubt like a glance catching light.

“Call it a small application of my Dragon Deity gift. It makes people spill their true hearts, like jars unsealed.”

Silver Luan spoke calmly, voice cool as spring water.

“That’s scary…”

Cerqin shivered; an honesty-dragging gift was scary—Dragon Deity looks like pure body-strengthening, but its side quirks are wild as thorns.

It turns an awakened body into a living elixir; a touch feels like sipping diluted Aileaf tonic under moonlight.

Somehow it even draws out truth, like fish hooked from a dark pond; it’s absurd, like a dream with teeth.

Cerqin gathered her scattered thoughts like leaves, then looked again at the scarred woman’s carved-wood face.

“So why would the Demon Race hunt a princess in exile like hawks shadowing a lone swan?”

“In the Baiju Kingdom, the royal bloodline awakens, and every few generations a child is born with prophecy, like a star under a veiled sky. Her Highness is this generation’s Seer.”

The scarred woman gave a bitter smile, like salt on a wound.

“Her talent’s sky-high, and that drew neighborly covetous eyes, like crows to carrion, and brought ruin.”

“…”

So the Demon Race wanted that prophetic gift for something, like a hand reaching for tomorrow’s thread.

They found the princess among prisoners by some method, then moved; their aim was to take her, like thieves lifting a jewel.

Those infiltrated Demon Race agents were dead now; if they confirmed she’s in Northfort, they might try again, like tide returning.

“The Demon Race will come again, right?”

“…”

The scarred woman’s silence lay heavy as clay; she nodded. Silver Luan picked up the thread like a loom.

“That’s why surrender was easy, and why truth spilled, like water from a cracked cup.”

“What exactly is a Seer’s power?”

“It’s a fate-type ability. These bloodline gifts have strict triggers, like doors with hidden locks. Baiju’s is among the strongest.”

Silver Luan thought, her gaze steady as stone; some gifts rival divine abilities, and Baiju’s does.

It shares the name of its nation; old records hold it like pressed leaves.

“With small cost, it glimpses the future, like lanterns lit ahead. If honed deep, it might see far, far roads.”

The farther the future, the slipperier it gets, like sand through fingers; if fixed, it can bend history’s current.

“In short, the Demon Race wants that foresight. Maybe they want to peer at their race’s fate, or a future where they rule the continent.”

“Don’t say stuff that scary…”

Imperial propaganda hangs in Cerqin’s mind like banners in wind; to her, the Demon Race aren’t saints, and continent-wide rule is a nightmare’s grin.

“Her Highness is innocent…”

“She is. But what you did isn’t, and the punishment will be hard, like winter steel.”

Some prisoners escaped because of the scarred woman; if true, a death sentence could fall like a blade.

Under the Sanctuary’s hand, she could wish for death and find none, like thirst in a salt desert.

With a Fifth Rank physique, she’d get no rest, like an ox under a yoke from dawn to dusk.

Cerqin didn’t dare picture that hell of iron and chains; the thought burned like coals.

“Come to think of it… getting worked over by three in turns feels like what some inmates suffer in the Sanctuary.”

Cerqin muttered, then cut a glance at Silver Luan, a dagger of humor in a dim room.

She patted the silver-scaled dragon tail on her lap, restless like a river eel, then stood and spoke to the scarred woman.

“If it’s true, the princess is indeed innocent. I can plead for her, like throwing a rope from a cliff.”

“Thank you…”

“As for you… you know what it means, like a road that narrows.”

“As long as Her Highness is safe, let me die, like a candle burned out.”

“Good. In the Sanctuary, under the Law Enforcement Hall, whether you keep yourself is on you. Hold your flame in the wind.”

Cerqin pushed the door open; thoughts swirled like migrating birds.

She called to Qiqi in passing, then returned to the shack with its roof torn like peeled bark; the girl had woken, sitting blankly on the floor.

“Yo—Her Highness is awake?”

“…”

The girl turned, eyes wide with fear, like a deer catching lantern light.

Her clothes stayed soaked; shackles sealed her mana, so she couldn’t dry herself, cold clinging like moss.

“What did you do to White Feather…”

“Relax. She’s fine—for now, like a boat moored in rough water.”

The girl, forcing down fear, looked heartbreakingly fragile, like a sapling in frost; White Feather was the scarred woman. Hearing Cerqin, worry flared like sparks.

“For now?”

“Colluding with the Demon Race and pushing to release more prisoners is a grave crime in the Empire, like a brand on skin. You know her fate in the Sanctuary.”

“…”

“But you should be fine, if her story holds, like a sky clearing.”

“…”

Her face went pale as paper. Cerqin walked closer, studying her features like reading lines in stone.

“I’m pretty interested in your foresight, like a window into dawn.”

“I can’t prophesy at will yet, like a drum without rhythm.”

No lie surfaced; Cerqin’s hunch settled like silt. Talent high or not, she wasn’t grown; if prophecy were easy, she wouldn’t be here, like pearl in mud.

The Demon Race might reach out again soon, like surf on the shore.

How they pin down their target remained unknown; that was a thorn, like a needle under skin.

“By the way, what’s your name?”

“White Thought.”