The Sanctuary branch in the imperial capital rose like a mountain of stone and lamplight, broader and grander than Eastwind City or Northfort, almost the Eastern Sea City’s east-district headquarters.

Caution tugged at her like a thin leash; in soul-form, Cerqin drifted along the corridors, skirting walls like reefs to avoid the wrong rooms.

Floating felt hardly faster than walking, a slow current through a maze, and ten long minutes ebbed away before she reached the lab.

Who designed this labyrinth, with turns like knotted silk?

Even after one prior visit, coming alone was a snarl of threads; time slipped like sand.

Cerqin’s magitech lab sat beside Aileaf’s potion lab; sigils scarred the walls, runic cuts strengthening the stone like tempered steel.

She slipped through the lab door like mist; unsurprisingly, Aileaf worked at a corner bench, a small figure focused like a heron at a stream.

Racks and counters wore rainbow glass and nameless tools, a garden of bottles and angles, glinting like dew.

The scene echoed Aileaf’s home in Eastwind City, a familiar fragrance drifting through memory.

Cerqin had twice blundered into blush-inducing sights; now relief and delight warmed her, rising like dawn.

Hmm—mischief stirred like a cat at the window—how do I get Aileaf to notice me in soul-form?

Cerqin drifted to Aileaf’s side and tried to grab the tiny girl, who stood on a chair, carefully tending potions like a watchful sparrow.

Her soul-hand kept its promise and slipped through Aileaf’s cheek like smoke through moonlight.

When Aileaf brewed, she was someone else—calm as still water, elegant as a willow’s bend.

Ignore height and size, and her face and figure were a mature beauty, a peony in cool bloom.

Yet as Littlefolk at ninety centimeters, she was already tall among her kind, a sturdy sapling under a sky of pines.

Cerqin loved that focused look; in the carriage, if she had a moment, she’d sneak behind and tease, a fox paw over silk.

Then she’d catch Aileaf’s rare displeasure, a cloud-shadow crossing clear water.

Aileaf would endure Cerqin’s antics and finish the work, steel hidden under satin.

Those moments were when Cerqin could bully someone; in those hours, Aileaf was a serious, cool beauty, a blade wrapped in gauze.

But once Aileaf’s hands were free, Cerqin turned pitiful, a sparrow snatched by a gust.

Every uppercut rang the bell like thunder, a sharp lesson written in air.

A one-on-one rout became a three-on-one siege, and the teasing ran long, like rain that refused to stop.

Looking at the scene, Cerqin’s heart stirred like a tide; in soul-state she feared nothing, a shadow immune to grasp.

How could she meddle with the solid while a ghost? The question circled like a hawk.

Magic lived in the body; with only mind-force, she knew no special spells, not even one, a blank page in a spellbook.

She couldn’t even make Aileaf notice, a knot in the thread she couldn’t pick.

She was stuck at this checkpoint, a gate with no key.

High-rank practitioners might sense special auras, like wind feeling storm on the horizon.

Mid-rank relied on focused mind-sense, eyes closed, heart open, scanning like a blind cat for fish.

Huh?

Cerqin remembered Aileaf was intensely focused, gaze rooted to the solvent, and her cheek had been outside that field of view.

If she pressed the vial in that small hand, would the touch ripple enough to be noticed?

She moved at once, a flick of a fin; Aileaf held a slim test tube, and Cerqin pressed her pinky down, a moth to flame.

Her finger sank into the glass and the liquid like a ghost in water, yet no sensation bloomed, no cool bite.

Cerqin looked up; Aileaf didn’t stop, hands flowing like a river over stones, steady and bright.

She didn’t see me—maybe Fifth Rank mind-sense is just too weak.

Hope flared and died like a spark in rain; a vague sadness seeped like fog from the shore.

Her soul drank it back like the tide, inhaling her own mood, a loop of breath.

She exhaled her displeasure and tasted it again, a strange echo, a mirror reflecting a mirror.

New play-ideas sprouted—if she could release emotion and absorb it at a key moment, it might bloom like night jasmine.

Spring Tide and Silver Luan weren’t here; wandering the Sanctuary, she’d met few Nuns, and not a single shrine-keeper under those vaulted halls.

By the multifaceted clock, it was probably late, the hour bending like a reed; she could only watch Aileaf finish her work.

While waiting, Cerqin lay on the floor, a cloud over tile; her soul body took no space, really lying on air.

Still wearing them, huh? The style gets bolder by the day—who taught her this—starlight or sin?

Cerqin looked up, eyes measuring; at Aileaf’s size, the Sanctuary kept no Nun robes that fit that small body.

This custom lab outfit was plain as bone china, but the skirt’s hem wasn’t low; with the right angle, clarity rang like glass.

Unlike Silver Luan, who stopped wearing one after losing her favorite, Cerqin saw Aileaf’s different styles whenever they played in the carriage, a parade of silks.

The variety was rich as a vendor’s stall; even when she stole chances to snag one, the supply never shrank, an endless ribbon.

Each morning, Aileaf would fish one from her spatial ring and put it on, like dawn choosing a dress.

Cerqin suspected that ring held more than her own, a wardrobe under a pocket sky.

That faint little mark tempted her like a flick of moonlight; she wanted to do something about it.

She lifted her middle finger and pressed upward, knowing it would pass through, a reed pushing water.

Half a centimeter in, something met her—a touch blooming like silk against skin, a strange coil up her soul-feelers.

It had to be soul homology, the same fabric of spirit; Aileaf had defined and locked her soul boundary like a seam.

Without that recognition, there’d be no touch, no bridge over mist.

Realizing this, Cerqin floated forward, a bit afraid, and looked up at that calm mouth with a hint of curve, a crescent over the lake.

How is she getting more and more like Spring Tide?

I’ll deal with you in a bit.

Ah, I was wrong~

Cerqin replied without a shred of sincerity, and flipped the wind of the talk like a fan.

By the way, little Aileaf, how did you spot me? How long was I out? What happened after?

…

Aileaf smiled and spoke softly, silk over steel; that look put a tremor in Cerqin’s chest, a sparrow under hawk shadow.

From when you released that clump of emotional force.

Observing emotional force isn’t much easier than tracking a soul, is it?

It’s still a bit easier. As for your coma—about ten days. I’ve been soaking in the lab, barely watching time, days drifting like leaves.

As for what happened after...

In a few minutes, Aileaf sketched it cleanly, an outline like ink on rice paper.

She told her Spring Tide was in seclusion, assaulting the Seventh Rank, a storm trying to crest the seventh ridge.

As they spoke, both paused; faint threads rose over their bodies, glimmering like spider silk in moonlight.

This feeling is—

The fine lines linked the two without discomfort, a soft tether, a kite string from heart to heart.

Other threads ran into the space beyond, ends hooked to the unseen; it was obvious who waited on those lines, names like stars.

For some reason, both saw a view—a nightscape so charming—a dark sky where the crowd of stars blazed, a field of fireflies.

Around the most obvious center in the heavens, four bright stars shone with eerie hues, lanterns of the north, slowly waking to glow.