Nevia stared blankly at her mother, sensing something different about her today. That subtle feeling was indescribable. She froze, unsure how to react, mouth opening slightly but no words coming out.

Noticing her discomfort, Mother gently patted her shoulder. "Go upstairs and change first," she said softly. "Look at you."

"Oh, okay." Nevia’s lips trembled for a moment before she obediently nodded.

Watching Nevia and Nina climb the stairs, Mother lifted her teacup, sipping slowly. Her gaze drifted aimlessly, lingering on the trees outside. Lush green leaves shaded the yard, dotted with clusters of red blooms. Unlike showy garden flowers, these were understated—elegant in their simplicity.

"The flowers have bloomed," she murmured, half wistful, half regretful.

"Another spring has arrived," Celia added.

"Last winter, many refugees fled south from the north. The Duke sent them down the river."

"That’s wild, untamed land."

"He wants it as his territory."

"Everyone’s like that now. Eager to claim every inch of land."

Silence settled between them.

"Nevia… she seemed surprised earlier?" Celia shifted the topic abruptly, studying Shirin’s face. Celia remembered Shirin as a legendary prodigy in the Empire when she was just a child. Now, as Celia herself was hailed a genius, Shirin had withdrawn from the world’s noise. In a way, they were alike. Only the Empire—once glorious—had sunk into a bottomless quagmire.

"Perhaps I’ve never been a good mother," Shirin said, half-serious, half-joking.

"I doubt Nevia sees it that way."

"But what does it matter?" Shirin stood suddenly, stepping outside. "This year’s blooms came too early."

Celia rose too. In the sunlight, Shirin’s figure blurred with a hazy childhood memory. Her sister. Same blood. Same stubborn, obsessive core. Celia closed her eyes, lost in recollection.

○

Nevia finished washing up and changed clothes. Leaning on the windowsill, she let the breeze brush her hair. Sunlight warmed her damp locks—toweled dry but still wet. Droplets trickled down her neck now and then.

She couldn’t shake her mother’s odd demeanor. Since Nina and the others arrived, Mother had carried a secret worry, never sharing it. Even scolding Nevia felt beyond her now.

Nevia recalled last winter—the only other time Mother acted strangely. Heavy snow had swirled endlessly. Refugees from northern war losses drifted down the great river to desolate southern lands. No one believed they’d survive. Legends said that wild, scorching region teemed with savage beasts, malicious fugitives, and orcs fighting over scraps. Beneath endless yellow dunes lay only bones.

Sighing softly, Nevia felt a pang of sadness.

○

Night had just fallen. With Nevia’s cold gone, Nina was "kicked out" to share her bed again. The little girl pouted, climbing in unhappily. But thanks to Nevia’s illness, Mother had added an extra blanket. Now they each had their own space. Nevia liked it this way.

Not long after dinner, they burrowed under covers. Too early to sleep.

"Hey." Nina turned toward her in the dark. Nevia’s fair face seemed to glow faintly. "So boring. Let’s tell stories."

"Mm."

"Who first?" Nina leaned closer in the moonlight. Nevia instinctively shrank back, eyes catching Nina’s parted lips.

"Doesn’t matter."

"I’ll go!" Nina’s breath carried a sweet, cotton-candy scent. Nevia blinked, lifting her gaze to Nina’s eyes. In the darkness, they couldn’t see clearly—but felt each other’s stare.

"Once, a beautiful princess lived in a castle. An evil Giant Dragon kidnapped her. The king promised, ‘Whoever saves her, I’ll give her to him.’ Then a handsome prince from a neighboring kingdom—" Nina closed her eyes, lost in the tale.

Nevia rolled her eyes inwardly. Predictable. Just like most stories here: princes, Giant Dragons soaring skies, winged white steeds, dangerous lairs. Nina’s voice was sugary sweet, but Nevia only half-listened, enjoying the sound more than the plot.

"—and they lived happily ever after!" Nina beamed, radiating pure joy. "Your turn! Wait—" She scrambled up, gulped water from a cup, then burrowed back under the blanket. "Go on."

"Okay." Nevia hesitated. She’d planned a local tale—ones her mother told before they lived apart. Until Nevia, bored, shared "Cinderella." After that, the stories stopped. Instead, she’d tell a tale from her old world. Show Nina what "there’s always a higher mountain" meant.

"Far out at sea, the water is so blue—like the finest cornflower petals. So clear, like bright glass. Yet so deep, no anchor chain can touch the bottom. To reach from seabed to surface, you’d need spire after spire of churches stacked high…"

Nina stiffened. She’d collected every fairy tale on the continent, yet never heard this one.

It was "The Little Mermaid." A kind mermaid loved a human prince. For him, she traded her tail for legs, enduring agony. But he married another. A witch offered a choice: kill the prince, spill his blood on her legs, and return to the sea. Instead, she chose his happiness—and dissolved into sea foam.

Nevia’s voice wasn’t sweet like Nina’s. Crisp as a bird’s song, yet low and haunting. A quiet sorrow seeped into the room, pulling Nina into the tragic love story. Nina’s breath hitched. She clenched her fists, biting her lip, eyes wide on Nevia.

"—the little mermaid felt herself rising from the foam…"

In the silent dark, only Nevia’s voice and soft sobs filled the air. Nina wept before the tale ended.