It was a strangely surreal experience to be entrusted by Fawena and Sylowei, one after another, to kill their mother.

After all, Lyselle wasn’t scowling or carrying a water gun like she was about to snatch random moms off the street.

So this was just too bizarre.

Especially since the commissions Fawena and Sylowei gave her and Shall were crushingly heavy—enough to suffocate anyone.

Even the intense pressure of asking someone, “Will you form a band with me for life?” paled next to the Elves’ burden. Not even one percent of it.

After all, this was the weight of a city-state, a nation, a civilization.

Lyselle submerged herself in hot water, stared blankly at the ceiling, and let out a long sigh.

She’d lost count of how many times she regretted coming out with Shall to gather materials.

But regret was useless now.

Might as well figure out how to help the Elves kill the Matriarch.

Just thinking about it made Lyselle furious.

Shall again! Always Shall!

When Fawena first proposed the commission, he agreed without blinking. And just now, after Sylowei’s request, he accepted without hesitation.

The Elves’ Matriarch might be a living deity. This wasn’t about snatching moms—they might have to kill a god!

The more Lyselle dwelled on it, the more annoyed she grew. She gripped the bathtub edge, stood up, summoned her Magic Wand, and cast a cleaning spell on herself.

Magic was convenient.

Instantly, the water droplets vanished from her skin, and her soaked hair turned smooth and dry again.

Next, Lyselle slipped on a nightgown the Elves had prepared for her.

But she didn’t plan to sleep yet.

Sorceresses were magical like that—sometimes sleeping decades nonstop, other times staying awake for weeks.

Unable to sleep, Lyselle decided to drink.

Not in her room, though.

She took the Lantern Fawena had given her—the one once belonging to Mula—and quietly climbed onto the wooden cabin’s roof.

This time, Fawena hadn’t messed up the accommodations. Lyselle and Shall each got their own small cabin.

The cabins stood side by side, but Lyselle had no intention of inviting Shall up to drink.

The memory of last time was still vivid: Shall drunk, acting wild, holding her like a cat and sniffing her hair. No way would she drink with him again.

Drinking alone was a bit lonely, but whatever.

Lyselle pulled a bottle of Elven vintage wine and a cup from her storage spell. She poured a small amount, tucked the bottle away, and took a light sip.

For some reason, the wine tasted bland.

Probably because she was alone.

Lyselle’s interest waned.

She thought about giving up and sleeping—but just then, clear climbing sounds came from behind.

Someone was coming.

Shall?

Lyselle muttered, “Some people really can’t be shaken off,” and turned toward the noise.

But it wasn’t Shall. It was Lundeheim’s Governor.

Climbing up with another Lantern, Fawena noticed Lyselle’s gaze and offered a friendly smile.

Lyselle found it hard to return the warmth.

*Now this is truly inescapable*, she thought.

Fawena, oblivious to the cold reception, slowly sat beside Lyselle and asked softly, “May I join you?”

Annoyed but polite, Lyselle nodded. “Be my guest.”

Fawena settled down. The silence grew awkward, but Lyselle didn’t break it.

Fawena did. She glanced at Lyselle’s cup and asked in surprise, “Isn’t Mr. Shall drinking with you?”

Lyselle’s hand stiffened mid-sip, then relaxed. “He’s probably asleep.”

Fawena sensed the odd tone but misunderstood. “Have you two... had a fight?”

Lyselle sighed. “Haven’t you forgotten? Shall’s lover just died. How could he drink with me now?”

To her shock, Fawena nodded sympathetically. “I understand.”

*?* Lyselle was puzzled. *What do you understand?*

Before she could ask, Fawena said, “Men like Mr. Shall—so exceptional and devoted—are naturally charming. It’s only reasonable you’d like him.”

*???* Lyselle’s confusion multiplied. She almost laughed. Fawena thought she had a crush on Shall, while his heart belonged to his dead lover? Nonsense!

“I don’t like Shall at all,” Lyselle clarified sharply.

Fawena gave a knowing look, sighed, and said, “I know.”

She probably knew nothing. Lyselle fell silent.

After a pause, Fawena spoke again. “Miss Sorceress, Sylowei must have approached you already?”

Lyselle raised an eyebrow. Of course the Governor hadn’t come just to chat.

No point hiding it. “Yes, she came.”

Fawena turned, her emerald eyes locking onto Lyselle’s. “What... did she say?”

Honestly, Lyselle had forgotten Sylowei’s exact words. “She wants us to help kill your Matriarch.”

“...”

Fawena looked away. She’d expected this, yet sorrow washed over her. Slowly, she leaned back and lay helplessly on the roof.

Even then, she couldn’t see the giant tree canopy, stars, or moonlight that once filled her sky.

“So it is,” the Governor murmured.

Lyselle set aside her cup, lay down too, and asked, “You expected this?”

“Yes.”

“So both your commissions—and Sylowei’s—represent your entire race’s will?”

“...Yes.”

The Governor gave a bitter smile. “We tried everything. Talking to Mother, reaching her, awakening her dormant self... all failed.”

“In the end, we never understood why she went mad—or even what she truly is. A god? A spell? A relic?”

“For three thousand years, Mother was everywhere in Lundeheim. But when she broke, we couldn’t find her to save her.”

Her voice dropped. “Who’d kill their own mother unless forced?”

“We can’t save our mad Mother. If we don’t kill her, she’ll destroy Lundeheim. For survival... we have no choice.”

Lyselle had no reply. She recalled Sylowei’s words:

Children must grow up. Their coming-of-age ceremony awaits.

But for the Elves, that ceremony was also their mother’s funeral.

Between blessings and eulogies, adult Elves and a reborn Lundeheim would face a tomorrow without the Matriarch.

This scene suddenly reminded Lyselle of a song from her homeland—a well-known tune called “The Moon Boat.”

Softly, the Sorceress began to hum:

“I can catch the moon,

I’ll row with countless dreams...”

Her voice was ethereal yet sorrowful, echoing in the fog-shrouded, starless night.

Fawena turned to watch her. An indescribable weight surged in her chest, thick and suffocating. She couldn’t breathe.

She didn’t understand the strange lyrics—but the Sorceress reached the chorus:

“...Goodbye, Mama,

Tonight I set sail.

Don’t worry for me—

I have oars of joy and wisdom.

When you wake, tell no one:

I’m rowing the moon boat, sailing the Milky Way...”

Lyselle stopped abruptly. She said nothing more.

Fawena felt crushed by a heavy sadness. Her lips trembled, but no words came.

After a long silence, the Governor lowered her eyes and whispered, “A beautiful song. What’s its name?”

“...‘The Moon Boat,’” Lyselle replied softly. “It’s called ‘The Moon Boat.’”

“What story does it tell?”

“A mischievous child bids farewell to their mother, boards the moon boat, and sails away alone.”

“I see.”

Fawena froze, then gazed up at the fog-hidden sky.

“So... are we beginning our own voyage too...?”

She looked down, murmuring to herself more than to Lyselle.

[To be continued]

—