Xierra awoke with a violent start, her body jerking upright as if torn from deep water. Cold sweat clung to her skin, dampening her hairline and soaking through the thin fabric of her clothes until it felt like a second, unwanted layer pressed against her. Each breath scraped painfully through her lungs—short, frantic pulls of air that refused to come easily, as though her chest still remembered the pressure of drowning.
Her hands flew up on instinct, shielding her face while her shoulders curled inward. She remained frozen like that for a heartbeat—then another—until the chaos in her thoughts began to loosen its grip. Slowly, her pulse eased from its frantic tempo, the pounding in her ears fading into something manageable.
With a shaky exhale, she dragged her hands down her face and forced herself upright. The remnants of the dream refused to fade, clinging stubbornly to her mind like strands of webbing she couldn't quite brush away.
It hadn't felt like a nightmare.
It had been too vivid. Too precise. Too real.
The dread lingered in her chest, a cold knot nestled beneath her ribs, unmoving and cruel. Fear alone didn't explain it. There was certainty in it—something final. Something that carried the weight of an ending.
It had been waiting.
Not lurking, not stalking—but waiting, patient and soundless.
The image returned unbidden: an unseen presence lingering just beyond a door. Not announcing itself. Not knocking. Merely standing there, its existence pressing against the fragile barrier between them. A hand—pale, unmoving—hovered near the handle. So close that it needed only the smallest lapse, a single unguarded breath, to turn it.
And if she refused to open the door—
It would do so for her.
Xierra sucked in a sharp breath and pressed her palm to her chest, fingers curling into the fabric as if she could anchor her heart in place. The rhythm beneath her hand was erratic, fierce—fear tangled tightly with something hotter, sharper. Anger, perhaps. Or defiance. She wasn't sure where one ended, and the other began.
A soft rustle cut through the noise in her head.
She blinked, the sound grounding her, and turned toward it. Moonlight spilled faintly through the window, silvering the room in gentle shadows. At her bedside, Yuno sat slumped awkwardly against the frame, arms folded beneath his head. Sleep had softened his expression, smoothing the usual alertness from his features. He looked younger like this. Peaceful.
Xierra's lips parted, a quiet breath slipping free. "That can't be comfortable," she murmured, barely louder than the night itself.
She shifted closer without realizing it, her hand lifting on instinct. It hovered above his head, fingers trembling just slightly. His hair caught the moonlight in muted strands, disheveled and inviting in a way that made her chest ache.
She hesitated.
The urge to touch—to offer something gentle, something grounding—warred with the fear of breaking this fragile moment. Her fingers stalled midair, suspended between want and restraint.
Then Yuno stirred.
A quiet groan escaped him as his eyes fluttered open. He straightened with a small jolt, blinking away sleep before his gaze settled on her—and on her hastily retreating hand. Confusion flickered across his face, followed by something softer.
"Are you feeling better?" he asked, voice low and rough with sleep.
"...Yeah." The answer came after a beat too long. She turned her face away, warmth creeping up her cheeks as embarrassment settled in.
What was I thinking?
The memory of her hovering hand burned sharper than it should have.
She forced herself to look back at him, concern overtaking her self-consciousness. "What are you doing here?" she asked, tone firmer now. "Sleeping like that—your neck's going to hate you."
Yuno shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth as if her worry amused him. "It's fine," he said easily. "I must've nodded off. Only for a bit."
"A bit...?" she echoed quietly.
Her thoughts drifted again, unbidden—back to the voices that still rang faintly in her skull. They weren't familiar. Not Inari's. Not Yuno's. They burned with grief and rage, emotions so intense they made her skin prickle, her blood feel too hot beneath it. They didn't belong to her
And yet they lingered.
Xierra curled her hands into fists, grounding herself in the sensation. "Right," she muttered, forcing steadiness into her voice. "We were supposed to head out today."
Yuno's expression shifted, concern sharpening as he gestured toward the bed. "You should've stayed asleep if you weren't feeling well," he said gently, but there was an edge of insistence beneath it.
For a moment, his gaze dropped away from hers. His shoulders sank just slightly.
"...Though," he added quietly, guilt threading through his voice, "this is partly my fault too."
Xierra met his gaze without flinching.
Her spine straightened, shoulders squaring as though bracing against an unseen wind. She didn't speak at first, but the silence between them thickened, weighted with intent. It was the kind of quiet that pressed insistently against the ribs, demanding to be acknowledged.
"Yuno, look—" Her voice wavered, betraying her before she could stop it. She drew a breath, fingers tightening against the blanket pooled in her lap. "I... I meant to talk to you. About—well." Her words faltered, tripping over themselves. "About something."
Yuno blinked.
It was subtle—the brief hitch in his composure, the faint tilt of his head—but confusion flickered openly across his face. His brows knit together, eyes searching hers as if trying to piece together a puzzle missing its center.
"Something?" he repeated.
The corner of his mouth betrayed him, curving upward despite his effort to remain neutral. He cleared his throat and looked away, feigning nonchalance—but his gaze slid back almost immediately, curious and attentive all the same.
Then he noticed it.
The faint bloom of color at the tips of her ears was barely visible beneath her hair. A quiet, unmistakable flush. Understanding settled in.
"Oh," he murmured, tone lighter now. "That kind of something?"
Xierra sputtered softly, mortified. "Yuno—!"
He held up a hand, trying—and failing—to suppress the teasing glint in his eyes. "Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry in the slightest. "Go on."
She exhaled sharply through her nose, gathering her courage like fragile glass. "It's about the day we received our grimoires," she said at last, voice steadier now that the words were finally out. "That day mattered. To me. More than I realized at the time."
"I just—" Her gaze dropped to her hands. Her fingers curled into the fabric. "I need more time. To think. To understand what I want to say before I say it wrong."
The air between them stretched. It felt like standing beneath a winter sky, watching snow hover just before it fell—delicate, inevitable, terrifying.
Xierra's heart pounded painfully against her ribs. She half-expected disappointment to cross his face, or impatience. She had offered him nothing concrete. Only uncertainty. Only a promise of someday.
Yuno didn't interrupt her.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet—but unwavering.
"I can wait."
She looked up.
His expression was calm, earnest in a way that made her chest ache. "I'll wait," he repeated, as though the words themselves were a vow. "Days. Months. Years, if that's what it takes."
A pause.
"And even if," he continued, softer now, "you decide you don't feel the same... I'll still wait."
Her breath caught.
"I made a promise," he said. "To myself. That day. Under the snow." His fingers curled at his side, remembering the cold, the resolve that had burned brighter than fear.
"I promised I'd protect you. With everything I had."
His gaze met hers again, steady as stone. "I won't break that promise. Not even if rejection stands in the way."
The words struck her like a bell rung too close—a resounding peal that flew straight through her, bright and unrelenting, like sunlight breaking over a horizon she had never meant to face so directly.
Yuno had always been like that.
A sun fixed in the sky of her life—constant, radiant, impossible to ignore. He burned with quiet certainty, with a warmth that did not ask for permission, only gave. He rose whether she was ready or not, steady in his path, unashamed of the light he cast.
And she—she had always been the moon.
Borrowing courage in fragments. Reflecting rather than originating. Turning away instinctively, afraid that if she faced him fully, she would be scorched by the intensity of his resolve. Yet no matter how far she drifted into shadow, his light still reached her, silvering her edges, reminding her that even in darkness, she was seen.
They had always been lovers of the sky.
They loved the blue—endless and unclaimed. They loved the vastness that asked nothing of them but wonder. They loved the promise of freedom written in open air and distant horizons, in clouds that never stayed and winds that refused to be tethered. It was there, beneath that boundless expanse, that they had learned to breathe a little deeper, to dream a little farther.
Xierra swallowed hard, emotions surging like tidewater against fragile walls. The pull was unmistakable—inevitable, governed by forces older than reason. The sun tugged at the moon, and the sea answered. Warmth flooded her chest, slow and rising, overwhelming in its gentleness. It terrified her how natural it felt, how effortlessly his presence drew something from her she hadn't known how to name.
She didn't trust herself to speak.
If she opened her mouth, she feared her voice would fracture—glass meeting heat—splintering under the gravity of what he offered so freely. Words felt too small for celestial truths, too fragile to hold the orbit he was asking her to step into.
Yuno only watched her.
As his gaze held hers, he found himself thinking—absently, helplessly—of the sky again. Of how the clarity of her hues, the shifting colors in her eyes, only deepened his affection for the heavens stretched far above them. As though the sky had learned how to look back at him through her, vast and sincere and impossibly beautiful.
Instead, she nodded.
A quiet inclination of her head—subtle as a lunar shift, but just as momentous. Not a confession. Not a promise. But an acknowledgment of the pull between them. An acceptance of the tide.
The moon, at last, turning toward the sun—not to eclipse him, not to rival his blaze, but to meet his light and reflect it back, soft and unwavering, in her own time.
A small, shaky nod—but it was enough.
Yuno let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
The moment lingered—tender, unspoken, unfinished—until reality gently reclaimed its place between them.
"It's been a few hours since you fainted," Yuno said at last, running a hand through his hair. His tone softened, resignation threading through his words. "Sister and Father were worried when we got back."
The statement settled over her like a blanket—heavy, but familiar.
What surprised her wasn't the content of his words.
It was how many there were.
Yuno rarely spoke this much. His thoughts were usually sharpened down to essentials, each sentence precise and economical. Yet now, his words flowed more freely, as though something inside him had shifted—opened.
She blinked, watching him carefully.
Ever since the grimoires had chosen them, his silences felt different. Still present, still measured—but no longer impenetrable. Small cracks had begun to form in his stoic armor, offering fleeting glimpses of what lay beneath.
Xierra tightened her grip on the blanket, frustration knotting in her chest.
Whatever had caused her to collapse, she knew it wasn't exhaustion. It wasn't the cold. It wasn't anything ordinary. Every attempt to recall the moment ended the same way—with pain blooming viciously behind her eyes, as though her mind were punishing her for daring to look back.
She glanced up just in time to see Yuno stand, a basin and damp cloth balanced carefully in his hands.
Her lips parted.
Nothing came out.
Her thoughts remained locked away, sealed behind something she couldn't yet name.
His footsteps were soft against the floor as he turned toward the door. He nearly made it there before stopping.
Yuno glanced back over his shoulder.
Something uncertain flickered across his features—hesitation, perhaps. Or reluctance. It was selfish, he knew, but he lingered anyway, unwilling to leave so soon.
"Don't worry," he said quietly. "I'll be back soon."
He returned to her side, brushing her hair gently with his hand—light, fleeting, but enough to lift the weight pressing down on her chest.
Then he was gone.
Xierra stared after him, stunned.
She exhaled slowly and sank back into the mattress, the ache in her head dull but persistent. Turning onto her side, she pulled the blanket closer, seeking warmth as her thoughts unraveled. Yet sleep claimed her before she could find an answer.
A soft knock echoed through the room.
Another followed—hesitant, it seemed.
The door creaked open, revealing Yuno once more, with Horo clinging stubbornly to his leg like a small shadow.
"Is Xie asleep?" Horo whispered, his voice fragile with longing.
Yuno glanced toward the bed, then nodded. Setting the basin down gently, he pressed a finger to his lips. "Yeah. Let's let her rest."
Horo's shoulders slumped, but he obeyed.
Yuno ruffled the boy's hair and guided him back toward the door.
.
.
.
A few days had passed since Xierra's collapse, and by all outward measures, she had been well.
She walked without wavering. She laughed softly with the younger children. Her color had returned, her steps steady, her smile convincing enough to fool anyone who wasn't looking too closely. The others took it as reassurance, as proof that whatever had taken hold of her that day had already loosened its grip.
Father Orsi did not.
He had not known a single moment of peace since.
Sleep came to him in shallow, fractured stretches, broken by the echo of her faltering breath and the image of her crumpling to the floor—as if something unseen had reached out and severed her strength without warning. No amount of reassurance could untangle the tight coil lodged in his chest. Each quiet moment only gave his worries more room to grow, festering with questions that refused to be answered.
It was Sister Lily who finally intervened.
Gently, patiently, she suggested they speak with Drouot—if only to ease the priest's restless mind. And so, what was meant to be a brief visit stretched into something longer. They lingered by the tower master's office far past what propriety demanded, as though leaving too soon might allow their fears to catch up with them.
The sun bled low against the horizon, its dying gold spilling across the jagged silhouette of the three-eyed demon's skull like a quiet benediction. By the outskirts of the village, daylight loosened its hold, retreating inch by inch into the cool hush of twilight. Shadows stretched long and thin, pooling between crooked rooftops and dirt paths worn smooth by years of passing feet.
Within the grimoire tower, the air felt heavier.
Dust motes drifted lazily through the dim interior, illuminated only by the last slanted rays slipping through narrow windows. Father Orsi and Sister Lily sat across from Drouot at a table scarred by age and time, its surface bearing faint rings of ink and candle wax. The stone walls pressed close, as if listening—amplifying every breath, every pause, every worry left unspoken.
"I can understand Yuno and Xierra," Father Orsi began, his voice strained as if pulled tight by an invisible thread. His fingers pressed together, knuckles whitening. "But are you truly considering letting Asta take the exam as well?"
Drouot rested his forearms atop the table, fingers folding together with deliberate calm. His gaze was steady, unhurried. "He says he wants to try," he replied simply.
The words landed with dull finality.
Sister Lily's lashes fluttered as she exchanged a glance with the priest, concern mirrored cleanly between them. Neither spoke, but their silence screamed louder than any protest. Asta—magicless, reckless, stubborn to a fault—venturing beyond the safety of the church felt like placing a candle too close to an open flame.
"And those I had my hopes pinned on," Drouot continued after a moment, his hand drifting to comb through his long, wiry beard, "have decided not to participate."
The room seemed to darken further, as though his words themselves had swallowed what little light remained. Sister Lily's hands tightened atop her lap, fingers curling into her sleeves. Father Orsi exhaled sharply, breath scraping his throat.
Drouot leaned back, gaze drifting toward the window. Outside, the sun surrendered fully, slipping beneath the land as night crept forward—quiet, inevitable. The transition mirrored the choices before them, paths diverging whether they were ready or not.
"I truly believe Yuno and Xierra will manage," Father Orsi pressed, his voice firm but frayed at the edges. A bead of sweat traced its way down his temple. "But Asta isn't ready. This is too much for him."
"Well," Drouot replied mildly, "he says he wants to do it."
The priest blinked, thrown by the repetition, then straightened as though bracing himself. "I'm saying it again—Yuno and Xierra will be fine. But Asta?" His voice cracked despite himself. "It's pointless for him to even attempt it."
Drouot waved a hand dismissively, the motion lazy, practiced. "He wants to try."
Then—something shifted.
A spark lit behind the old master's eyes, mischief blooming like embers catching wind. A low chuckle escaped him, deep and rumbling, growing into open laughter. "You know," he said, grin widening, "maybe the thought of Asta heading to the Royal Capital makes you feel a little lonely, doesn't it?"
Father Orsi stiffened as if struck.
His jaw tightened, hands clenching at his sides. The tower master's grin turned downright infuriating, sharp with teasing. Sister Lily stared for a heartbeat—then burst into a soft laugh, warmth spilling into the room.
"Aw, Father," she chimed.
"That's—that's not—!" Orsi sputtered, snapping his head away. Tears welled unbidden, spilling down his cheeks in earnest streams that betrayed him completely. His thoughts raced ahead, cruel and vivid: a quiet church, empty pews, echoes where laughter once lived. Three of the eldest children—gone.
"I just think," he blurted, voice trembling, "if he's going to fail anyway, he shouldn't take it at all!"
The attempt at logic rang hollow.
The room dissolved into gentle laughter—Sister Lily hiding her smile behind her hand, Drouot shaking with silent mirth. Father Orsi's exaggerated gestures, half bluster and half heartbreak, made it impossible to scold him.
"A-And the little ones will miss him!" he rushed on, desperation mounting. "A-And maybe you should reconsider Xierra, too! She faints easily! Who knows where she'll collapse out there? A-And Sister Lily will need help, and the children— they'll miss her dearly! Not me, of course! But they'll have fewer people to play with—no, three fewer!"
Sister Lily's eyes softened, a knowing smile curving her lips. She said nothing, but the look she gave him made his ears burn.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" he snapped weakly. "I never said I'd miss them!"
Drouot stepped forward, laughter still clinging to his breath, and placed a large hand on Orsi's shoulder. The hearty pat nearly sent the priest off balance.
"Not you, too!" Father Orsi wailed, throwing his arms skyward. "I'm being serious!"
"I'll feel lonely too, Father," Sister Lily said gently. "With Xie and both boys gone."
Orsi paused, then cleared his throat. "Well... yes. Of course." His voice softened as he turned toward the door, pacing. "I raised them. I've been with them since they were babies. I'd be lying if I said it didn't hurt."
Sister Lily folded her hands, eyes closing with a serene smile. "If it were up to me, I'd keep them here forever. But... I want them to chase their dreams."
"Indeed," Drouot agreed. "They'll be fine. As for Asta—" he chuckled, "he might fail and return immediately."
Father Orsi brightened instantly. "Y-You're right! Absolutely right!" He nodded fervently. "Yuno and Xierra will be fine, and Asta will probably be back before we notice he left!"
Then his shoulders slumped again. "Still... I want them to stay..."
Sister Lily giggled softly. "You're such a softie, Father."
Suddenly, Orsi hurried back to Drouot, leaning in close. "About the books Asta and Xierra received," he whispered urgently. "Are they truly grimoires?" His hands clenched. "They don't resemble the legends. Asta can't use magic—how did he receive one? And Xierra's... why does hers bear a crescent moon instead of a clover?"
The question lingered, heavy as the night settling outside.
Drouot had rarely found himself cornered like this.
Questions struck one after another, overlapping and insistent, filling the small office until even the dust-laden air felt crowded with unease. Father Orsi's voice wavered between worry and accusation, while Sister Lily's quieter concerns threaded between his words, gentler but no less sharp. For the first time in years, the tower master felt the weight of uncertainty press against his ribs, heavy and unwelcome.
He drew a slow breath, fingers curling against the edge of the table as though anchoring himself to the present. His gaze drifted—not away from them, but past them—settling somewhere far beyond the stone walls.
"I'm not sure," he admitted at last, the confession slipping from him more quietly than intended. "But... that's—"
"Yes?" Father Orsi leaned forward, hands braced against his knees, desperation tightening his posture. His eyes searched Drouot's face as though the answer might be coaxed out by sheer will alone.
"No." The word left Drouot in a murmur, incomplete and unsatisfying. He turned toward the narrow window, where the day's final light bled through the glass in amber streaks. The dying sun stretched across the room, gilding shelves of ancient tomes and pulling long, distorted shadows across the floor. The warmth of it brushed his cheek, though it did nothing to ease the chill settling beneath his skin.
A five-leaf clover.
A crescent moon.
The symbols hovered in his thoughts like half-remembered dreams, familiar yet dangerously out of place. They refused to settle, refused to align into anything he could safely name. His jaw tightened as his fingers flexed, the faintest tremor betraying the storm he kept carefully contained.
It couldn't be.
Drouot lingered there, staring beyond the glass as twilight swallowed the village whole. Outside, the sky deepened into indigo, stars pricking through one by one—silent witnesses to truths best left untouched. The knowledge pressed against the back of his mind, sharp and insistent, but he did not reach for it.
No. Not yet.
Some answers carried consequences far too heavy for children who had only just stepped into their own power. And so Drouot remained quiet, the weight of what he suspected settling between them like an unspoken oath, waiting for a moment when the world would be ready to hear it.
.
.
.
The days had begun to behave strangely around Xierra—soft, slippery things that refused to be held. She would close her eyes, meaning only to rest for a moment, and wake to find the light already altered, the air carrying the scent of a different hour. Her body demanded recovery with a quiet ruthlessness, drawing her back into sleep again and again until even time itself seemed to blur at the edges.
By the time she finally made her way home from training, the sun had already begun its descent. It lingered low in the heavens, staining the sky with molten amber and bruised rose, as though reluctant to abandon the world entirely. Long shadows stretched across the earth like grasping fingers, clinging to the path that wound its way back toward the village.
Xierra followed that path at an unhurried pace, boots brushing against packed soil and scattered leaves. The forest around her breathed in slow, patient rhythms—branches creaked softly, cicadas hummed their evening hymn, and the air was thick with the green, loamy scent of moss and bark.
Training here had never been her preference. The woods felt alive in a way that demanded respect, and after witnessing how violently her magic could spiral beyond her control, she understood Inari's warning all too well. Hage was too close. One mistake, one misstep, and the cost would be paid by people who had never agreed to bear it.
A yawn slipped past her lips, wide and unguarded, as she stretched her arms overhead. Her muscles protested briefly before yielding, warmth blooming beneath her skin—a pleasant ache that reminded her she was, at least, moving again. It felt good. Necessary. Her fingers drifted down almost instinctively, combing through Inari's fur as he padded beside her. The fox's coat was impossibly soft, a familiar texture that anchored her to the present. For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to simply exist within the dying light.
"I still can't believe you fell ill twice in a row, Master," Inari drawled, mirroring her yawn before hopping lightly onto her shoulder. He curled there with practiced ease, eyes half-lidded, tail flicking lazily. "We lost two or three days of training."
Xierra winced, a quiet laugh escaping her as guilt settled somewhere beneath her ribs. "Well... sorry about that."
Inari waved a paw dismissively, already bored with the apology. Then, without warning, he straightened, a sharp grin cutting across his muzzle. "No matter. I'll simply ensure tomorrow's training is twice as punishing as today's."
Her steps faltered. A cold knot twisted in her stomach. "What? Isn't today already... enough?" Uncertainty crept into her voice despite her effort to sound composed. Since recovering, he had driven her relentlessly—movements she once thought manageable now left her breathless, trembling, painfully aware of every neglected muscle.
"No," Inari replied, teeth flashing. "This was merely one-tenth of what you should be enduring, Master."
"One-tenth?" The word struck her like a physical blow. Her shoulders sagged as she dragged a hand down her face. "Gods, save me."
His laughter rang out bright and merciless, echoing through the trees as he savored her despair. He continued to needle her all the way down the path, voice a constant presence at her ear. Xierra eventually drowned him out with a soft, tuneless hum, her attention drifting ahead as the outline of the village emerged from the fading light.
The church stood at its center, stone walls glowing faintly beneath the sunset. Nearby, children's voices spilled into the open air—laughter, shouts, the careless joy of youth that had yet to learn restraint.
"Oh?" Inari scoffed. "They're still playing at this hour? Back in my—"
"Stop," Xierra cut in, nose wrinkling as she shot him a look. "You sound ancient."
"I am ancient," he shot back smugly. "I'm old enough to be the great-great-great-great—"
She ignored him. Her gaze had already found a familiar figure breaking away from the group, small feet pounding eagerly against the ground.
"Xie!" Horo's voice reached her before he did. He collided with her legs a heartbeat later, arms wrapping around her with unrestrained affection. His cheek pressed against her, warm and solid and very real.
Inari, satisfied and sleepy, chose that moment to retreat. He curled tighter against her shoulders, his form thinning, dissolving into wisps of pale smoke until only warmth remained.
Xierra chuckled softly at his habitual exit before lowering herself to Horo's level. She rested a hand atop his head, fingers brushing through his hair with practiced gentleness. "What did you get up to today?" she asked, taking his small hand in hers as she began walking again, careful to match his shorter stride.
Horo lit up instantly. His words spilled forth in an eager torrent—stories of games and near-misses, of laughter shared and triumphs imagined. His free hand sliced through the air as he spoke, each gesture vivid and earnest. Xierra listened, truly listened, her grip steady and reassuring as the sky above them deepened into twilight.
By the time they reached the church grounds, the calm of the evening shattered beneath a single, thunderous shout.
Xierra's head lifted instinctively. Two figures tore through the open stretch of land ahead—Yuno and Asta, neck and neck, legs pumping with reckless abandon. Their footfalls struck the earth like drumbeats, each impact sending small tremors rippling through the soil. Dust erupted behind them in a churning cloud, thick enough to blur their outlines into little more than silhouettes racing toward the finish.
"Whoa!" Horo breathed, eyes wide, his grip on Xierra's hand tightening as though afraid the scene might vanish if he blinked.
"Goal!" Rekka cried, swinging her arm downward with exaggerated flair. She clapped a hand over her mouth, shoulders hunched forward, practically buzzing as she leaned in to watch the haze slowly unravel itself.
Xierra rested her weight against the church's old wooden fence, its surface worn smooth by years of weather and wandering hands. The corner of her mouth curved upward, an amused glint dancing in her eyes as the dust drifted and settled. "So," she called out lightly, voice carrying through the thinning air, "who won?"
Asta had already collapsed onto his back, limbs splayed, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven pulls as he dragged air into his lungs like it might run out. A few paces away, Yuno stood upright, fingers brushing sweat from his brow, his expression composed to the point of inscrutability. Both of them looked to Rekka, waiting—hoping—for her verdict.
Rekka's grin turned crooked. She glanced between the two boys, then tipped her chin toward Nash, clearly passing the burden of judgment onto him. Her hands planted firmly on her hips as she waited, smug and satisfied.
Nash shrugged, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Technically," he said, tone flat, "Xierra got here first. She was already standing at the church."
Asta groaned from the ground.
"But," Nash continued, lips twitching, "Yuno was just a little bit faster."
"What?!" Asta shot upright, disbelief blazing across his face as he pointed wildly between them. "Were you even watching?! And Xierra wasn't even part of the race! That doesn't count!"
Xierra laughed under her breath and stepped forward. She ruffled Asta's hair, fingers threading through sweat-damp strands, before giving his back a firm pat—solid enough to make her palm sting faintly. He barely budged.
"Don't worry about it," she said, tone light, eyes bright with mischief. "You'll beat me one day."
She let a bit more strength linger in the gesture than strictly necessary, a playful challenge hidden beneath the affection. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she recognized the influence—Inari's sharp-edged humor, his irreverence, the way teasing had become a language all its own. It slipped into her words more easily now, shaped her smiles, sharpened her wit. She hadn't fully embraced his worldview, but pieces of it clung to her all the same.
Asta sputtered, face flushing as he sprang to his feet. He jabbed a finger at Yuno, then swung it toward Xierra, eyes blazing. "Then I'll race both of you to the church!"
He barely managed a single step.
Wind coiled around him without warning, lifting him clean off the ground. His feet dangled uselessly as he flailed, caught mid-protest.
"I win," Yuno said calmly, already walking past, his voice infuriatingly even.
Asta's shouts echoed uselessly behind him, swallowed by laughter and the quiet, glowing hush of dusk settling over the churchyard.
"Yuno can be pretty childish sometimes," Rekka remarked, her voice lilting with easy amusement as she watched the scene unfold.
Xierra hummed in agreement, folding her arms loosely over her chest. Her gaze drifted toward Asta, still suspended midair, flailing and shouting indignantly as the remnants of Yuno's magic held him hostage. A quiet scoff slipped past her lips—fond rather than cruel. When Yuno passed through the church door and let it swing back just a little too wide, the sudden rush of movement sent Asta pitching forward.
He hit the ground face-first with a dull, graceless thud.
Xierra winced—then smiled.
"Yeah," Nash said between laughs as he dropped the bundle of firewood onto the growing pile, wiping sweat from his brow. He tilted his head toward Xierra, grin stretching wide. "I mean, getting that worked up over Asta of all people? I'd understand if it were about you, Xie. Those two are basically inseparable."
"Are we?" Xierra asked, one brow lifting as she glanced his way. There was no mockery in her tone—only genuine curiosity, as if the thought hadn't fully occurred to her until now.
Nash shrugged, fingers lacing behind his head. "You haven't noticed? Yuno's been hovering around you every chance he gets."
The words lingered, settling into the space between them like dust in evening light.
Xierra tilted her head, eyes unfocused as her thoughts were quietly unraveling. Now that it had been said aloud, she couldn't unsee it—the way Yuno always seemed to fall into step beside her, the subtle glances he cast when he thought no one was looking, the instinctive way his attention sharpened whenever she faltered. It had all been there before, but after his confession, it felt... closer. More deliberate. Like gravity pulling something fragile into a shared orbit.
Warmth stirred in her chest, slow and uncertain.
She wasn't ready to answer him. Not yet. Her feelings were still tangled, knotted with fear, hope, and too many unanswered questions. A single wrong move might unravel everything.
Rekka slipped closer, bumping her hip lightly against Xierra's. Her curled maroon hair swayed slightly as she leaned in, a low chuckle curling from her throat. "Oh, I've noticed too. Ooooh, is that lov—"
"You can imagine whatever you like," Xierra cut in smoothly, shooting her a sideways glance. Her eyes narrowed just enough to be a warning, though the faint curve of her lips betrayed her. "Just keep those thoughts to yourself."
Rekka snickered, entirely unrepentant.
Xierra shifted, planting her hands on her hips. "Anyway," she said, steering the conversation back with practiced ease, "I agree with what you said earlier."
"What, the one about lov—ack!"
Rekka's words died in her throat as Xierra delivered a firm pat to her back—just shy of friendly.
"No," Xierra clarified, eyes glinting. "The first one. Though, if you really think about it... compared to how Yuno was when he was younger, it kind of makes sense."
Rekka rubbed her back, wincing. "Huh? What's that supposed to mean?"
Xierra only smiled—small, knowing, and utterly unhelpful.
Rekka leaned in closer, whining exaggeratedly as she tried to pry an answer from her. Nearby, the younger children dissolved into laughter, their voices spilling into the warm air like wind-chimes at dusk. Xierra remained silent, her expression serene, content to let the mystery linger.
Nash suddenly turned, brow furrowing as he gestured toward the towering stacks of firewood behind him. "Speaking of Yuno," he said, incredulity dripping from every word, "how many years is this supposed to last us?"
Xierra glanced back at the near-absurd mountain of neatly chopped logs. Yuno and Asta's idea of training had somehow become an all-out campaign against the forest itself.
She bit back a laugh. "Probably until we come back and refill them."
Nash stared at her, unimpressed.
She laughed anyway and walked past him toward the church, the wooden steps creaking softly beneath her shoes. Rekka followed, giggling, while Horo skipped along beside them, blissfully unconcerned.
"Please don't," Nash groaned behind them, dragging a hand down his face. "My eyes hurt just looking at that mess, Xie."
Rekka's laughter rang out again, bright and unrestrained, as twilight finally settled over the churchyard—soft, lingering, and full of things left unsaid.
.
.
.
The stillness of night settled into the shared bedroom like a held breath, folding itself into every corner until even the shadows seemed to tread carefully. Moonlight slipped through the narrow window in pale ribbons, brushing softly against the worn floorboards and the edge of the bed where Xierra lay awake.
Three bodies occupied the cramped space, yet the room felt strangely vast in its quiet.
Near the far side, Asta wrestled with sleep as though it were an opponent unwilling to yield—blankets twisted around his legs, breaths uneven, the occasional mutter slipping from his lips before dissolving into the dark. His movements stirred the air more than his snores ever could, the bed creaking faintly beneath his restless strength.
Xierra told herself it didn't bother her.
Fifteen years beneath the same roof had carved his habits into something familiar, almost comforting. The midnight shuffling. The half-formed dreams spoken aloud. Even the way his boundless energy lingered stubbornly in his body, refusing to extinguish itself completely. These were constants, as ordinary to her as the old beams overhead or the soft groan of wood adjusting to the cold.
She rolled onto her back, eyes tracing the ceiling's shadowed framework. The air was cool against her skin, sharp enough to be felt but not enough to chase away the thoughts coiling inside her mind. No matter how long she stared upward, the darkness offered no answers—only space for her worries to stretch and grow.
Tomorrow loomed just beyond reach, close enough to feel but too distant to grasp.
Dreams—some radiant, others fractured—drifted through her thoughts. Ambitions she clung to. Hopes she scarcely dared to name. Each one flickered like a half-remembered vision, blurring at the edges no matter how tightly she held on.
Then came the sharper thoughts.
What she lacked.
What she needed.
How much further she had to go.
Strength—true strength—felt like something just out of reach, hovering beyond her fingertips, no matter how desperately she strained. Each imagined future branched endlessly, a web of what-ifs threading together outcomes both merciful and merciless. The weight of them pressed against her ribs, stealing the gentleness from sleep before it could settle.
Her body longed for rest.
Her mind refused it.
"Are you nervous, Master?"
Inari's voice slipped into the space without force, smooth and unintrusive, as though he had always been there—waiting for her to notice. It echoed softly in the hollow quiet, grounding in a way nothing else could.
Xierra exhaled, the breath slow and weary. A faint smile tugged at her lips despite herself.
"Looks like it," she admitted silently.
She turned onto her side, drawing the blanket closer until it curved protectively around her chest. The fabric carried the warmth of shared use, faint traces of familiarity woven into every thread.
"It's all right to feel that way," Inari continued, his tone gentler now. "Even the strongest hearts carry their doubts. Just as the world does."
Her brow creased slightly.
The world?
"Yes," he said, as if sensing the question before it fully formed. "The world bears its own fears, its own weight. Fate may spin its threads, but even it does not rule alone. The stars, the moon, the sun, the sky, the earth—each carries a will. Even mana itself breathes and listens. It lives."
His words flowed like an old tale whispered beside a dying fire, steady and unhurried. They wrapped around her thoughts, easing their sharp edges.
"A mind of its own, huh..." she murmured, testing the idea as her voice slipped into a whisper.
Her eyelids grew heavy.
A gentle warmth settled atop her head—so soft, so familiar, that she barely registered it as something separate from the night itself. She yawned quietly, nestling further into the blanket, surrendering inch by inch to the pull of sleep.
Inari's tail brushed across her shoulder, slow and rhythmic, each pass a soothing promise. The motion lulled her senses, smoothing the restless tide within her chest.
"Did you know," he said softly, "that long ago, there was another like you?"
The words stirred the last fragments of her wakefulness.
Like... me?
"Yes." Reverence colored his voice, subtle but unmistakable. "Someone who walked a path much like yours."
Her thoughts reached for questions that never quite took shape.
Sleep claimed her before she could ask.
Her breathing evened out, tension loosening its grip as dreams drew her under. Inari's presence remained, quiet and watchful, as the moonlight continued its silent vigil—and the night carried her gently into rest.
"Everyone calls her... the Whisperer."