Inari had not been bluffing when he promised to double the intensity of Xierra's training.
Days blurred together beneath the canopy of the forest, measured not by sunrise or dusk but by the ache that settled deeper into her bones with each passing session. Even when she stood still, her joints protested—creaking and groaning like an old door long denied oil.
Every movement came with a sharp reminder of what she had already endured, and what she still hadn't escaped. Sometimes, half-delirious with exhaustion, she wondered if her body had quietly shattered beneath her skin, held together only by stubborn will.
Yet she endured.
She always did.
Pain clung to her limbs, threading itself through her calves and shoulders, curling tight around her spine. Each step sent a ripple of protest through her muscles, as though they were laughing at her defiance. But she kept moving, jaw clenched, breath forced steady. There was no room for hesitation—not with Inari watching, not with the entrance exam looming like a blade suspended overhead.
And it wasn't all suffering.
Somewhere between the trembling and the sweat, progress had begun to take root.
Her spells no longer spilled recklessly from her hands. Mana answered her call with less resistance now, flowing with a smoother cadence instead of surging wild and wasteful. When she reached for power, it no longer tore at her core—it listened. Stronger spells still slipped from her grasp at times, faltering like a dancer missing a step, but the difference was unmistakable. She wasn't fighting her magic anymore.
She was learning to guide it.
"Control your flow," Inari had told her, voice calm and maddeningly vague, "and the rest will follow."
At the time, she'd nearly thrown something at him.
"Wise words, Inari. Very wise," she half-mocked, earning a scoff from the fox.
Now, with sweat stinging her eyes and mana humming obediently beneath her skin, she hated how right he was.
Her strikes landed cleaner. Her spells cut sharper. Power no longer meant excess—it meant intention. Each movement, each casting, demanded focus rather than force. Still, the fox never relented. If anything, his expectations rose alongside her improvement, as though progress itself were an invitation for harsher trials.
She thought, not for the first time, of the story he had told her on that restless night—the girl kissed by sun and moon, the boy crowned too young, their love torn apart by a world that refused to bend.
What a miserable choice for a bedtime story.
The memory clung to her, bittersweet and unshakable, surfacing even as her muscles screamed under the strain. Was it meant as a warning? A lesson wrapped in poetry? Or had Inari simply been indulging in an old sorrow he never quite let go of?
More like hell to me, she thought dryly, forcing her stance to hold.
Inari watched her from a short distance away, amber eyes sharp and thoughtful, glinting like molten gold beneath the filtered sunlight. This master was different. That much was clear. The similarities were there—cleverness, resolve, a quiet refusal to yield—but the way Xierra carried herself set her apart. Where his former master had leaned on strategy and allies, she stood alone more often than not. Independent. Capable.
Stubborn. Very much so.
Not reckless—not quite—but dangerously close.
He hadn't decided yet whether that trait would save her or break her.
Still, he found himself watching her longer than necessary, tail swaying with a rhythm he pretended not to notice. She pushed herself relentlessly, even when her body begged her to stop, even when her hands shook around the wooden sword, knuckles white with strain.
They were alike in some ways, he supposed—both sharp-minded, both ill-suited for brute force. But no, he corrected himself silently. They were nothing alike at all.
Not in the way their eyes had lifted toward the sky. Hers had always searched upward with longing, as if the heavens might one day answer her devotion. Xierra's gaze, by contrast, carried expectation—bright, defiant, fixed on the promise of open air and untaken paths, as though freedom were not a distant wish but an inevitability waiting to be claimed.
Not in the way they moved. Hers had been honed into elegance through discipline and repetition, every step measured, every gesture deliberate. Xierra moved without such restraint, her body guided by instinct rather than instruction, fluid in a way that spoke of choice rather than training—as if she had never been taught where to stand, only trusted herself to know.
Not in the way they spoke. She had chosen her words with care, each sentence softened by tact and consideration. Xierra, on the other hand, flung truths as they came—bare, unvarnished, often sharpened by a dry edge of sarcasm. He suspected, not without a twinge of self-awareness, that some of that had been learned from him.
And certainly not in the way they loved.
She had loved him quietly, faithfully, carrying the weight of it without complaint. Xierra had chosen another altogether, perhaps, her heart unburdened by the past, her steps never once slowing for what had been left behind. There was no shadow of old affection in the way she lived, no hesitation born of memory.
They weren't alike at all.
They weren't the same.
And perhaps, it was simply because she hadn't fully mastered her magic yet.
His gaze flicked to her grimoire, resting nearby, with the crescent moon faintly gleaming in the dappled light, before returning to her rigid form. She learned quickly. Too quickly. Which only meant there was more he needed to teach her—especially the spells she wasn't ready for yet.
Just in case.
"Urk—how much longer is this going to take, Inari...?" Xierra's voice broke through the quiet, strained and breathless.
Her calves burned fiercely, muscles trembling as she fought to maintain the stance. Sweat slid down her temple, her breath coming in uneven pulls as the weight of her own body threatened to drag her down. Every second stretched unbearably long.
"Just a little longer, Master."
Inari's tail flicked lazily, his movements smooth, almost hypnotic. There was amusement in his eyes—undeniable and unapologetic—but when he spoke again, it carried a firmer edge.
"You'll need to learn how to wield a sword before you can advance."
Her head snapped toward him.
"Huh?!" Her eyes widened, disbelief cutting through her exhaustion. She grit her teeth, posture faltering for half a heartbeat before she forced herself back into place. "I've never even held a sword in my life! How am I supposed to get it down in time for the entrance exam?"
With a casual motion, Inari closed her silver grimoire, the ribbon-like binding coiling neatly around it. He padded over, movements unhurried, every step highlighting the contrast between her strain and his ease. Settling beside her, he stretched out comfortably, as though this were all terribly amusing.
"Oh, I'm confident you'll manage," he said lightly, setting the grimoire down at their side. He reached out, tapping her back—not unkindly, but firmly—nudging her into a steadier alignment as her muscles quivered. "You're a fast learner. Faster than you think."
She glared at him from the corner of her eye, breath shaking.
"Chin up," he added, tone shifting just enough to soften. "Back into position."
"Ugh..."
But she obeyed—straightening, grounding herself, refusing to fall.
And Inari watched her do it, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes.
.
.
.
The sun lingered at its zenith, merciless and brilliant, spilling its warmth through the lattice of leaves overhead. Light fractured through the canopy in drifting shards of gold, landing against Xierra's closed eyelids until she stirred, a faint sound slipping from her throat as she surfaced from her drowsy haze. Her lashes fluttered before she squinted against the glare, raising a hand to shield her eyes as heat pressed into her skin—firm, grounding, almost kind in its insistence.
Sweat clung stubbornly to her brow. She brushed it away with the back of her sleeve, the fabric cool for only a heartbeat before it, too, warmed. Her muscles protested the motion anyway, a dull ache curling through her arms and shoulders, settling deep in her bones like an unwanted guest that refused to leave.
Training had devoured the morning whole.
Hours had stretched thin beneath Inari's watchful gaze, each one filled with repetition after repetition. He had corrected her stance until her legs trembled, had driven her to swing the wooden sword until her grip burned and her breath hitched unevenly in her chest. What began as clumsy arcs through the air had sharpened, gradually shedding hesitation. The sword no longer felt like something borrowed—it belonged in her hands now, its weight familiar, its balance something she could anticipate rather than fight against.
Fatigue clung to her like a wet cloth, but beneath it, there was something else. Awareness, maybe. Control.
Xierra exhaled slowly, eyes drifting to the wooden blade she held steady before her. Its surface bore the marks of relentless practice—small nicks, smoothed edges, the grain darkened where her palms had gripped it again and again.
"I guess I really can do this," she murmured, the words barely louder than the breeze threading through the leaves.
The realization settled quietly, but it warmed her more than the sun ever could.
Inari had been thorough, to say the least. The sword itself had once been nothing more than a chunk of firewood, unremarkable and forgotten among a stack of logs that hilled by the church. Somehow, under his claws, it had transformed—carefully shaved, refined into something balanced and durable.
"Oh, don't worry," he had said the day before, entirely unapologetic when she pointed out the suspiciously smaller pile of firewood. "They won't even notice if one goes missing."
She had stared at him, incredulous. He had only smiled.
Now, that same fox flicked his long, ink-dark tail, nudging the silver grimoire across the forest floor. It glided with an almost unnatural smoothness, stopping just shy of Xierra's knees. Sunlight caught along its sterling-lined cover, the metal gleaming softly as if responding to her presence, casting pale reflections against her skin.
Her gaze shifted from the book to Inari, suspicion threading into her exhaustion. "What's with the theatrics?" she asked, though her hands betrayed her hesitation—hovering just above the cover, fingers trembling slightly before touching it.
Inari sat with his tail curling neatly around his form, posture composed, expression unreadable. "Before we depart for the capital," he said, voice steady yet weighted with something deeper, "it is time you understood the true nature of your grimoire."
Her spine straightened at once. Weariness receded, replaced by a sharp spark of alertness. "The true nature?" Her brow furrowed, and the corners of her lips tugged low. "What—don't tell me it's cursed."
A low chuckle slipped from him. "Not quite, Master."
He leaned forward, tail brushing the clasp as he opened the book. The pages stirred softly, whispering against one another like silk pulled from its spool. Despite their age, Inari told her, there was no yellowing, no decay—only parchment that seemed to breathe, faintly alive beneath her gaze.
Symbols shimmered within the pages, woven delicately as if stitched from memory rather than ink. They shifted subtly when she focused too hard, as though refusing to be fully grasped. Inari traced the lines with a careful claw, guiding her attention to words written in elegant, flowing script.
His voice softened.
"Let me tell you of the first human who spoke with us."
The forest seemed to listen.
His claw paused at a single name—etched deeper than the rest, carved with intention rather than written. Around them, pale cerulean wisps stirred, drawn closer as though answering a long-forgotten call.
"She grew with us," Inari continued, his tone reverent. "Lived among us. Walked beside us. She protected us, and we protected her in turn. Not as a ruler. Not as a guest. But as kin."
The air thickened, charged with something unseen.
"She did not seek power," he said, golden eyes catching the light. "Yet strength followed her steps. Not through bloodshed, nor command—but through will. Through resolve."
Xierra leaned closer without realizing it, her fingers brushing the edge of the page. She could feel it now—a quiet pull in her chest, a resonance that hummed beneath her skin.
"She chose the path she carved," Inari went on, voice barely above a murmur. "Not as a queen. Not as a god. But as a guardian. One who walked beside those the world had left behind."
A pause.
The wisps wavered, trembling like breath held too long.
"She was known as—"
The forest seemed to inhale.
"The Whisperer."
.
.
.
Night descended like a curtain drawn too slowly, draping the world in an unbroken shroud of ink and starlight. It was vast—unyielding in its silence, patient in its watch. For spirits, this hour was liberation. A fleeting breath where shackles loosened, where their forms could wander freely without fear of being seen, named, or destroyed.
For humanity, however, the dark had always been an enemy.
They feared what refused to be understood. Feared the shapes that shifted just beyond the reach of sight, the voices that brushed against the edges of thought. And so, to protect themselves, they struck first—hands trembling even as they raised the blade. They wounded, they shattered, they erased. Oceans could divide continents, and the heavens could stretch infinitely above them, yet still they remained bound to their own cruelty, repeating old sins like prayer, like ritual.
Among them lived a girl.
Like them—and yet unmistakably not.
She moved where the living dared not linger, drifting behind spirits as they threaded through a world brimming with vitality. Mountains rose like ancient guardians, their peaks brushing the firmament. Seas unfurled endlessly, breathing salt and time. Life pulsed everywhere—and she walked just outside its rhythm.
She belonged there, and then, nowhere.
A solitary presence suspended between breaths, between heartbeats. Neither fully claimed by life nor welcomed by death, she traced the narrow margin between both—an existence washed in gray, like storm clouds gathering but never breaking. Hollow as the abyss that swallowed starlight whole.
A muted world. Colorless. Quiet.
And yet, even there, the moon watched.
Not full, not hidden, it lingered behind veils of mist, a crescent eye peering through the fog. Long after the sun had abandoned the sky, it remained—patient, distant. Its pallid glow etched a fragile path through the darkness, guiding wandering souls home, gathering them beneath its cold, gentle radiance.
It was mercilessly far, yet it was all they had.
The night belonged to them. The world was theirs to roam—shared with mortals, yet forever separate. Parallel paths that would never truly meet.
Bells chimed softly through the unguarded dark, their delicate jingles dissolving into the breath of night itself. The plucked hum of taut strings intertwined with the sighing notes of bamboo flutes, forming a lullaby that settled over slumbering beasts hidden in mountain and rivers. Somewhere, the faint clatter of wooden clogs vanished into the wind, harmonizing with rustling branches and whispering leaves—a melody balanced precariously between life and oblivion.
Stone effigies stood in solemn procession, faces worn smooth by centuries of rain and reverence. Forgotten gods and goddesses watched in silence as shrines lined the path, their weathered frames echoing prayers long since abandoned.
And there—rising toward the heavens—stretched a stairway of a thousand steps.
"They say that once you descend into the abyss, there is no return."
The voice drifted like fog, neither near nor far.
"You will wander the underworld, a prisoner of the dead, until even your soul forgets the taste of life."
The steps descended into shadow, each one carved by faith and fear alike.
"Cross the boundless hills of bone. Follow the rivers steeped in crimson. There, you shall find a gate that leads beyond."
Foxes prowled through the land, their amber eyes glinting from the dark. Heavenly dogs patrolled the skies above, their howls threading through the wind like warnings etched into the air. Beneath it all, water spirits stirred, murmuring beneath the surface, their whispers rippling through abyssal tides. Sanctuaries stood watch along the path, torii gates aged and solemn, marking the way for those who dared seek release.
"Extend your hand. Open the gate. Behold what lies beyond."
Death.
Sorrow.
Suffering.
Agony blurred the boundary between dream and waking, until even despair lost its shape.
"An endless nightmare," a voice murmured, fragile as breath on glass. "And yet..."
The pause stretched—aching, expectant.
"The Whisperer shall take all your pain away."
The world seemed to hold still.
"Can it be true?" another voice whispered, trembling with disbelief. "A human child who speaks our tongue—who understands our words?"
"I believe so," came the reply, wonder threaded through every syllable. "Whispers travel far. They speak of a child cast aside by their own kind. If you ask me, this is nothing short of a miracle."
"The gods have passed their judgment," someone said reverently. "And at last, they have placed their power into mortal hands."
A hush followed.
"...And yet," a quieter voice faltered, doubt seeping through the cracks, "should this truly be celebrated?"
Silence pressed in, heavy and unresolved.
"Then," a final whisper asked, barely daring to hope, "will they hear us?"
—No, they can't.
The answer came swift, fierce, and burning brighter than fear itself.
"Yes, they can," the voice declared. "And they will."
"But unsettling murmurs slithered through the air," the voices warned, layered and restless, coiling through the dark like smoke that refused to disperse. "They say whatever the child speaks, reality bends to her will. Each word, when woven into song, becomes a dirge of death. Humans have cast the child away."
A hush followed—thick, suffocating.
"What a wretched fate," another voice breathed, sorrow threading through the sound.
"Those humans..." a sharper tone cut in, disbelief edged with disdain. "They would spurn a child so rare?"
"For mortals to abandon such a soul," came a murmur heavy with restrained fury, "even the wrath of the heavens would fall short of quelling their endless greed."
The night seemed to recoil as more voices rose, overlapping, fermenting.
"Their dread of the unknown. Their gluttony for gold and fleeting luxuries. Their pride, their envy—sins and virtues entwined until all that remains is fractured gray."
"Humans have always been creatures of hunger," one spat bitterly. "Fearful. Self-serving. Blind. We should expect no more from a kind so thoroughly tainted."
"When wronged, when betrayed, they repeat their cycle of ruin," another echoed, relentless. "Again and again, until the world itself is stripped bare."
"Their spirits are sullied," a quieter voice lamented. "Their convictions are brittle—woven from hollow dreams and transient desire. Is it any wonder they would forsake a child simply for wielding power beyond their grasp... even beyond ours?"
—That isn't true...!
The thought rippled through the unseen space, fragile yet desperate, as if someone small and unseen had spoken without a voice.
"I say we take the child as our own," a voice declared, resolute. "Shelter her beneath our wings."
"She would fare far better beyond the clutches of her kind," another agreed, gentler, but no less firm.
"I cannot argue with that."
"The child should not bear the weight of suffering simply because mortals tremble before what they fail to understand."
Why...?
The question trembled, raw and unguarded, slipping between the spaces of their resolve.
"Then it is decided," intoned a voice that carried the gravity of judgment. "We shall take the child as our own and raise her among us. Does anyone stand against this?"
Silence answered first.
"None," came a reply at last.
"I hold no protest."
"Nor do I."
Why are you trying so hard...?
The words felt smaller now, fragile as a trembling breath, echoing in the hollow between heartbeats.
"Then it is settled," the voice concluded, unyielding. "We shall take the child as our own."
And so, the unseen gods and wandering spirits bestowed upon her a name.
A title etched into the fabric of fate itself.
The Whisperer.
Not a name given in hope, nor a prayer shaped by mortal longing, but a truth spoken aloud and bound to her existence. A role carved into her soul, declaring what she was rather than who she wished to become.
Kigen—a mark of origin, the proof of where she belonged. Not a beginning promised to the world of men, but a genesis claimed by the spirits themselves. It was the quiet declaration that her roots did not sink into mortal soil, that her first steps had been taken alongside those who walked unseen.
She alone possessed the sight to peer beyond the veil, to witness the departed and the hidden alike—not as a trespasser, but as kin.
An anomaly within the grand design.
A flaw threaded into the tapestry of existence.
A whisper carried through a world of silence.
She was the sole human permitted to walk their realm, to tread upon sacred soil not as a trespasser, but as an equal. She saw them. Heard them. Understood them in ways her own kind never could—not in a hundred years, not in a thousand.
She was the only one who earned their trust.
The only one who stood among them not as an intruder—
—but as one of their own.
I'm nothing more than a stranger, the thought trembled, heavy with disbelief. Just a human child.
So, why...? Why do you fight so desperately for someone you have never even known?
.
.
.
Xierra blinked, her thoughts lagging behind Inari's voice. The tale lingered in the air like incense burned too long—fragrant, heavy, and difficult to decipher. She leaned back against the tree bark, shutting her eyes for a brief heartbeat before her brows knitted together.
"...You know," she said at last, tilting her head, "you kind of suck at storytelling."
The words slipped out far too easily.
She cracked one eye open, gaze drifting toward him as she continued, voice threaded with dry amusement. "You do this thing where you start strong, then wander off somewhere strange, and by the end I'm not even sure what the point is supposed to be."
A pause. Then, with a faint huff of laughter, "It's like that bedtime story you forced on me when I was half-asleep. No moral, no lesson. Just vibes and tragedy."
She waved a hand vaguely in the air. "Most kids' stories at least try to teach you something. Be kind. Don't wander into the forest. Don't trust foxes that talk too much." Her eyes flicked pointedly to him. "Yours just... hurt. Angst."
Inari recoiled as if struck.
"Excuse you?" he said, placing a paw dramatically over his chest. His ears flattened in exaggerated offense, tail lashing once behind him. "That was a masterfully woven narrative passed down through generations."
"Uh-huh," Xierra replied flatly. "Sure it was."
He sniffed, turning his nose up with all the wounded dignity he could muster. "Your lack of appreciation wounds me deeply, Master. Truly."
Despite herself, she smiled—brief and fleeting—but it faded as quickly as it came.
"Inari," she said, more quietly now, lifting her gaze from the grimoire to him, "why are you telling me this?" Her fingers rested against the silver-edged cover, grounding herself in its cool weight. "What does any of this have to do with the grimoire?"
Inari did not answer right away.
When he finally smiled, it wasn't the familiar grin that usually heralded trouble, nor the sly curve of amusement he wore like a second skin. This smile was smaller. Uneven. As though it had been weighed down before it ever reached his lips.
Sadness lingered there—thin, yet very much unmistakable.
It startled her more than anger ever could. More than frustration, more than irritation.
The light filtering through the canopy above caught in his amber eyes, and for a moment, they looked like polished glass holding something fractured beneath the surface. Not broken. But worn. Like a shrine long abandoned, still standing, still sacred, but picked apart by time and loss.
Xierra's chest tightened.
Perhaps it was too soon for her to hear this story, Inari thought, the realization settling like ash in his chest. He had opened a door meant for another season, another self. One she had not yet grown into.
He cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the quiet, as if chasing away a ghost. Whatever lingered behind his eyes receded, tucked carefully back into some hidden corner of himself.
Too soon, indeed—like frost biting a bud that had only just begun to bloom.
"You will understand when the time comes, Master," Inari said at last, his voice steady once more, carefully even. "For now, do not trouble yourself with the things you have heard today."
Xierra blinked again, the words slipping through her grasp like water poured into open palms.
"...That's it?" she muttered.
"Continue with your training," he added, already turning away, brushing past her confusion as though it were no more than dust on his sleeve.
She groaned, slumping back against her seat with a dramatic sigh. "Oh, come on. Can't I have a bit of a break?"
"You had plenty of rest while listening to my story."
"Well, my ears sure didn't," she shot back. "If anything, they've been working overtime."
Inari only hummed, sauntering off with infuriating ease, his tail swaying lazily as if entirely pleased with himself. Leaves rustled as a breeze threaded through the clearing, momentarily easing the oppressive heat—but it did nothing to quiet the unease coiling in her chest.
When the time comes.
The phrase clung to her thoughts, sharp and persistent, like an itch beneath the skin she couldn't scratch. Her gaze followed the path he took, where shadows stretched long between towering trunks, leading somewhere deeper. Somewhere hidden.
She rose, brushing dirt from her skirt, her jaw setting with quiet resolve.
That hadn't been an answer.
There was more to this—more than stories and half-truths, more than warnings wrapped in gentle words.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
What are you hiding, Inari?
.
.
.
The long day had finally drawn to a close.
Night settled over Hage not as silence, but as song—jubilant and bright. The church rang with the children's laughter, their voices spilling through the halls and into the open air like sparks leaping from a hearth. It was the kind of warmth that no fire could replicate, the kind born from closeness, from shared memories, from the ache of a farewell no one quite knew how to name.
Even the laborers returning from the fields slowed their steps as they passed by, worn boots crunching softly against dirt paths. They paused, heads turning toward the glow of the church windows, toward the sound of celebration. Everyone knew what tonight meant.
Tomorrow, Hage would lose its fifteen-year-olds.
No longer would Asta's thunderous footsteps shake the church floors at dawn, his voice ringing louder than the bells themselves.
No longer would Yuno's quiet presence draw glances wherever he went, his calm demeanor leaving whispers in his wake.
And no longer would Xierra be there—no laughter drifting through the fields, no steady hands helping with chores, no familiar warmth easing the children's restless hearts.
The village would feel emptier for it.
But there was no stopping it. Change came whether one reached for it or not, and the world did not wait for goodbyes to grow easier.
If they succeeded—if they became Magic Knights—Hage would swell with pride. Their names would be spoken like blessings, etched into stories told to future children who would one day stare at the horizon with the same longing. And when that day arrived, the village would straighten its shoulders and say, They grew up here.
Xierra sat at the worn wooden table, momentarily stunned by the sight before her.
Nomotatoes—so many of them—prepared every way imaginable. Boiled, mashed, fried, roasted. They crowded mismatched plates, stacked wherever there was room, turning the modest kitchen into something almost unrecognizable. The scent alone—rich, buttery, comforting—wrapped around her senses like an old blanket.
For a place that often counted every crumb, this felt extravagant.
Candles dotted the room, their flames flickering against the walls, mingling with the soft glow of the single hanging lamp overhead. Normally, Father Orsi would have snuffed most of them out without a second thought, careful not to waste even a sliver of wax.
But tonight, he let them burn.
Xierra noticed it immediately—the way the light lingered, unrestrained. A silent admission that this night mattered.
She laughed softly under her breath as her gaze caught Horo and Arlu, their eyes wide and gleaming as they stared at the table like it was a miracle made real. She couldn't blame them. She'd lived here all her life, and even she had never seen the church kitchen look like this.
No wonder Father Orsi looked so pleased with himself.
"Tomorrow's the day," he announced, voice booming with pride as he planted his hands on his hips. His cheeks were flushed, his expression uncharacteristically animated. "Asta, Xierra, and Yuno head for the royal capital! So we're sending them off properly."
"With a bang," he added last, nodding decisively.
Sister Lily approached then, carefully balancing an armful of plates before setting them down. Her smile was gentle, fond. "Father visited the surrounding villages and asked them all for tatoes."
Xierra's chest tightened.
She kept her expression light, her posture easy, but the ache settled deep beneath her ribs, quiet and insistent. She looked around the room—the children, the familiar faces, the chipped walls she could navigate with her eyes closed.
She would miss this.
She would miss Nash's sharp tongue and Asta's unending arguments with him. She would miss the way the younger children clung to her sleeves, asking for stories, for games, for reassurance. She would miss the golden fields swaying beneath endless skies, the whispering woods that cradled secrets, the mountains standing watch in the distance.
She would miss Hage.
Fifteen years of her life lived within these church walls, beneath these skies. Every laugh, every scraped knee, every quiet evening folded into the foundation of who she was—brick by brick, prayer by prayer. The chapel bells had measured her childhood better than any clock ever could, their peals marking not time, but becoming.
She had grown with the forest and its trees, roots tangling quietly beneath her feet as if they, too, were afraid of being left behind. She had grown alongside the two boys from the very beginning of her life, their shadows always just a step away from hers, inseparable as breath and heartbeat. She had grown to love flying on Father Orsi's broom—no matter how crooked it veered, no matter how often it threatened to fall apart beneath them—because it was laughter in motion, freedom stitched together with rusted wire and stubborn hope.
She had grown to love afternoons with Rekka and Sister Lily, filling the kitchen with smoke and burnt sugar, failed batches of cookies lining the counters like evidence of persistence. They never got it right the first time, nor the fifth—only by the tenth did sweetness finally win. Even then, the mess remained warm and familiar. Proof that trying mattered more than perfection.
She had grown to love the neighbors, who watched over her with quiet devotion, offering help even when she was the one reaching out first. Love, she learned, was often like that—given before it was ever asked for. She had grown to love the children at the church, small hands clutching at her sleeves, trusting her without question as she helped care for them alongside the priest and the nun. In their eyes, she saw reflections of herself—fragile, hopeful, unaware of how easily the world could wound.
She had grown to love Hage.
Not as a place, but as a living thing. As the pulse beneath her feet, the air in her lungs, the soil that had shaped her bones. It was the cradle of her life—and slowly, painfully, it became the place she learned she might have to leave. To love something so deeply that the thought of walking away felt like tearing roots from her own chest. To hate the inevitability of departure, not because Hage had failed her, but because it had given her everything.
And that was the cruelest part of all.
This place was her beginning.
And no matter where the road carried her next, she knew—she would never trade it for anything in the world.
"Father!"
Asta's voice rang bright and bold, cutting through the low murmur of the dining hall. His eyes sparkled with unfiltered admiration as he thrust his hand forward, palm open, waiting—no, expecting—a firm clasp of approval.
Instead, Father Orsi stared at it flatly and did absolutely nothing.
The silence stretched just long enough to sting.
"What's with that look?" the priest said at last, arms folding across his chest, unimpressed. "This isn't just for you, you know."
Asta blinked.
With a subtle tilt of his chin, Father Orsi redirected the room's attention to the two seated quietly beside one another. "It's mostly for Yuno and Xierra."
The air shifted.
The younger children stiffened as if someone had tugged invisible strings tied to their shoulders. Chairs creaked. Feet shuffled against the wooden floor. Rekka let out a strained laugh, scratching the back of her neck as though that might dispel the tension pooling between them.
Xierra released a slow breath through her nose.
She watched the way Asta's energy visibly faltered, how the noise drained from the room like water slipping through cracks. Her gaze drifted instead toward the far end of the table, where Horo and Arlu sat transfixed, their eyes glued to Sister Lily as she returned with the last of the dishes.
Steam curled upward in lazy spirals, carrying the scent of roasted tatoes—earthy, buttery, impossibly warm. Horo's fingers twitched on the tabletop. Arlu leaned forward so far she nearly slid off her seat.
Xierra smiled faintly.
"Father...!"
Father Orsi looked away, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but Asta's face. "Well, you see..." His words stumbled, hesitant, clumsy. "Xierra and Yuno have a real shot at making it into the Magic Knights, but you, uh..."
"Father...!!!"
The cry cracked straight through the hall, raw and wounded. Asta's face twisted into something between disbelief and betrayal, his voice echoing off the stone walls. Father Orsi visibly flinched, jaw tightening as regret crept in a second too late.
With a sigh heavy enough to bend his shoulders, he placed a hand on Asta's head—gentler than his words had been. "Listen, Asta. There's no shame in failing the exam."
The gravity in his tone was rare. Grounding. Enough that Xierra had to bite back a laugh, lifting her hand to cover her mouth before the sound escaped.
"Huh?"
Asta barely had time to register the comfort before Father Orsi delivered the final blow, expression utterly serious.
"No one expects you to pass, anyway."
Xierra's shoulders shook. Oh. Oh, that was cruel.
Not a shred of mercy. No attempt to soften it. Just the truth, launched straight at him like a brick.
The refined cadence Inari usually carried dissolved the moment Asta became the center of attention, replaced with something sharp-edged and unapologetic. Xierra had long since suspected it was intentional. Watching them clash was like witnessing a ritual—predictable, loud, and somehow affectionate beneath all the noise.
"Are you trying to encourage me or humiliate me?!" Asta snapped, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles blanched.
He bristled, vibrating with defiance, and Xierra knew that look well. That was the face of someone who would never back down, no matter how impossible the odds.
Inari's laughter rang out, rich and amused, but it barely grazed her awareness. Her focus was elsewhere.
Arlu sat between her knees, small and restless, hair sticking out in stubborn tufts no matter how gently Xierra worked her fingers through it. She tried again, slower this time, weaving what little length there was into something resembling a braid.
Arlu giggled, squirming as Xierra's touch brushed her scalp.
"Hold still," Xierra murmured, voice soft, almost reverent. "You'll look very important if you let me finish."
"That tickles!" Arlu protested, laughter bubbling over anyway.
"You're laughing," Xierra replied lightly. "That means I'm winning."
Father Orsi's voice softened as he turned back to Asta, both hands settling firmly on the boy's shoulders. "You can always return," he said. "This church is your home. No matter how crappy or shabby it may be, it'll always be yours."
The words settled deep, sinking into the spaces between heartbeats.
"He's right, Asta," Sister Lily added, her smile gentle but unwavering.
Arlu's laughter faded as she tilted her head back, eyes shining with something far more fragile. "I'll be lonely without Asta and Xie—" She paused, corrected herself with effort. "—Xie... and Yuno too..."
Xierra's fingers stilled.
She leaned forward, pressing her forehead lightly to Arlu's, braid forgotten. "We're not disappearing," she promised quietly. "Just... going a little farther than before."
Horo slapped his hands on the table, grin wide and unbothered by the ache creeping into the room. "We're all family! Family!"
Xierra looked around then—at the chipped table, the mismatched chairs, the faces she had memorized by heart.
Family, indeed.
Xierra succumbed almost instantly.
The sight of Horo—round-cheeked, flushed with excitement, eyes sparkling like dew caught in lamplight—was far too much for her restraint. She leaned in without warning, arms looping around his small frame, drawing him close until her cheek brushed against his warm, rosy one.
She nuzzled him shamelessly.
Horo shrieked, a bright, bell-like sound bursting from his chest as his legs kicked in frantic protest. His hands pressed uselessly against her shoulders, laughter spilling from him faster than he could catch his breath.
"Xie—nooo! It tickles!" he cried, words dissolving into giggles.
Xierra laughed softly, the sound low and fond, tightening her hold just for a heartbeat longer—long enough to savor it—before releasing him at last.
Horo toppled back into his chair, breathless and disheveled. His hair stuck out in every possible direction, as though he had wrestled a gust of wind and lost. He puffed out his cheeks in an exaggerated pout, eyes still shining.
"You're so mean!" he declared, fumbling with his bangs in a valiant but futile attempt to tame them.
Xierra leaned closer and poked his cheek, gentle but unrepentant. "Oh, please," she said, lips curling. "You love it."
Across the table, Asta shivered. His brows knitted together as he thrust a finger toward them, jaw clenched so tightly it trembled.
"Y-You should say that to Yuno and Xierra too..." His voice wobbled, betraying the panic creeping beneath his bravado. A bead of sweat slid down his temple. "Tell them they can come back whenever they want!"
Father Orsi turned his head away, shoulders shifting as if the weight of the moment had finally caught up to him. A strained chuckle escaped his throat. "Those two will be fine," he muttered, then hesitated. "...Oh—wait. Maybe not Xierra."
Xierra blinked.
Her expression twisted, disbelief flashing sharp and immediate. "What? Why me?"
"You've been fainting a lot these days—"
"Oh, I'll be fine." She waved it off with practiced ease, as though the concern were nothing more than a passing breeze. Then she pivoted sharply toward Yuno, eyes narrowing just enough to plead. "Right, Yuno?"
Yuno studied her in silence.
For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath with him. He could have sided with Father Orsi—could have acknowledged the truth of it. She had collapsed more times than anyone liked to count. But he remembered the way she endured Inari's relentless training, the way her stance had grown steadier, her resolve harder to shake.
At last, he nodded. "Yeah."
Xierra's mouth curved into a victorious grin as she turned back. "See?"
Father Orsi faltered, fingers rubbing the back of his neck. "R-Right... Only Asta, then."
"Eh? What do you mean?!" Asta spluttered, outrage surging anew. He slammed a fist to his chest, eyes blazing. "I'll be fine too! I'm gonna become the Wizard King! And then—" His voice lifted, ringing with unshakable conviction. "I'm gonna come back for Sister!"
Sister Lily froze.
Her eyes widened just a fraction, surprise flickering across her serene composure. For a fleeting second, it almost seemed as though she'd hoped—foolishly—that he had outgrown this particular declaration.
Xierra pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling slowly. "How many times do we have to drill it into that thick skull of yours?" she muttered. "Sister's a woman of the cloth."
Asta ignored her completely.
With a dramatic flourish, he dropped to one knee, arm extended. "So when that happens, marry m—!"
The air cracked.
A torrent of water surged forward, condensed into a single, merciless blow. Sister Lily's conjured fist struck true, sending Asta flying backward. He collided with the wall face-first, the impact echoing through the dining hall before his body slid down in an undignified heap.
Silence followed.
Sister Lily clasped her hands together, smile pristine and gentle as ever. "All right," she said sweetly, as if nothing at all had occurred. "Let's eat, shall we? We have stewed tatoes, tato tempura, grilled tatoes—"
She continued listing the dishes, voice smooth and unbroken.
Xierra had to press her lips together, shoulders trembling as she stifled her laughter. Asta twitched weakly on the floor, resembling a discarded rag doll more than a future Wizard King.
For just a moment, she could have sworn she felt Inari shudder against her shoulder—
—which was ridiculous, really.
He wasn't even physically there.
Xierra's gaze drifted toward the table, her thoughts stalling somewhere between disbelief and awe.
Just how many variations had Sister Lily managed to produce in the span of an afternoon?
Nomotatoes dominated every inch of the worn wooden surface—boiled until tender and glistening, roasted to a crisp golden hue, mashed smooth and pale with butter, fried into thin curls that crackled softly when disturbed. Each plate bore its own quiet personality, humble yet abundant, arranged with such care that the feast felt almost ceremonial.
The air hung heavy with warmth and scent. Fried starch melted with spice, earthiness softened by salt. Her stomach answered before she could stop it, a low, traitorous growl betraying her restraint.
"Thank you for the food!" they chorused together.
Their voices rose as one, bright and eager, bouncing off the stone walls like a shared prayer. For a moment, Xierra thought she might remember this sound forever—the way gratitude could feel so full, so alive.
She had just turned to help Horo steady his plate when movement flickered at the edge of her vision.
Asta.
He sprang up with the subtlety of a charging boar, eyes locked onto her untouched serving like it was a prize to be claimed. His fingers twitched, already halfway through a plan he'd rehearsed a thousand times before—
—and then the air snapped.
A sudden gale surged through the hall, sharp and unrelenting. Asta yelped as the wind slammed him forward, planting him face-first against the wall with a dull thud.
Yuno stood where he was, calm as ever.
"Yuno," Xierra said, laughter slipping out despite herself as she reached out and gave his arm a light pat. "I think you can stop now."
He exhaled slowly, releasing the spell.
Asta, however, remained suspended—his feet dangling just above the floor, Sister Lily's water fist still holding him in place with unwavering resolve. It was almost admirable. No matter how often he was struck down, he always rose again, sheer stubborn will dragging him back to his feet every single time.
Chaos followed like a tidal wave.
The dining hall dissolved into noise, voices crashing into one another in a frantic, joyful mess.
"Not yet!!"
"So flaky and delicious!"
"Yummy!"
"Hyah!!"
"Hey, that's mine!!"
"Asta, don't steal mine too!"
"Don't eat it all yourself, Asta!"
"No wonder Father said it's not for you. You keep stealing everyone's food."
"Come on, don't fight. There's enough for everyone."
"So good!!"
"Stop enjoying your food and listen to me!!"
Xierra leaned back in her chair, exhaling softly as she took it all in.
The clatter of plates, the overlapping laughter, the small hands scrambling for seconds—it was messy and loud and utterly familiar. Asta, still somehow contributing to the chaos despite being half-pinned to a wall, grinned through it all like this was exactly where he belonged.
Her lips curved into something fond, something aching.
If this was what she would be leaving behind, then it was no wonder her chest felt so tight.
.
.
.
The morning greeted her with a quiet kind of honesty.
Crisp air brushed against Xierra's skin, cool and clean, carrying the faint bite of dawn that clung to her like a final, unspoken goodbye. She stretched beneath the paling sky, joints loosening with soft creaks as sleep slipped from her limbs. Every motion felt deliberate today—measured by the weight of what it meant.
This was the day.
The day that she, Yuno, and Asta would leave.
For the first time, her feet would carry her beyond the borders of Hage and the neighboring villages, past the mountains that had stood like patient sentinels over her childhood. Those peaks had once felt endless, immovable—now they seemed smaller somehow, like a doorway she had finally grown tall enough to pass through.
Excitement thrummed beneath her ribs, bright and restless, braided tightly with a quiet unease she refused to name.
The road ahead was unwritten.
And with the sun's slow ascent, a new chapter stirred to life.
A breeze drifted through the clearing as Xierra took her place between the two boys. It smelled of damp earth and crushed grass, of morning dew warming beneath the sun's gentle touch. Golden light spilled over the village, painting the rooftops and fields in amber hues, stretching their shadows long and thin across the dirt path like threads tying them back to home.
"Take care," Father Orsi said.
His voice lacked its usual bluster, softened into something fragile and sincere. The younger children crowded close, arms wrapping around Xierra's legs, fingers curling into her clothes as if she might slip away if they loosened their grip.
She crouched instinctively, hands resting atop small heads, thumb brushing comfort into trembling shoulders. Her chest tightened, but she smiled anyway.
Rekka stepped forward next.
She hesitated—just a breath, just a heartbeat—before pulling Xierra into a brief embrace that carried far more weight than its length suggested. When Rekka pulled back, she turned away quickly, scrubbing at her eyes with the heel of her palm.
"You'd better write to us," she said, voice steady by sheer will alone. Her gaze flicked between them. "Yuno. Xie."
Xierra nodded, warm certainty settling into her tone. "We will."
Yuno inclined his head. "Yeah."
Voices rose around them, overlapping and earnest.
"Good luck!"
"Come back soon!"
"Oh, he'll be back before you know it," Nash drawled, hands laced behind his head as if this were any other morning. "Asta, that is."
"Nash!" Asta sputtered, cheeks puffing out as Nash strolled closer, grin sharp and teasing.
"But you know..." Nash's steps slowed.
Xierra lifted a brow, already bracing herself. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Inari's laughter echoed—soft, knowing—prompting her to hide a smile behind her hand.
"If—just if," Nash began, faltering as if the words resisted him, "and it's a really huge if..." He shot Asta a sideways glance, jaw tightening. "If you somehow get into the Magic Knights..."
"Yeah...?" Asta leaned forward, eyes wide.
Nash swallowed. His fingers curled at his sides.
"Then I'll start believing," he said quietly. "In possibilities. In the idea that I can be something—anything—if I try hard enough." His voice wavered, then steadied.
"And one day, I'll join the Magic Knights too...!"
Xierra blinked.
Then she smiled—slow, bright, proud—hands settling on her hips. "Well," she said lightly, warmth threading through her words, "guess you'd better start dreaming big."
"No—never mind," Nash muttered quickly, turning away with a huff. A faint flush crept up his ears as he shifted his weight, arms crossing defensively.
Asta grinned like the world had just expanded before him, promising—loudly—that he'd wait.
Xierra's gaze drifted to Yuno.
He stood as composed as ever, expression carefully neutral. She nudged his elbow, subtle but insistent, silently urging him to join the moment. He shot her a brief look before turning away, pretending not to notice.
The faint red dusting his ears betrayed him anyway.
"Then," Yuno said, firm and resolute, "we'll be off."
His hand closed around Xierra's wrist, grounded and steady, and he pivoted toward the road ahead.
"Hey—wait, you two!" Asta called out.
"Be careful!!" Horo shouted, hands cupped around his mouth, voice carried by the breeze.
"We will!" Xierra called back.
She waved with both hands, heart full and aching all at once. Asta waved just as fervently, grin stretching impossibly wide. Yuno paused only long enough to glance back once—eyes calm, unwavering—before giving a single nod.
And then, step by step, they moved forward.
Leaving behind everything they had been—
—and walking toward everything they had yet to become.
"Don't just brush me off! Answer me, you insufferably handsome jerk!"
Asta's laughter burst across the open road as he swung a playful fist at Yuno's arm, his voice bright enough to scatter the lingering hush of morning. Dust kicked up beneath his boots, sunlight catching in his hair as he bounded ahead and back again, never quite staying still.
"Just because we're rivals doesn't mean we can't get along!" he continued, grinning widely. "Try being more like Xierra here."
At the sound of her name, Xierra barely had time to register what was happening before a sharp poke jabbed into her ribs.
She jolted, breath hitching, and immediately swatted Asta's hand away with a scowl. "What did you do that for?" she snapped, arms folding across her chest.
Asta only rocked back on his heels, utterly unrepentant. His grin stretched ear to ear, eyes alight with mischief. "Just checking you're still awake," he said lightly. "Wouldn't want you daydreaming already."
Xierra narrowed her eyes, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her. "You're unbelievable."
He tilted his head, studying her with sudden, uncharacteristic focus. "You've changed, you know. I just realized it."
She blinked. "Huh?"
"You used to be scared of everything," Asta said, not unkindly. "But now—look at you. You're way braver than before."
Her expression twisted, indignant and flustered all at once. "Hey! What's that supposed to mean?!"
Asta laughed, already walking backward down the road, hands laced behind his head as if the world ahead held no weight at all. His energy spilled freely into the morning, tireless and fearless, as though the future were just another challenge he was eager to tackle head-on.
Beside her, Yuno said nothing.
His pace shifted instead—subtle, deliberate. What had been a loose grip at Xierra's arm slid downward, fingers threading into hers with quiet certainty. His hand was warm, solid, a stark contrast to the lingering chill of dawn.
She faltered half a step, eyes lifting to him. "Yuno—?"
He didn't look at her. His gaze stayed forward, expression calm as ever, but his grip tightened just enough to be reassuring.
"Hey!" Asta squawked suddenly, twisting around in time to catch sight of their joined hands. He stared for a beat, then snorted, waving it off with exaggerated dismissal. "Whatever. Do what you want."
He spun back around and raised a hand high, waving toward the distant figures near the church. "Well, bye, guys!"
Xierra laughed softly and cupped her hands around her mouth, mirroring the way Horo had earlier. "We'll see you soon!" she called, voice ringing clear through the open air.
"Have a safe trip!"
"See ya!"
The chorus of farewells chased after them, fading slowly as their steps carried them farther down the road. Gravel crunched beneath their boots, the village shrinking behind them with every breath taken and released.
They walked side by side, three silhouettes stretching long across the sunlit path. Behind them, their footprints pressed into the earth—small, fleeting marks left upon soil that had cradled their childhood laughter, their scraped knees, their shared dreams.
With each step, the distance grew.
Further from the warmth of familiar walls.
Further from the voices that had shaped them, the hands that had steadied them.
Further from the world they had known.
A sudden wave of solitude washed over Xierra, quiet but relentless, settling deep beneath her ribs. She drew in a slow breath, steadying herself against the ache blooming in her chest. Farewells had a way of rooting themselves there—heavy, insistent—no matter how tightly she tried to hold herself together.
Part of her wanted to turn back. To sink into the familiar warmth of the church, to lose herself again in the noise of clattering dishes and childish laughter, to remain wrapped in a place that had known her before she had known herself.
Yet another voice—firmer, brighter—urged her onward.
It told stories of open skies and paths untrodden, of dreams that would rot if left untouched. Of a future that did not wait for hesitation.
She lifted her chin, eyes tracing the boundless blue stretched overhead. The sky felt impossibly wide today, like an invitation written just for her. A small, resolute smile curved her lips.
Someday.
Someday, she would make them proud.
From somewhere deep within her, Inari stirred. His presence brushed against her thoughts like a fox's tail—warm, knowing, faintly amused. She could almost see the curve of his grin, hear the quiet certainty in his silence.
He knew.
He always did.
Her wishes, her doubts, the promises she carried without ever voicing aloud—none of it escaped him.
She'd say it with pride.
That she'd come from Hage. That its soil had shaped her, and its people had raised her—calloused hands, gentle scoldings, shared meals, and borrowed warmth forming the marrow of her being.
That she was an orphan, and that she had never been less for it. If anything, she had learned early how to stand on her own feet, how to endure without bitterness, how to give without keeping score.
That she was someone worth believing in. Not because fate had chosen her, but because she chose to stay kind, to stay resolute, even when the world offered her every reason not to.
And when the time came, she stood beside Asta and Yuno—not as a shadow, not as a bystander, but as an equal—ready to protect them all, no matter the cost.
I'l— pr—te—t y—u.
Her step faltered.
Something tugged sharply at her chest, as though invisible fingers had reached in and curled around her heart. Xierra stopped and turned, gaze sweeping back toward the village shrinking behind them.
The figures were small now—blurred by distance and light—but she saw enough.
The children were still waving.
Their arms moved more slowly than before, enthusiasm worn thin by the weight of realization. She couldn't see their faces clearly, but she didn't need to.
She knew.
They were crying.
Little shoulders shook, fragile and unguarded. Tiny hands hovered uselessly at their sides, as if unsure whether to cling or let go. They weren't just mourning the goodbye—they were grieving the empty spaces it would leave behind.
The laughter that once overflowed the halls would soften into echoes.
Beds would no longer feel too small, no longer crowded with limbs, and accidental hugs in the middle of the night meant to chase away the cold. There would be three fewer voices bickering over the last scrap of bread, three fewer hands tugging at sleeves for help, three fewer presences stirring up trouble simply by existing.
They wouldn't wait for the older kids to lead anymore. Wouldn't lean in close for whispered advice. Wouldn't reach out for reassurance that tomorrow would be fine because Xie said so.
Life at the church would continue.
Just a bit quieter.
Just a bit emptier.
Tears spilled freely now. The youngest buried their faces into the sisters' robes, sobs muffled but no less fierce. Nash turned away, jaw clenched tight, his pride crumbling despite his efforts to hold it together. Rekka didn't bother pretending—she cried openly, shoulders trembling, as if pouring every unsaid word into the earth before it slipped too far out of reach.
They hadn't wanted to cry.
They'd wanted smiles. Brave faces. A proper send-off.
But some feelings refused to be swallowed.
The plan shattered within seconds.
Reality settled in, heavy and inescapable.
They were leaving.
Leaving behind everything they had ever known—just to chase a dream.
The thought that they wouldn't see them as often anymore carved something hollow into their chests. Sorrow coiled tight, breath hitching, eyes burning as tears blurred the world into smears of light and color.
Small hands scrubbed at wet cheeks, only spreading the redness further. Sniffles broke unevenly through the air, lungs struggling to draw steady breaths.
Still, they cried.
Do——t c—y...
The voice slipped gently into their minds—light, familiar, threaded with warmth and a teasing lilt.
Don't cry.
A quiet giggle followed, soft as a breeze through tall grass.
The sobs faltered.
One by one, the children froze, blinking through tears in stunned confusion, as if they'd just been called by name from a dream.
"It's not like we'll never see each other again," she reassured them, warmth unfurling through every syllable, as though she could wrap it around their shoulders and keep it there. "We'll write letters, won't we?"
Even without seeing her, they could picture it clearly—the gentle curve of her lips, the steadiness in her eyes that refused to waver. That familiar smile had always been her quiet promise: that distance did not mean abandonment, that absence was never the same as loss.
Ahead of her, Yuno and Asta slowed without realizing it. Her voice slipped into their awareness like a soft draft through an open window, brushing against their thoughts even as she reached back toward the church and the children she had just left behind.
It all happened too fast for Xierra to fully grasp. One moment, she had been waving, swallowing the ache in her throat; the next, her thoughts had stretched outward, thin as silver thread, finding the hearts she was afraid to let go of. Inari had spoken of this gift before—quietly, cautiously—but she had never imagined it would awaken now, at the edge of farewell.
Yet there she was. Speaking without sound. Touching without hands.
A small smile lingered on her face, tender and almost disbelieving.
We'll come back with good news, she promised them. And even if we return with bad ones... I know you'll still be there to cheer us up, right?
"Yes!"
Horo's voice burst out loud and proud, echoing across the path. The notion of answering in his head never stood a chance against the excitement that was bright and unfiltered. Xierra's laughter drifted back through the connection, soft and musical, and Horo straightened with renewed pride, as if he'd done something terribly important.
Arlu tried next. Her reply tangled itself into hiccups and muffled cries, words dissolving into raw sound before they could take shape. The ache in Xierra's chest bloomed all at once, sharp and overwhelming, and she exhaled a breath that trembled despite her efforts.
"Don't cry..." she murmured, gentler now, her voice thinning at the edges. She stood on the brink of tears herself, balancing between strength and longing with practiced care.
Leaving—truly leaving—pressed down on her more heavily than she had ever anticipated. The chapel bells, dulled by distance. The forest paths were worn smooth beneath familiar footsteps. The neighbors who scolded her for helping too much and thanked her all the same. The kitchen was filled with laughter and burnt sweets. The children who clung to her sleeves, believing she would always come back.
This was the place that had raised her. The place that had loved her. And now, the place where she was learning how to walk away from.
We'll be home before you know it, she told them, clinging to the certainty of it like a charm.
Their figures receded, swallowed gradually by the winding road and the pale sweep of sky beyond it. Still, their hands lifted one last time, a quiet gesture carved with everything they couldn't say.
Until then, she added softly, the words settling like a vow, wait for us.
.
.
.
Sister Lily lifted her hand in a final wave, her smile steady yet tinged with quiet sorrow. She stayed, waiting patiently for Horo and Arlu's sniffles to subside. Beside her, Father Orsi was a complete mess—his face buried in the crook of his arm as he wailed without restraint. For a grown man, he wept with far less composure than the children, his voice cracking as he shouted a string of jumbled words, the names of the three departing teens slipping in between his incoherent sobs.
Sister Lily sighed, already expecting such a reaction. With practiced ease, she placed a gentle hand on his trembling shoulder, offering silent reassurance. Turning to the children, she mustered a warm smile, her fingers threading through Arlu's short hair in a soothing motion.
"Don't worry. Just as Xierra said—don't cry," she murmured, her voice soft yet firm, like a lullaby meant to ease their grief.
"Yeah! They'll be back with good news! I believe in them!" Rekka chimed in, hastily wiping her tears before breaking into a determined grin. She reached over and patted Horo's head as if passing on her newfound resolve.
A faint scoff cut through the air. Nash, who had been quietly sniffling, crossed his arms with a huff. "I doubt the same could be said for Asta, though."
For a moment, the weight of their sadness lightened. A burst of laughter erupted from the group, ringing through the evening air like a final, heartfelt farewell.
The somber weight that had loomed over them moments ago dissipated, swept away by the familiar warmth that always lingered whenever Yuno, Xierra, and Asta were near. Laughter and playful chatter soon took their place, their sorrow momentarily forgotten in the comfort of shared company.
With their final shouts of farewell carried off by the wind, the children trickled back into the church, one by one. Sister Lily gently lowered Arlu to the ground, watching as the little girl scurried after the others, a radiant grin finally lighting up her face.
For a moment, the nun lingered at the threshold, her gaze drifting toward the path where the three had disappeared. The fading light of dusk painted the horizon in soft hues as though the sky itself was bidding them a gentle goodbye.
She smiled, warmth filling her chest as she whispered into the evening breeze:
"I wish you three the best of luck."