"I won't accept the fate where we all die like this!"
Xierra rolled her sleeves back with deliberate care.
The motion was steady, practiced—despite the tremor in her fingers and the ache crawling beneath her skin. She slipped her ragged robe from her shoulders and tied it securely around her waist, crimson fabric winding twice around her small frame. It was worn and frayed, edges darkened by flame and frost, but it held together.
It held together—whether her bravery or her sanity, she didn't know.
But one thing she did was that she wasn't going down without a fight.
With what little mana remained humming faintly in her veins, she turned toward her grimoire. The pages fluttered restlessly before settling, as though answering her unspoken resolve. Her lips moved without sound, eyes skimming the inked lines until they stopped—exactly where they needed to.
Her training with Inari had not been for nothing.
She refused to let it end here.
Not on her first mission as a Magic Knight. Not like this.
Her dreams would not shatter on frozen ground. Not to faceless enemies. Not at the cost of a village full of lives she had sworn—whether aloud or not—to protect.
Her gaze lifted, flickering between the spell etched before her and Heath's still figure beyond the ice. The memory burned sharp—him standing over Inari's unmoving body, eyes cold and unfeeling.
She hated that image.
The notes in her grimoire.
The spells were drilled into muscle memory.
The stances repeated until her body screamed.
She hadn't endured hell just to fall apart now. That old fox hadn't dragged her through fire and fear unless it was to prepare her for moments exactly like this.
She inhaled.
Then—"Astral Magic: Earthshine Waltz!"
The air behind her glimmered.
A pale radiance unfurled quietly, like moonlight remembering itself. Not sunlight born of fire, but its reflection—borrowed brilliance reflected from the world below. The dim, silvery glow gathered behind Xierra in thin arcs, crescent after crescent taking shape as if carved from the Moon's faintest phase.
They cut through every shard they touched.
The crescent lights slid forward in graceful, merciless curves, sharp edges gleaming with a cold luminosity that felt older than magic itself. Each arc moved like a dancer's step—measured, precise—slicing through layers of magic as though they were shadows daring to exist in borrowed light. Barriers cracked not with thunder, but with a crystalline chime, splintering under the quiet insistence of reflected radiance.
Ice shattered.
Fragments rained down like broken stars as Xierra sliced through the frozen sections of the dome from within. Her brows knit together, focus sharpening.
"...Not enough."
The dome still stood.
But something changed.
The winds did not dissipate. They grew—thickening, swelling—filling every hollow space between limbs and breaths. They coiled above hands, brushed past legs, slipped beyond sight before condensing again, denser, sharper.
They struck from the inside.
Xierra moved.
She gestured toward Heath, never allowing the attack to stagnate, her fingers tracing sigils as her lips shaped spell after spell. Each step forward forced him back, boots scraping against ice as newly opened entrances spilled weapons aimed straight for his throat.
She took one final step.
The dome sealed behind her.
The name protection no longer applied.
"What are you doing?!" Rhein shouted.
He lurched forward, panic cracking his voice—but pain flared instantly, the burn along his arms screaming as he hissed and staggered back. "God—dammit, not now!"
Small arms wrapped around his legs.
"Big Brother...?" a child asked softly, wide eyes shimmering with fear. "Are you all right?" Another tug followed, hesitant. "Are we gonna be all right?"
The break in his voice shattered something inside Rhein.
He crouched quickly, biting back a sharper hiss as the movement pulled at his injury. Gritting his teeth, he reached out and rested a careful hand atop the boy's head, fingers brushing through light brown strands.
"It's fine." The words left him on a breath he barely trusted, hands tightening for just a moment before easing again. "It's fine—I'm fine." A brittle laugh slipped out, thin and unconvincing, as if he could reshape reality by insisting hard enough.
"You're safe here. You're not in danger. We're all right."
Children had never really liked him.
And he had never liked them, either.
They were too much—too noisy, too close, too wild. Their presence demanded attention he never felt equipped to give. They broke into tears without warning. They stumbled, scraped their knees, reached out with trembling fingers, and eyes far too wide for their small faces. They relied on others with an honesty that left no room to hide.
It frightened him.
Because they reminded him of everything he used to be.
Small. Powerless. Waiting for someone—anyone—to choose him.
Weak. They were weak. He was weak.
"It's all right," Rhein repeated, thumb moving through the boy's hair in a careful motion, as though afraid that too much pressure might shatter him. His chest tightened, each breath scraping against something raw and unhealed. The cold bit into his skin, the sting in his arms flaring again, but he stayed there, grounded by the small weight leaning into him.
Maybe this time, the reassurance wasn't meant to convince the child.
Maybe it was a promise he was trying to make—to himself.
"Everything's gonna be okay."
.
.
.
Xierra refused to meet Heath's vengeful stare.
Her jaw clenched, teeth pressing hard enough to ache, as she hurled herself forward with the light coiling tight at her flanks. It answered her call in sharpened arcs—refined at one edge, merciless at the other—turning the air itself into something lethal. Each movement carved intent into motion, every step daring fate to strike first.
The counterforce crashed into her like a wall.
Ice screamed against the wind, pressure slamming into her arms and shoulders. She swallowed the cry that threatened to tear out of her throat, forcing her stance to hold. Heath wasn't holding back anymore. The restraint they'd sensed before was gone, stripped away to reveal something far colder, far heavier.
So this is it, she thought grimly. This is his real strength.
"Asta, stand up!" Her voice tore through the frozen air as she surged toward him—only to halt sharply when danger sliced in from behind.
She pivoted on instinct.
A crescent of wind snapped into place, batting the shard aside and hurling it into the trunk of a nearby tree, where it shattered on impact. She didn't slow. Another blade cleaved incoming ice in two, fragments skidding across the ground.
"We all need you!"
Her gaze flicked sideways.
Asta's body stirred—barely—but it was enough. Enough to tighten something in her chest.
Not far from him, Inari remained sprawled where he had fallen, unmoving.
Xierra's eyes narrowed, irritation cutting through her strain.
"You too, Inari," she snapped, breath fogging thickly. "You might fool me from a distance, but you look ridiculous playing dead like that."
A low chuckle answered her.
The fox shifted, coughing hard as dark drops stained the frostbitten ground. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, gold eyes dulled and unfocused, fatigue weighing heavily behind them. "Master, I really am injured," he replied dryly. "How exactly would I fake something like this?"
"You'd find a way," she shot back.
"I would, yes," he agreed without hesitation. "You know me best."
She glared at him, redirecting another barrage with a sweep of her arm. Light snapped outward, intercepting Heath's spell before it could close in. She'd meant to train more—meant to ask Yuno to push her further, to refine her control with him through a spar—but the Golden Dawn had been drowning in obligations, and her own first week among the Crimson Lion Kings had slipped through her fingers like sand.
She shot Inari a sideways look. "If you have breath to argue, then use what energy you have left."
"Yes, yes," he huffed, already moving. "Understood, Master."
Inari slipped behind the chaos, weaving between falling shards until he reached Asta. He nudged the boy's side, grimacing at the state he was in. "Come on," he urged, tone flat yet threaded with concern. "Up. You're not done yet. She can't hold that man alone."
A strained sound escaped Asta.
Inari hooked his head beneath Asta's torso, trying to haul him back. The weight dragged them both down—injuries screaming protest—but he grit his teeth and continued, inch by inch.
His gaze lifted to Xierra.
Sweat traced her temple despite the freezing air, her breathing uneven, movements growing sharper, more forced. "You won't be able to cast much longer," he warned. "Those desperate attacks are nearly all you have left."
"I know."
"And your mana—"
"I know."
Inari exhaled through his nose. He turned away, focusing on pulling Asta to safety. Heath's lips moved in the distance, words lost beneath the collision of magic that was tearing the field apart.
Xierra's spell work wasn't ideal.
But it was hers.
The stars answered swiftly, obeying every flick of her wrist, every shift of balance. It struck fast, curved wide, and returned again and again from impossible angles. Yet each collision with ice dragged the warmth from the air, plunging the world further into a numbing chill.
Crescent blades filled the space, striking from above, from behind, from the right, from the left, and from places the eye could barely track.
Time pressed forward.
The unseen mechanisms of fate ground on, uncaring.
The world refused to pause—and so did she.
White mist spilled from her mouth as she exhaled. Her lips felt cracked, her ears burned painfully beneath the cold, and her limbs resisted each command like they no longer belonged to her. Sound dulled, replaced by a ringing hum, until all she could see were the clouds of her breath and the blurred descent of Heath's icicles.
No. Not yet.
Asta's voice surfaced in her mind—raw, stubborn, unyielding.
I'm not done yet.
And neither was she.
Her body begged her to stop. Muscles screamed, lungs clawed for air. She wanted to go home. To collapse onto a bed—any bed. Stone floor, rooftop, shared space—it didn't matter. She wanted quiet. She wanted rest.
She wanted to read without counting seconds. To complain about Father Orsi's bread. To wonder whether the crops had grown while she was gone. To trust that Sister Lily had the children fed and safe.
She wanted to go home.
But the thought left something bitter in her chest.
If she turned back now, there would be fewer hands standing between Clover and ruin. If she hadn't taken the Magic Knights' entrance exam—if she hadn't chosen this path—would she forgive herself?
Her grip tightened.
Above the exhaustion, above the fear, one truth remained, fragile yet burning.
—I want to dream again.
She wanted to save them.
The wish rose from somewhere deep, raw and unpolished, not born of heroism but of instinct—the same instinct that had guided her to stand when that little black silhouette first learned to heal scraped knees on that snow-filled day, when she had stood between danger and someone smaller than herself without thinking twice.
She wanted to protect them all.
To protect the villagers who were trembling behind trembling legs, the children clutching at borrowed courage, the Magic Knights standing bloodied yet unbowed. Their dreams, their tomorrows, the fragile line of days stretching forward, if only tonight could be survived.
For she was a Magic Knight.
For she was human.
She was selfish in wanting to dream, selfish in wanting to save them, and selfish for thinking she could do it on her own.
No matter how heavy the mantle felt on her shoulders, no matter how cruel the world proved itself to be, this path had been hers to choose. Duty cut deep, yes—but it also gave her shape. Gave her purpose. Gave meaning to the ache in her bones and the fire in her chest.
Facing the world was her trial.
Climbing toward something brighter was her burden.
If she faltered here—if she collapsed beneath the weight of this first true battle—she would never forgive herself. Never meet Asta's unyielding grin or Yuno's quiet resolve without lowering her gaze. Never return to Hage and claim she had chased her dreams and lived to tell the tale.
Xierra squeezed her eyes shut, then forced them open again.
The world swam.
Light fractured into blurs and sharp halos, stinging at the edges of her sight. She blinked repeatedly, uncertain whether the wetness burning her eyes belonged to dust, strain, or something far more humiliating. Her reflection, if one existed now, would show nothing but reddened whites and stubborn defiance clinging to exhaustion.
Her mana bled away faster than she had planned.
She had measured it—counted breaths, shaped output, restrained excess—but her spell demanded more than calculation. The crescent lights borrowed from the moon answered her call eagerly in the night, but each summoned arc took something in return. She tried to recover using Leopold's taught method, drawing deep and grounding herself, yet the well refused to refill.
Switching tactics offered no mercy.
She had no blade in hand. No trained body for close combat. Her strength had always rested in spells, in control, in creation.
Think—think—think, Xierra.
Her thoughts scattered like startled birds.
The spell gnawed at more than her mana. It carved into muscle and nerve, into focus and will. Her limbs felt detached, as though they no longer belonged to her. Her head throbbed, pleading for stillness. She stood on the edge of collapse, closer to defeat than Heath had managed to force her.
What do I do?
The battlefield tilted.
One wrong step would have sent her crumpling. The ground felt unreliable beneath her feet, as though the earth itself hesitated to hold her upright.
Still, she moved.
She slipped past Heath's frozen barrage, light bending around her as crescent arcs of Earthshine swept forward. Pale moonlight—reflected, borrowed, sharpened—cut through the dark like silent vows. Each blade curved with intention, carving paths through ice and spell alike.
Her flame had not gone out.
Her dream still breathed. It was still alive.
Even as her body screamed for surrender, she refused it. Even as something dragged at her from below, urging her downward, she resisted with every remaining scrap of will. She would not yield. Not now. Not while so many depended on her standing.
Her vision dimmed, and her heart raced unevenly. She felt faintness press close, insistent and cold—but she pushed back against it with stubborn denial.
Not now. Not when everyone's hopes balanced on this fragile moment—
"Master!"
Inari's voice struck through the haze.
It reached her ears yet felt distant, as though separated by an impossible stretch of space. The black fox spirit stood behind her, fur bristling, ready to catch her if she fell. Worry sharpened his tone, but beneath it lay warmth—steady, protective, anchoring. Warmer than the frozen air. Warmer than fear.
Inari—
She tried to shape his name.
Nothing came. Her knees buckled.
She hit the ground on one knee, breath tearing from her chest in ragged pulls. Air refused to fill her lungs properly. Pain detonated behind her ribs, then dulled into a vast, spreading numbness. Her arms tingled uselessly. Her legs refused command.
Her body shut down. It betrayed her.
Had she reached it? She wondered. This invisible boundary she had sworn to surpass?
No. That wasn't true. She knew she could go further. She knew there was more left in her. But knowledge meant nothing when flesh refused obedience.
Her fingers slackened around her grimoire. Pages fluttered weakly, searching—searching—for something kinder, something lighter. A spell that demanded less. A miracle hidden between ink and parchment.
There was none.
Nothing answered.
The world narrowed to breath and pain.
If she could not rise, then she would at least buy time. If she could not win, then she would still fight. With the last remnants of her energy, she sent the remaining crescent lights forward—faint, trembling arcs of moon-borrowed brilliance—aimed not to defeat Heath, but to slow him.
It was all she had left.
And she gave it without regret.
Over and over again.
Even when Inari's lips moved and formed words she could no longer catch, the meaning still reached her in fragments—like echoes carried through water, distorted but familiar.
A sacrifice for a sacrifice.
That was what he would have called it.
She didn't hate the phrase. Strangely enough, it felt gentle. Almost kind.
"Not yet!!"
A voice tore through the haze. Asta's.
Xierra's lashes fluttered. Her vision refused clarity, but she knew that shout anywhere. The stubborn force behind it, the refusal to stay down. She wanted to laugh at that—at him—but the attempt died in her chest, replaced by a sharp burn that climbed her lungs and settled there, unforgiving.
So this was weakness.
It clung to her like a second skin.
She hated it. She hated this ugly thing called "weakness".
Inari nudged her side, tentative at first, then more insistently when she failed to react. His ears trembled. His golden eyes wavered, searching her face as if the answer might be carved there.
"Master?" His voice wavered despite his effort to steady it. "Can you hear me?"
"Inari..." Her reply slipped free more breath than sound.
Her grimoire had gone quiet—no glow, no turning pages—resting uselessly near his paw. Platinum strands curled and clung to her cheeks, damp with sweat and the weight of everything she hadn't been able to finish. Slowly, clumsily, her hand rose.
It brushed his fur.
Inari startled at the contact, breath hitching as her fingers threaded through the dark softness he had long stopped noticing. She hummed faintly, the sound barely there, as though it came from someplace far away.
A pat.
Then another—lighter than the last.
"You did a good job, Inari."
The words reached him fragile, worn thin, wrapped in a smile that didn't quite hold. There was praise there. Gratitude. Trust.
Yet comfort never arrived. Something cracked instead.
"Rest... up..."
Her eyes closed.
For a heartbeat, Inari forgot how to breathe.
Her hand slipped away, leaving behind a hollow warmth he hadn't realized he depended on. She had always touched him—carelessly, fondly, without ceremony. Ruffled his fur until it lost all sense of order. Tugged at his ears. Brushed him when he complained and stayed anyway.
It had never meant this.
Until now.
The sensation struck deep, unearthing things long buried. Images without names. Feelings without edges. A flood of something old and aching surged through him—memories he hadn't known existed, greeting him like ghosts that smiled as if they'd been waiting.
He exhaled. Until he finally moved.
His form expanded, dark fur stretching and reshaping as he settled behind her, careful and precise. Pain no longer registered. The wounds Heath had carved into him dulled into insignificance, stripped of meaning.
His tail curved around Xierra, guiding her upright, bracing her against his chest. He shielded her with it, a quiet vow made without words.
Asta's battle raged ahead, but Inari watched from where he rested his head near her slackened hand. Above them, clouds began to part, torn open by a pale warmth that slipped through the sky. The air shifted. Birds dared to sing again. Frost retreated, loosening its grip as mist thinned and vanished.
The world exhaled.
As if congratulating them.
As if acknowledging that they had endured.
As if fate itself had leaned forward, applauding their survival.
Inari scoffed under his breath.
He turned his gaze just in time to see Magna barrel into Asta, pain forgotten in favor of relief so sharp it bordered on reckless. He caught Rhein sprinting toward them the moment it was safe, his face pale with fear he hadn't let himself feel until now. He endured Asta's shouting with a patience he rarely afforded anyone, shooing him away with the last scraps of his strength.
He noticed the villagers crying. Laughing. Collapsing into one another.
The Magic Knights had won.
All of it unfolded around him, piece by piece, as though the world insisted on moving forward.
Inari lowered his head.
"Everyone's worried about you, Master," he whispered, lips curling into something soft and wistful. "You're not alone anymore. The past isn't repeating itself. Fate seems rather fond of you, and so are we. Spirits included. Even those humans."
He pressed closer, seeking her warmth, grounding himself in the steady rise and fall of her breath. Her expression had eased, lines of strain smoothed away into something serene—more peaceful than he had ever seen her.
He stayed like that, unmoving.
Guarding.
Waiting.
"So rest," he breathed, a promise carried on quiet certainty. "Victory is ours."
.
.
.
Xierra's lashes lifted at a languid pace, as though her body still argued with the idea of waking. Light poured into her vision first—clear, vivid blue stretched wide above her, unmarred by storm or shadow. The sky blushed at its edges, brushed with amber and soft fire, signaling the slow approach of dusk.
The village breathed again.
The choking veil of mist was gone. The cold that had gnawed at bone and spirit had retreated without farewell. No weight pressed against her chest, no whisper of death lingered in the air. Only warmth remained—subtle, honest, real.
What did I miss? Oh, gosh.
A strange sensation stirred along her forearms. Something brushed her skin in a slow, steady presence. Xierra tipped her chin downward.
Black fur.
A long, sleek tail lay draped across her, coiled with quiet intent.
She turned her head, careful, and found herself leaning against Inari's resting form—tucked securely beneath the arc of his tail. His tail. The realization settled with gentle disbelief.
"...Why can't I move?" she breathed.
A soft sound answered her. A faint snore, barely there, slipped from behind her shoulder.
Xierra pressed a hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh that bubbled up despite her exhaustion. She rarely—no, never—caught Inari like this. Awake before dawn, alert at dusk, vigilant even in sleep. Even during his so-called naps, one eye always remained half-lidded, ears tilted toward danger. He had taught her that habit himself.
Yet here he was.
Asleep. Deep asleep.
Her expression softened.
Careful not to disturb him, she lifted her hand and gave his tail a light, affectionate pat. Relief left her lungs in a slow release. She was going to let him rest, she decided. Just this once.
"Xierra?" a familiar voice called. "You awake?"
She cracked one eye open and aimed a flat look in Rhein's direction. "Yes and no," she answered with a flat tone. "I was considering going back to sleep until you spoke."
Rhein laughed, the sound easy and unburdened. "My apologies for interrupting such an important moment," he replied, smiling. "But you really shouldn't sleep out here."
He settled beside her, gaze drifting to the fox. "He hasn't woken up?"
"No." She paused. "Why?"
"He's been out cold ever since you passed out," Rhein said, grin widening. "Didn't move an inch. Heavy sleeper, huh?"
Xierra hummed and reached out, brushing her fingers along Inari's snout. He let out a low, displeased grunt, ears flicking, but he didn't wake. She bit back a giggle. "I guess so."
Leaning back, she caught sight of what Rhein held and tilted her head. "What're those?"
"These?" He lifted the bundle of crimson and spread it open with theatrical flair. "A pair of overcooked disasters. Even Leopold would complain if these were served for dinner."
"Our robes," he clarified with a cackle.
"That's such an insult," she protested, laughing as she took hers. The fabric crumbled faintly beneath her fingers, charred edges flaking away with every touch. The scarlet had dulled, marked by ash and soot.
Her amusement faltered.
"...We're not in trouble for this, right?"
Rhein followed her glance and shrugged. "Nah. We'll be fine."
"You're awfully confident."
"It's not like we had much of a choice," he replied, leaning back on his hands. "And even if they make us pay, it's not like we can't—well. You can't. I can."
She shot him a look. "I'm offended."
"Kidding," he laughed, hands raised. "I'll help you out if it comes to that. Though I doubt it. I've seen Leo destroy more uniforms than I can count. They'll survive. And we won't get in trouble."
Xierra sighed, gaze lingering on the ruined cloth. "Such a shame. It was my first time wearing it."
"I thought you joined earlier than me?"
"I did," she admitted. "But I held off on wearing it. Spent the first few weeks training with Leopold."
Rhein snorted. "Didn't want it dirty?"
"Too late now."
"Very much so."
Silence wrapped around them, comfortable and unhurried. Birds sang from newly cleared branches. Villagers spoke in low, grateful tones nearby. Inari's quiet breathing joined the soundscape, steady and warm.
It felt earned.
"By the way," Xierra began, rubbing her chest when a laugh threatened to turn into a cough, "what happened after I blacked out? We won, right?"
Rhein nodded. "We did. The ones still breathing are tied up over there." He gestured behind him. "Black Bulls are keeping an eye on them."
"Asta and the others?"
"Yep. They're alive too. It would take more than this to kill them, I suppose." He pointed. "Want to look?"
She followed his gesture, spotting Asta's unmistakable figure, standing firm with Magna and Noelle at his back. Grimoires hovered at the ready, vigilance etched into their stances.
Xierra lifted a brow, the motion slow and deliberate, as if her body still needed permission to move.
"Just three?" Her gaze drifted toward the bound figures in the distance, silhouettes pinned against the earth by rope and defeat. "Last I remembered, there were more before I blacked out..."
A long yawn unfurled beside her, all teeth and breath and unapologetic noise. Inari stirred at last, black tail loosening its coil as golden eyes cracked open, dulled by sleep but not by peace. He yawned again—wider, louder—as though announcing his return to the world.
"Oh, good evening, Inari," Xierra drawled, lips twitching. "Or should I say, good morning?"
"Master," Inari replied dryly, voice still thick with rest. "That was meant to be my line."
"Well," she countered, shifting enough to face him properly, "too bad I woke up first."
Rhein stepped between them before the air could sharpen further, folding his arms with a tired huff that held more fondness than irritation. "All right, that's enough. You both woke up and immediately chose violence? Is that your love language or something?"
Xierra's glance slid sideways—pointed, unapologetic—only to be met with Inari's matching scoff. "He started it."
"No," Inari answered at once, tail flicking once against the dirt, "you did, Master."
"Enough," Rhein repeated, exhaling through his nose. His attention shifted again, drawn back to the figures bound beneath the open sky. The ropes dug into scorched soil, remnants of frost and shattered magic still etched into the ground like scars that refused to fade. "You're right. There were more earlier. Five. Maybe four, by the time Magna finished tying them."
Xierra's expression changed. The humor thinned, replaced by something sharper, more alert.
"And now?"
"One slipped away."
Her fingers pressed into the earth without her noticing, nails grazing grit and ash. The warmth of the ground—real, undeniable—anchored her as she drew a breath. "That," she answered after a moment, "sounds like trouble brewing."
Rhein's jaw tightened. His stare never left the horizon, where the village met the thinning gold of dusk. "Exactly."
.
.
.
"Hey, Xierra. You're awake!"
Asta's voice cut through the quiet like sunlight through parted curtains—bright, unfiltered, impossible to ignore. It carried across the clearing with the same boundless vigor he had shown in battle, bouncing off stone walls and half-repaired rooftops.
Xierra answered with a small laugh, waving a hand slowly in greeting. She wanted to shout back, to match his energy even for a heartbeat—but the raw sting in her throat and the lingering heat in her chest warned her otherwise. Pushing her luck now would only earn her silence for days. She valued her voice too much for that.
Beside her, Rhein raised his hand as well, the motion restrained, almost hesitant. Xierra noticed it instantly. He still held himself apart from them—subtle distance etched into his posture whenever the Black Bulls were involved—but there was effort there. Real effort. She found herself smiling wider for it, warmth settling quietly in her ribs.
Magna caught her eye first. She dipped her head in greeting. Noelle followed soon after, receiving a gentle smile in return.
"You did great out there, Crimson Lion Kings!" Magna boomed, laughter rolling freely from his chest. "The villagers were losing their minds earlier, y'know. Thanking you and all that while you were knocked out."
Xierra blinked, surprise flickering across her features.
"They thanked me?" Her gaze drifted past them, toward the village streets now bathed in amber light, signs of life blooming again where fear had once taken root. "Why? You're the ones who finished the fight."
"A foolish question, Master."
"You dumbass." Magna's palm landed between her shoulder blades—harder than necessary—before his arm hooked around her shoulders. His grin sharpened into something sincere, eyes burning with certainty as he jabbed a finger toward her forehead. "Who else would they thank, huh?"
"—Ow?! Ever heard of restraint?"
Rhein released a tired breath, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth as he rested his hands on his hips. "Careful there," he drawled. "At this rate, Asta's idiocy might be contagious."
"Oh, please no," Xierra muttered, shuddering theatrically. "I'd rather faint again."
Magna barked even louder to the point of guffawing. "You pushed harder than anyone out there—even Stupidsta. As your senior, let me officially say it again: you did so damn amazing!"
"Senior Magna," Noelle interjected flatly, "you're in the Black Bulls. You're a senior to us."
She paused then, clearly schooling herself, smoothing her posture as though politeness were a language she had to translate word by word. Turning back to Xierra, Noelle spoke with visible effort, each syllable carefully restrained.
"And you—what was your name again?"
Rhein reacted before Xierra could so much as draw breath. He stepped in front of her with lazy confidence, boots gliding across the scuffed earth as though the battlefield were nothing more than a familiar training ground.
"Your memory's that hopeless, Noelle Silva?" he shot back, voice sharp with mischief.
Noelle's magic flared on instinct—water snapping into shape with a reflex born of pride and embarrassment—but Rhein was already moving. He slipped aside in a clean, effortless motion, the surge slicing past empty air instead. He looked over his shoulder with a grin that bordered on infuriating, all teeth and triumph.
"Missed me," he added lightly, tapping his temple. "Too bad you wouldn't see me dying today. Try harder, Little Miss Princess."
The air tightened at once, tension crackling where his words landed, and Xierra could practically feel the spark he'd struck—bright, reckless, and very likely to explode.
"Oh, shut up!"
He clicked his tongue, shaking his head as though genuinely disappointed. "Denying your shortcomings isn't very royal-like, Lady Noelle."
"Sh-Shut up! Shut up, you outsider!"
"All right," Rhein replied lazily, eyes narrowing. "Is everyone in the Silva family this fragile?"
Xierra reached out at once, palm pressing firmly against Rhein's chest. The touch stopped him cold. He looked down, met her gaze—and whatever he saw there made him sigh.
"You're going too far, Rhein," she warned quietly.
He lifted his hands in surrender and stepped back. "Got it."
She turned then, clearing her throat before facing Noelle once more. "Back to our conversation," Xierra said, voice calm and open. "You had something to tell me, Lady Noelle?"
The title wasn't sharp. It wasn't mocking. It was careful.
Noelle's breath hitched.
Ever since they had crossed paths, Xierra had treated her with a kind of gentleness Noelle had never quite learned how to accept—no sharpened remarks, no weighing gaze, no invisible standard she was expected to fail. It was warmth without conditions, and somehow, that left her far more exposed than cruelty ever had.
"A-About that..." Noelle started, shoulders drawing in despite herself.
"Yes?" Xierra answered, attentive at once.
Noelle tried again. Her mouth shaped the words carefully, each one practiced in her head before daring to exist, but the sound dissolved before it could reach its destination. It was as if her voice fell apart in the open air, swallowed by distance and doubt.
Xierra leaned closer, platinum hair slipping forward as she tilted her head. Her brows drew together, not in irritation, but in genuine puzzlement. "I'm sorry—could you repeat that?" she asked, tone light, apologetic. "I don't think I heard you."
There was no impatience in her eyes. No frustration. Only concern—clear and unguarded, the kind that asked without demanding.
That made Noelle's chest tighten painfully.
She froze, heat crawling up her neck as the silence stretched. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve, nails pressing in as though grounding herself might stop her thoughts from spiraling.
...Am I losing my hearing already? As early as fifteen years into my life?
Inari let out a quiet huff beside Xierra, tail flicking once in mild amusement as he watched the conversation unfold. Not you, Master. Her voice is barely there.
Noelle sucked in a breath that burned all the way down. She straightened her spine as though bracing against an unseen current, shoulders squared in a posture she had practiced since childhood—since long before confidence had ever come naturally to her. The heat flooding her face was impossible to ignore, pulsing in her ears, crawling beneath her skin, but she refused to let it stop her this time.
She opened her mouth and forced the words free, shoving them past pride, past fear, past the instinct to retreat.
"C-Call me Noelle!" Her voice cracked, then steadied through sheer will. "Just—Noelle! No titles!"
The air seemed to quiet itself.
Xierra froze mid-breath, fingers pausing where they rested against the grimoire that hung by her waist. Her eyes widened a fraction, as though the sentence itself needed a moment to be understood, to be weighed. Of all the things she had expected—gratitude, deflection, embarrassment—this had never crossed her mind.
The world, it seemed, had no intention of running out of surprises today.
"...Are you sure?" Xierra asked after a heartbeat, her voice soft, careful, as though the request were something fragile she might break if she touched it wrong. There was no teasing in her tone, no disbelief—only concern. "Wouldn't that be—"
"I'm sure!" Noelle cut in, the words spilling out too fast, too loud. She crossed her arms and turned her face away, chin lifting in defiance even as her ears burned crimson. "Very sure!"
She stared stubbornly at nothing in particular, jaw set, daring anyone—daring herself—to take the words back.
Behind her bravado, her heart hammered wildly, but she didn't move. Not this time.
Magna burst out laughing. "You gotta work on that confidence if you actually wanna make friends," he teased, slapping Noelle's back with reckless enthusiasm. "Where'd that loudmouth attitude go, huh?"
"Oh." Xierra's hands came together in a soft clap, realization finally settling in. "You want to be friends." She blinked, then smiled, something bright and unguarded blooming across her face. "With me?"
They had not started from nothing.
Long before this moment—before the blood in the snow, before the suffocating mist and the hollowed fear—there had been small exchanges. Hesitant glances. Sharp words that softened halfway through. Xierra had learned, quickly, that Noelle's barbs were never meant to cut; they were shields, hastily raised and poorly disguised. And Noelle, in turn, had learned that Xierra never flinched from them. Never laughed at the cracks. Never demanded explanations.
Still, knowing something and admitting it aloud were two very different things.
Noelle stood there now, face aflame, posture rigid, as though she might shatter if she relaxed even a fraction.
Xierra stared at her for a long second.
Then she laughed.
Not cruelly. Not loudly. It spilled out of her in bright, startled bursts, disbelief dancing across her features as she lifted a finger to point at herself, eyes wide with genuine astonishment. It wasn't that the idea of friendship surprised her—it was the earnestness of it. The care. The fact that Noelle had asked was clumsy and formal. It was painfully sincere.
It was endearing. Utterly so.
"Wha—?!" Noelle sputtered, mortification detonating all at once. "Don't laugh! Be grateful that I asked you to become my friend!" She puffed up, chin high, trying desperately to summon the authority drilled into her bones.
"I am royalty, after all! Not—not everyone can... become my... friend."
The last word nearly vanished.
Xierra bent forward, clutching her stomach as though the sound itself had startled her body. She sucked in a breath, wiped at the corner of her eye, and shook her head as she tried—failed—to rein herself in.
"Sorry—no, I'm sorry," she managed, breath hitching between smiles. "It's not that, Lady Noelle—" She paused deliberately, eyes sparkling. "—or should I call you Noelle, like you asked?"
The effect was immediate. Noelle's composure collapsed, cheeks blooming an even deeper shade as she looked away, sputtering incoherently.
Xierra straightened, warmth settling into something gentler. "I'm already your friend," she added, voice steady now. "From the moment you spoke to me. You didn't need to ask."
"That's exactly what I told her," Asta cut in flatly, arms crossed. "But she kept mumbling and practicing her lines while you were out cold."
Silence.
Then—
"W-What are you talking about, Stupidsta?!"
A fist connected with Asta's cheek with frightening precision. He crumpled instantly, sprawling like a sack of grain. Somewhere nearby, someone winced.
Rhein pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, weary breath, the kind that came from reevaluating every questionable decision that had carried him to this exact moment. He nudged Asta's unmoving form with the tip of his boot, watching the boy wobble uselessly before slumping again.
"Down the minute she struck," he muttered, unimpressed. "Figures."
Straightening, he clicked his tongue and glanced toward Noelle, who still stood rigid with indignation crackling off her like static. A slow grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
He drawled a fake cheer, lifting a finger as if tallying an invisible board. "Clean K.O. from the Silva." Another finger followed. "One point to Noelle Silva." He tilted his head toward the unconscious Asta and snorted. "Zero for Asta. Try again next time."
Only then did he look back at Noelle, amusement bright in his eyes. "I really don't remember you growing up this feral, Silva."
"And what are you implying, you Silver-Tongue Idiot?!" Noelle snapped, spinning on him.
Rhein barked out a laugh, sharp and unapologetic. "Careful there, lady. Keep throwing those nicknames around, and I might take offense."
Xierra stepped in before sparks could turn into flames, placing herself neatly between them. She lifted a hand toward Noelle in a quiet, grounding gesture and angled her head at Rhein, brow raised.
"She wasn't planning to," Xierra said calmly. "Right, Noelle?"
Noelle opened her mouth. Closed it. Glared. "Well, too bad. I was."
"Huh?!" Rhein bristled. "You little—!"
Their bickering rose instantly, voices colliding, sparks flying back and forth with practiced ease. Xierra watched them with a fond, breathless chuckle, amusement softening her tired limbs. For all the lingering pain and exhaustion, this—this—felt alive. Human. Earned.
Then—
A twitch.
Magna noticed it first.
He stepped down hard, boot pressing into a familiar face as he leaned forward, teeth bared in a feral grin. Heath groaned, swatting weakly at the intrusion, eyes blazing with venom as they cracked open.
"You finally awake, you jerks?"
To Be Continued...