Listening to Sister Lily's frequent apologies for using her spells was, admittedly, one of Xierra's quieter joys.
The nun clasped her hands together each time, eyes squeezed shut in fervent repentance, murmuring prayers beneath her breath as though heaven itself might frown upon her for such efficiency. Xierra had long since stopped believing it was accidental. No one summoned magic with that much precision and still claimed innocence.
She leaned her shoulder against the chapel wall, watching with fond amusement as Asta met the stone floor face-first—only to spring back up moments later, stubborn soul intact and voice already rising.
"I'm not giving up!"
The declaration echoed through the churchyard like a bell struck too hard. Nash, perched near the steps, snorted and muttered something under his breath, already labeling it Asta's personal creed. The other children had accepted it over the years, filing it neatly alongside sunrise and sunset—inevitable, unchanging.
Xierra exhaled softly through her nose. It wasn't very kind, she thought, to reduce someone to a single sentence. Still, she couldn't deny the truth of it.
She shifted her weight against the wooden doorframe, arms folding loosely as she let the noise wash over her. Laughter rang bright and unrestrained, the kind that filled empty spaces without asking permission. For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to simply exist within it.
Then two smaller bodies rushed past her in a blur of limbs and giggles.
Xierra stumbled, surprise stealing her footing as her heel slipped against the worn stone. She braced herself instinctively—but never fell.
The air curled around her instead, gentle yet firm, steadying her like unseen hands. A familiar presence brushed past her shoulder. When she looked up, Yuno stood beside her, his attention sharp despite his quiet demeanor. His eyes lingered just long enough to ensure she was upright before drifting away.
Caught off guard by her unusual clumsiness, Xierra let out a small laugh. She lifted a hand, shielding her mouth as she leaned closer.
"Thanks," she murmured, the word meant for him alone.
Yuno inclined his head, expression seemingly unchanged. "Be careful next time," he said softly, though the concern beneath it was unmistakable.
For all his practiced stillness, his actions betrayed him. The wind eased only once he was certain she was steady. Then the noise surged again—children shouting, feet thudding, Sister Lily's flustered voice rising in apology—and reality rushed back in.
Yuno cleared his throat, a hand briefly covering his mouth as if to collect himself, before stepping away. Xierra watched him go, brow lifting slightly as she shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
She didn't miss Rekka sidling up beside her. The redhead nudged her hip with a playful bump, grin sharp and knowing. "Ooh," she sing-songed, balancing a basket of damp laundry against her side, "I think I see something new starting to bloom."
Xierra sputtered, heat creeping up her cheeks as Rekka laughed and sauntered off toward the clothesline, mischief trailing in her wake.
She drew in a quiet breath and let it go, deciding it was far kinder to herself to ignore Rekka's words entirely. Teasing had a way of lingering if she allowed it space. She turned toward the church, intent on washing her hands and beginning preparations for dinner—only to feel a gentle tug at the hem of her dress.
A familiar, drawn-out whine followed. She glanced down to find a head of dark hair peeking up at her, eyes wide and expectant. Arlu clung to the fabric like a lifeline. A heartbeat later, small feet pattered across the yard, and Horo crashed into her legs with all the force his tiny body could muster, arms wrapped tight as if afraid she might vanish.
"Xie! Xie!"
The sound of her shortened name—bright and unguarded—softened something in her chest. Xierra lowered herself to their height, smoothing her skirt before settling on her heels. The corners of her lips curved into a warmth she never tried to hide around them.
"What is it?" she asked gently. "Do you need something?"
Their faces lit up, grins stretching impossibly wide.
"Father said you're making dinner today!" Arlu burst out, bouncing on her toes as though the news alone filled her with energy. Her excitement spilled over in every movement, hands flailing, eyes sparkling.
Xierra laughed quietly and nodded. "That's right."
Horo leaned closer, curiosity written plainly across his face. "What're you cooking?" he asked, peering up at her as his fingers tightened in her dress. "Is it 'tatoes again?"
She didn't mind the weight he put against her, didn't mind the way they crowded her space. If anything, she welcomed it. Cooking days were always like this—shared between herself, Sister Lily, and Father Orsi. Xierra had noted the difference in reactions depending on whose turn it was.
The children cheered when it was hers, relaxed when it was Sister Lily's, and groaned in perfect unison when the priest took charge. She had her suspicions as to why. But she also valued her peace enough not to say them aloud.
Her hands lifted, gentle and familiar, patting Arlu's head before ruffling Horo's hair. Their laughter came easily, ringing clear as bells. A glint of mischief flickered in Xierra's eyes.
"Well," she said, lowering her voice as if sharing a great secret, "that would ruin the surprise, wouldn't it?" She smiled wider at the sight of their exaggerated pouts. "You'll just have to wait."
"Ehh? That's not fair!"
"Tell us! Tell us! Pleeease?"
They tugged at her clothes as she stood, nearly sending her stumbling as she tried to take a step toward the kitchen. She steadied herself with a quiet laugh, glancing down at them with fond reproach.
"Now, now," she said softly. "I need to wash the ingredients first. Why don't you go help Rekka and Nash? Or maybe give Yuno a hand with hanging the laundry?"
The effect was immediate. They darted away without another word, excitement redirected in an instant. Xierra watched as they swarmed Nash, voices overlapping with rapid questions, their laughter trailing behind them like sunlight.
She lingered there for a moment longer, watching their small figures move across the yard.
Too innocent for this world, she thought—but she kept it to herself as she turned back toward the church, carrying that tenderness with her.
Even from the kitchen—where the steady rush of water sang against the basin—Xierra could still hear Asta's voice cleaving through the air, loud and unapologetic, met immediately by Yuno's flat replies and Nash's sharp additions.
The noise bled through the stone walls as if the church itself had learned to breathe with the children inside it. She set the nomotatoes and the rest of the harvest upon the long dinner table, their earthy scent clinging to the room, then moved with practiced ease toward the supply room tucked behind the kitchen.
Most of the crops were stored away carefully, stacked and sorted with a diligence that came from years of habit rather than instruction.
Back at the sink, she rinsed what remained beneath the flowing water. Cool droplets splashed against her fingers, carrying away clinging soil, while outside, voices rose and collided—Asta's protests swelling, Yuno's calm cutting through them, Nash's bluntness striking where it pleased.
The contrast was almost amusing. She listened without meaning to.
It was the same argument as always. Magic. Lack thereof. A competition that only one side truly believed in.
Xierra found herself nodding faintly at the rhythm of it all, not in agreement, but in familiarity. This, too, was part of their daily life—etched into the walls as surely as prayer.
A small knot of guilt twisted in her chest at the sharpness of their words. She knew, from experience, that scolding them only sharpened their defiance. So she let the noise pass over her, choosing quiet over correction.
With a soft sigh, she turned her focus back to her work.
Even Father Orsi's presence—felt more than seen—did little to break her concentration. He had returned sometime during the commotion, no doubt from his visit next door, and now stood lingering at the edge of the room. She could practically feel his gaze pressing into her back, warm and heavy with pride.
She pretended not to notice. She knew the speech by heart. Pride of the village. Such a good child. Always helping. The words were familiar enough to recite alongside him, and yet—despite herself—a small smile still curved her lips.
But a little praise didn't hurt.
Still, it's starting to feel overwhelming.
She shivered, just slightly.
"Er—Father?" Xierra turned at last, meeting his hazel eyes as he stepped fully into the kitchen. Her expression softened into polite curiosity. "Is there something you need?"
Father Orsi hummed, the sound cheerful and unrestrained. His face split into a wide grin. "Nope. Just proud of you!"
She blinked, then laughed softly, a hint of awkwardness threading through her voice. "I see... thank you. I suppose."
Carefully, she arranged the freshly cleaned ingredients into a waiting hamper, every movement deliberate and calm. Once finished, she wiped her hands dry and stepped back toward the noise-filled hall beyond the kitchen doors—toward the familiar chaos, carrying with her the quiet steadiness she always seemed to bring along.
The courtyard greeted her with sunlit dust and drifting currents of air. Her gaze found Yuno without effort.
He stood near the woodpile, sleeves rolled, sable hair stirred by the same wind that coiled obediently around his axe. Each swing was clean, precise; the logs split apart with a sharp crack before even hitting the ground. The breeze followed his unsaid commands, lifting splinters and leaves alike, as though eager to assist.
Asta, already sweating and scowling beside him, struggled to keep pace, muscles straining as he hacked away with sheer stubborn force.
Xierra slowed, her steps quiet.
A faint smile curved her lips as she closed her eyes, letting their voices wash over her—Asta's loud, indignant protests clashing against Yuno's cool, clipped replies. The sound was familiar enough to feel like home.
The wind's nice today, she thought distantly. The air brushed past her cheek, playful, almost warm. Is it Yuno's doing, perhaps?
She lingered there, half-present, listening without truly listening. Their banter faded into background noise as her thoughts drifted, carried somewhere far older.
Father Orsi's voice surfaced in her memory, gentle but firm, the way it always was when he spoke of things that mattered.
She could still picture the dim church interior, candlelight trembling along the stone walls as he told them the truth—how three infants had been left on the doorstep in the dead of night.
No letters. No names etched into cloth. No sign of where they had come from.
Her fingers curled instinctively around the fox mask resting at her waist.
Yuno had his pendant—always had. A quiet, constant presence against his chest. She had this. Worn edges, faded paint, its surface smoothed by years of touch. They were the only remnants of something before the church, before the village, before the life they knew.
Nothing to tell where we came from, huh?
They stood together now, yet the contrast between them had never been clearer.
Yuno moved with an almost regal stride, his talent undeniable even to those who resented it. Asta, by comparison, burned bright and loud, sprinting through life with reckless devotion and an unwavering fixation on Sister Lily.
And Xierra—she knew how the villagers saw her. Gentle. Approachable. The children clung to her sleeves, trusted her smiles. She fit where the others stood out.
Side by side, they looked like a mismatched story stitched together by coincidence.
The realization settled heavily in her chest.
They had shared dreams whispered under starless skies, raced along the same dirt roads, grown up beneath the same church bells. Yet the differences were impossible to ignore, sharp enough to invite whispers.
"Not related."
The words echoed without sound.
Xierra's thoughts unraveled, drifting until her attention returned fully to the mask. She traced the faint grooves along its surface, thumb brushing over cracks in the paint.
For a moment, the courtyard blurred, replaced by impressions she couldn't quite grasp—colors without form, memories without faces. They made her wonder about her place in the world, where she came from, and who she was before.
"Who I was before...?" she murmured under her breath, brows knitting. The question felt wrong the moment it left her lips. "...That doesn't make sense."
She snapped back to the present just in time to see Asta seize Yuno by the shoulders, shaking him with wild desperation, his voice echoing straight into Yuno's ears. Xierra winced on instinct, already mourning Yuno's eardrums. Somehow, impossibly, Yuno remained unfazed, expression barely shifting despite the assault.
"So, why?!" Asta demanded, veins nearly popping.
Yuno exhaled sharply. "Talent," he said flatly. "And diligent effort."
Xierra huffed a quiet laugh under her breath.
Yeah, she thought, watching them with fond exasperation. No wonder the villagers think we're unrelated.
Yuno's hand moved before Asta could react.
Long fingers caught the fabric of Asta's collar, unyielding, and with a sharp twist, Yuno swatted his grip away as if brushing off an annoyance rather than a person.
The motion was clean, effortless—so very Yuno it almost hurt to watch. Asta stumbled back a step, spluttering indignantly, his outrage loud enough to carry across the courtyard.
It wasn't a fight. It never was. More like a routine for them to see.
Xierra's brows lifted, amusement glinting briefly in her eyes. She'd seen this exchange play out in a hundred different forms, yet it never truly changed. The familiarity of it settled warmly in her chest, grounding her.
"Some things just never change," she murmured, the words barely more than a breath.
The smile that followed was small, instinctive, and entirely her own—gone just as quickly as it appeared.
She startled when a presence closed in beside her.
Father Orsi said nothing as he slipped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her in with a practiced gentleness that somehow still managed to steal the air from her lungs. The sudden warmth, the faint scent of old parchment and incense, made her stiffen before she relaxed into it out of habit.
"Yuno and Xierra are the hopes of this church!" he proclaimed, voice trembling with emotion.
Xierra froze.
Tears streamed freely down the priest's cheeks as he fumbled for his handkerchief, dabbing at his eyes with little success. The cloth grew damp as he waved it about enthusiastically, blissfully unaware of the chaos he was inflicting.
That, Xierra thought dimly, was not what I expected him to do while hugging me.
Her cheeks warmed rapidly beneath the pressure of his hold. "What did I—ack—Father! I can't... breathe!"
She tapped his hands twice in a polite but desperate plea. His grip loosened slightly—slightly—though escape remained a distant dream.
Before she could attempt another protest, small arms wrapped around her legs. Xierra glanced down stiffly from the lack of space.
Little Horo clung to her with unshakable determination, the height difference making the gesture unbearably endearing. The child peeked up at her, concern etched into his tiny features, as though fully aware that Father Orsi's affection often bordered on dangerous.
"Xie, you're really amazing!" Horo declared, his grin radiant enough to rival the midday sun. "Yuno, too! You're both so cool!!"
Before Xierra could respond, Nash barreled in with all the enthusiasm his shorter frame could muster.
"That's right!" he chimed in, fists clenched as he pumped them into the air. "I'm sure it's not a far-fetched dream to see you both join the Magic Knights and work directly under the Wizard King!"
Xierra let out a soft laugh, waving her hand dismissively as she opened her mouth to reply—
Only for Father Orsi to tighten his embrace once more, nearly lifting her off her feet.
"Heavens, no!" he cried. "Xierra's going to marry the richest man in the kingdom and—!"
"Yeah, thanks, but no thanks."
She wriggled free at last, slipping out of his arms with surprising agility. A cough followed as she straightened, using it as a convenient excuse to redirect the conversation. "Sorry to disappoint, but I'll take the other option. Joining the Magic Knights, that is."
Father Orsi's eyes shimmered again, tears threatening to spill as though on cue.
Xierra sighed, arms crossing firmly over her chest. "Don't give me that look, Father. You knew full well I have no intention of marrying anytime soon."
"No, no! You really should!" he insisted, shaking his head with fervor.
"No, I don't."
"Oh, yes, you do!" His expression hardened with resolve, unmistakably signaling the countless schemes already forming behind his eyes. For a priest, he possessed a mischievous streak that felt almost demonic.
"You're the most beautiful girl in the village!" he pressed on. "I'm sure it wouldn't be difficult for you to find a partner. And if you can't—don't worry! I'll drag some for you to choose from."
"What? No—that's... not what I'm worried about." Xierra sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.
She glanced aside, exasperation mixing with tenderness. Sometimes, she truly couldn't tell who cared more about her hypothetical marriage—herself, or the man already planning it like a festival event.
In the space she left unfilled, Sister Lily stepped forward.
Asta had crouched low to the ground, shoulders hunched, fists clenched as though he could compress all his frustration into something tangible. The nun bent gracefully, her skirt brushing the grass as she placed a gentle hand atop his shoulder. Her touch was light, steady—an anchor rather than a restraint.
"Come on, Asta," Sister Lily said softly. "You're going to have your grimoire awarding ceremony soon."
Her voice carried the calm certainty of someone who truly believed what she spoke. "Once you receive your grimoire, it will awaken something within you. You'll be able to use your magic."
For a heartbeat, the courtyard stilled.
Then Asta shot upright as if struck by lightning.
"I'm sure you're right!" he shouted, the sudden volume startling birds from the nearby trees. He spun on his heel toward them all, eyes blazing with renewed conviction—before dropping to the ground and launching into squats with unrelenting vigor.
Xierra blinked.
Then she laughed, the sound light and unguarded, slipping free before she could stop it.
At her side, little Arlu tilted her head, confusion plain on her face as she watched Asta's inexplicable burst of energy. Xierra noticed immediately. She crouched, smoothing a hand over the girl's dark hair, her touch warm and familiar.
"You'll get your grimoire soon enough, too, Arlu," she said gently, answering the question the child hadn't voiced.
"Really?!" Arlu's eyes lit up.
"Really," Xierra replied, smiling. "Once you turn fifteen—just to be clear."
Arlu hummed thoughtfully before nodding with such enthusiasm it nearly tipped her off balance. She beamed up at Xierra, pride already swelling in her chest.
The moment didn't last long.
Horo barreled into Arlu soon after, giggling as he also reached out and tugged insistently at the hem of Xierra's dress. It was a habit—one forged over years of shared space and quiet trust. When words failed to get her attention, they pulled at her sleeves instead.
Xierra yielded easily.
With Arlu and Horo clasping her hands, she allowed herself to be dragged across the courtyard, tuning out Asta's ongoing monologue about the Wizard King and glorious futures. They came to a stop near Yuno and Nash, who lingered at the edge of the chaos like observers to a familiar storm.
"And I'll renovate this ugly, shabby church!" Asta's voice rang out proudly.
Xierra snorted despite herself.
He wasn't exactly wrong.
The church bore its age openly. Roof tiles spiderwebbed with cracks. Stone walls darkened by time and damp, moss creeping along their edges like stubborn memories.
Behind the building, wild greenery flourished no matter how often she and Nash tried to keep it at bay. Burning it only encouraged it to return thicker than before.
Inside, the ceiling leaked whenever storms rolled through. Buckets and basins became temporary fixtures during heavy rain, carefully arranged to keep the floor from flooding.
The church needed repairs. That much was undeniable.
"I guess it's not only the door that needs fixing," Xierra said lightly, glancing at Yuno.
He nodded once in agreement.
Nash blinked, glancing around as if seeing it clearly for the first time. "It is pretty shabby," he admitted.
"How dare you call this church shabby!" Father Orsi's voice boomed from behind them, indignant and offended, before he promptly returned to whatever task he'd abandoned moments prior.
Sister Lily smiled. The rest of them laughed.
Another chuckle escaped Xierra, softer than the last. Yuno's amber eyes drifted from Asta's relentless movements to her instead.
She's laughing more today, he noted silently.
Beside him, Nash sighed, hands planted firmly on his hips. "There he goes again," he muttered as Asta repeated his dream aloud like a sacred vow.
Xierra placed a gentle hand against Nash's back.
"Don't be like that," she said, her voice calm but firm.
Nash huffed. "Xie, you're too easy on him." His gaze dropped to the ground, narrowed yet tinged with something softer. "Only nobles—aristocrats, royalty—have what it takes to become the Wizard King. Not common people, and not especially to those like... us."
Xierra didn't respond right away.
Her eyes returned heavily to Asta, to the way he pushed himself without hesitation, shouting his dreams into the open air as though daring the world to deny him. The sunlight caught in her gaze as she shook her head, a small, knowing smile forming.
"No," she said quietly. "I don't think I agree with you."
She glanced back at Nash, warmth steady in her expression. "Everyone has their own potential. With enough effort, they can reach even the moon." A pause. Then, softer still—"Even you."
"Xierra's right! Everyone has potential!"
Asta burst into their space like a spark striking flint, eyes burning with conviction, fists clenched at his sides. This time, there was no challenge in his voice—no bravado meant to, often accidentally, provoke.
His words were aimed squarely at Nash, earnest and unfiltered, as though sheer belief alone could bridge the distance between dream and reality.
The suddenness of his appearance shattered the quiet rhythm Xierra had been holding onto.
She startled, then let out a small, helpless breath. She didn't hate his interruptions—not really—but she wished, just once, that he'd remember how to speak without shaking the air itself. At this rate, she half-jokingly feared her heart might give out long before dinner was served.
Before she could say anything, a hand reached out.
Fingers slipped gently through her pale, sunlit hair, slow and careful, as though afraid she might vanish if touched too firmly. The motion was unhurried, grounding. Familiar. The steadiness eased the knot in her chest almost instantly.
Xierra exhaled, shoulders loosening as she drew her sleeves closer, hiding the warmth creeping up her face.
"Thanks, Yuno," she murmured, voice softened, gaze deliberately turned elsewhere.
"Yeah," he replied simply.
It was enough.
Nearby, Nash shifted uneasily. His hands curled into fists, his expression tightening as if the words pressed too close to something raw.
"We're peasants," he muttered. "And orphans... There's no way..."
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't have to.
...that we could ever dream of becoming the Wizard King.
The thought lingered in the air, heavy and fragile all at once. Nash turned away before anyone could respond, footsteps sharp against the packed earth as he walked off. Asta followed instinctively, already opening his mouth to argue—only to falter when Nash's shoulders remained rigid, unmoved by his presence.
As always, honesty cut deeper than shouting ever could.
"And you can't even use basic magic yet," Nash added over his shoulder, glancing back just once. "You've got no potential. And on top of that, you've got no job prospects either."
Xierra winced.
That was too far.
She bit back the words rising to her lips, disappointment settling quietly behind her eyes. She didn't want to interrupt—didn't want to undermine Nash in front of everyone—but the sting of his bluntness lingered all the same. So she stayed where she was, fingers tightening slightly around Arlu's small hand, choosing restraint over correction.
"All the townspeople make fun of you," Nash continued. "You know that, right?"
It wasn't just Nash who knew.
They all did.
And Xierra could tell—by the brief flicker in Asta's eyes, by the way his jaw tightened—that he knew it too. He wasn't blind to the way villagers whispered when he passed, or laughed too loudly, or dismissed him outright.
What hurt more was how deeply Nash seemed to feel it.
The mockery wasn't directed at him, yet he carried it heavier than anyone else, swallowing it down and letting it fester in silence. Asta stood defiant in the open, shouting his dreams to the sky. Nash hid in the shade, burdened by the weight of words that weren't even meant for him.
The villagers never bothered to hide their disdain.
Xierra couldn't fully blame them. Everyone had flaws—loud ones, quiet ones, inconvenient ones. Even she could admit that Asta's volume tested her patience more often than not. Still, judgment had never come easily to her.
With a quiet sigh—one of many that day—she rose to her feet, careful not to jostle Arlu and Horo as they clung to her sides. Around them, others began drifting back toward the church, footsteps pressing into the earth as preparations for supper slowly began.
Unnoticed by the others, Asta planted his feet against the worn earth and bolted forward in a blur of motion, voice cutting through the evening air with its familiar fire.
"I'll show you one day, dang it!!"
The words trailed behind him as he disappeared down the dirt path, swallowed by the lengthening shadows of the village.
"Oh, Asta—!"
Xierra moved without thinking, weight shifting forward as she took a step to follow. The hem of her dress lifted with the motion—
—and then stopped.
A hand closed gently around her wrist.
She turned, surprise flickering across her features as her blue gaze met Yuno's amber eyes. He stood close enough that she hadn't heard him approach, posture straight, expression calm in that way that always felt too steady for someone their age.
"Yuno?" she breathed.
"Let him be," he said evenly. "He'll be home by dinnertime."
She searched his face, hoping to find uncertainty there—some crack of doubt or worry—but found none.
"Will he?" she asked quietly.
Yuno didn't answer. He didn't need to.
That unchanging composure of his unsettled her sometimes. The way he could watch Asta run headlong into the world, shouting dreams too large for his frame, and simply let him go.
And yet, Xierra knew. She'd always known.
Beneath the stillness, beneath the measured words and distant gaze, Yuno cared just as fiercely. In the past. In the present. In whatever future awaited them. He just carried it differently—folded inward, guarded, unspoken.
With a small, resigned nod, she loosened her grip and stepped back, allowing his hand to fall away. The warmth lingered longer than she expected.
Together, they turned toward the church.
The wooden door groaned softly as it opened, hinges protesting with age. Xierra paused on the threshold, glancing over her shoulder one last time, eyes tracing the empty road Asta had taken.
Be safe out there.
The thought lingered like a prayer she never voiced aloud.
Only then did she step inside, reaching back to ease the door shut.
.
.
.
March arrived sooner than expected.
The world seemed to breathe differently as it did.
Firefly dandelion fluffs drifted through the air in gentle spirals, luminous and weightless, their pale whites and buttery yellows catching sunlight like scattered embers. They floated without urgency, carried by a warm breeze that brushed against skin and fabric alike.
Sparrows stitched sound into the sky, their bright chirps weaving through the open space as winter loosened its grip and spring stepped forward, unannounced yet unmistakable.
Though the calendar still insisted it was winter, the air told a different story. The sun lingered longer, kinder, pouring its warmth over the gathered crowd. No biting cold nipped at fingers. No frost clung to the stone. Instead, the day felt suspended between seasons—too soft for winter, too early for summer.
And at the heart of it all stood anticipation.
For the fifteen-year-olds scattered among the masses, this day mattered more than the weather ever could. The grimoire awarding ceremony loomed ahead, heavy with promise.
These grimoires would change everything.
With each step she took, Xierra found herself slowing—not from nerves, but from wonder. The firefly dandelions brushed past her shoulders and sleeves, some catching briefly in her hair before drifting away again. She lifted a hand instinctively, fingers grazing the air where they had been, breath hitching with quiet admiration.
March was the one month she looked forward to without hesitation, and this year—this year carried something extra. A tight, fluttering excitement curled in her chest, unfamiliar yet welcome.
Footsteps surrounded her, a steady rhythm of movement as people from neighboring villages converged toward a single point. Those from distant, underdeveloped lands mingled with families who bore the polished air of privilege. All paths led toward the same towering structure rising above the rest.
The grimoire tower.
Its stone surface caught the sunlight sharply, casting long shadows across the ground. No matter where one came from, no matter their standing, the tower demanded attention. It always had.
For Clover citizens, this ceremony was more than tradition—it was a beginning.
Xierra's gaze drifted across the crowd, curiosity softening her smile. She recognized familiar faces dressed in simple cloth, much like her own. Others stood out immediately, adorned in layered fabrics and ornate trims, posture refined, voices low. She spotted families from nearby villages with higher standing—ones she'd only seen in passing during trips with Father Orsi.
It felt strange, standing among them all.
Her steps carried a light bounce despite herself. Thoughts raced ahead of her—questions stacking one atop another.
What would her grimoire look like?
Would it be slim and delicate, pages whisper-thin? Or thick and heavy, its spine worn before she ever touched it? Would it feel warm in her hands—or cold?
No matter what awaited her, she knew one thing with quiet certainty.
She would be grateful.
The towering double doors groaned as someone pushed them open, hinges protesting with age. The sound rippled through the crowd—unpleasant, but ignored.
Somewhere nearby, Father Orsi muttered under his breath, already filing the noise away in his mind. He would have to mention it to the tower master later. The thought reminded him faintly of how Yuno and Xierra had approached him not long ago about regularly oiling the church doors.
Yuno noticed Xierra then—how her eyes shone, how her steps nearly skipped, how she seemed lighter than usual, as if the day itself had lifted her.
"Take it easy," he said, resting a steady hand against her shoulder to stop her from bounding up the stone steps too quickly. "Your grimoire isn't going anywhere. You might trip at this rate."
She laughed, bright and unrestrained, the sound slipping easily past him. "Oh, I'll manage," she replied—yet she stilled all the same, humoring him.
Yuno exhaled softly, a resigned sound, and withdrew his hand before she could start bouncing again. As he continued upward at a careful pace, he pressed his lips into a thin line, schooling his expression—
—but not before a faint curl betrayed him.
Xierra caught it.
Her steps slowed further as she stared, eyes widening just a fraction.
Oh? He's smiling.
That realization piqued her interest in her more than the tower master's secret save ever could.
The moment fractured as a clear, resonant voice echoed from within the tower, carrying authority and ceremony alike.
"Welcome, young men and women, to the awarding of grimoires!"
To Be Continued...