She stopped. Swallowed. The tears came again, silent, running down her round cheeks.
Seraphine's jaw tightened. Her internal voice was a murmur of reluctant sympathy:
'She has lost four parties in three months. That is not unlucky. That is cursed. Or — the system notification said blessed. Blessed by the Goddess of Bad Luck. What does that even mean? How can bad luck be a blessing?'
"Does anyone have a map of this place?" Seraphine asked, steering the conversation toward the practical. The warrior in her was already assessing, already planning, the emotional moment filed away for later processing.
Mirra nodded. Wiped her face. Reached into her satchel and produced a creased, water-stained parchment. She unfolded it on the ground, and they gathered around it — Seraphine, Elwen, the sisters, me standing slightly back, watching.
