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"Let's switch places."
"Would that… be okay?"
Darkness. No answer came.
The only response to her whisper was the steady rhythm of breathing.
Isolte simply watched Sylphiette's sleeping face, lips parting silently.
"Let's… switch…"
"...Would… that…"
"...Switch…"
"...Be…"
"...Okay?"
Again. And again.
The questions never stopped.
But her voice grew quieter, more fragmented, until it was nothing more than a breath.
She hadn't expected an answer.
This was a wish with no hope of fulfillment.
Finally, the whispers ceased.
Her hair lifted from the pillow, strands brushing against her neck as she slowly rose.
In the darkness, her silhouette—slender, poised—moved with deliberate grace.
She reached over Sylphiette's face.
Turned.
Straddled her.
Kneeling above her, Isolte's black hair cascaded like a curtain, shrouding her expression.
Shadows danced. The faint light couldn't chase the emotions hidden beneath.
She lowered her head.
Deeper.
Deeper.
Until the black veil of her hair enclosed them both in the same darkness.
A childhood habit.
A home without parents. A bedroom without companionship.
Only the dark had listened to her doubts, her frustrations, her loneliness.
This self-made void was her sanctuary—a place to confess what she could never speak aloud.
And so, the floodgates opened.
A torrent of thoughts, unrestrained.
Facing the calm she had forged through Water God training.
Facing the emotions she had locked away for three days—no, three years.
A heart raised high, then shattered.
'If we could switch…'
'You could be a Milis believer. You could have been saved by him.'
'You could watch him train every day. Grow up beside him.'
'And then…'
'You could panic at the news of his 'death.' You could rejoice when you learned he was alive.'
'You could vow to bring him back to the dojo. You could hesitate, wondering if that's what he even wanted.'
'You could hone your sword skills by day. You could agonize over going to Roa by night.'
'And then…'
'You'd receive an invitation from Boreas.'
'You'd spend forty-six days staring at the scenery outside the carriage.'
'You'd see the necklace around Miss Sylphiette's neck.'
'A Water God's partner must abandon their family, standing as a blank slate beside them. That's why you never wanted to be Water God.'
'But now, you have no choice. Because only this way can you meet his expectations.'
'You're ashamed. You're stubborn. So you force yourself to say—with all the conviction you can muster—that you'll become Water God.'
'But this isn't what you wanted. This wasn't why you came to Roa.'
'Miss Sylphiette… even knowing all this… would you still want to trade places with me?'
'...Miss Sylphiette.'
'...I envy you.'
'...Miss Sylphiette.'
'...If you envy me…'
'Then become Isolte.'
'Become the Water God.'
'Could you do that?'
The "words" faded.
In the dark, their forms seemed to merge.
A soft tap.
Isolte jolted upright.
Sylphiette hadn't woken—only shifted slightly, her breathing still even.
Isolte sat motionless, watching her.
2:30
2:31
2:32
...
2:40
Ten minutes passed. The moonlight dimmed, brightened. She didn't move.
Finally, the whispers returned.
No frantic outpouring. No turbulence.
Just two syllables.
'...Sorry.'
She rose from the bed, stepping lightly—Water God footwork—to her luggage.
From the corner, she retrieved a wooden box.
Carefully opened it.
Moonlight spilled over her fingers, illuminating the contents.
A broken sword hilt.
The base was well-preserved, polished smooth, grain still visible.
The blade's end was jagged—torn apart by sheer force, splinters still clinging to the edges.
Even after cleaning, traces of red lingered in the deepest cracks.
—The hilt of Allen's sword, lost in the forest outside Rigetta.
A birthday gift from Isolte when he was five.
She stared at it for a long moment, then closed the box.
Click. The moonlight vanished.
The box took up a sixth of her luggage, its padding meticulous compared to her other plain belongings. She had brought it to return it, to "complain" to Allen—a way to bridge the three-year gap, to dissolve the awkwardness.
A tangible link to their past.
But now?
Perhaps…
Unnecessary.
She sighed soundlessly, returned to bed, lay down.
Stared at the dark ceiling.
Closed her eyes.
Her thoughts tangled, consciousness blurring.
For three years, her dreams had been the same—a distant back, always out of reach.
These past few days, that silhouette had grown clearer.
Yet still separated by mountains.
Still untouchable.
Isolte fell asleep.
2:50
2:51
2:52
...
3:00
Ten minutes later—
A god entered her dreams.
She opened her eyes.
Endless white flooded her vision.
Not emptiness—her sensing flow detected nothing. No air, no substance. Just void.
Her mind labeled it "white" because there was nothing else to perceive.
A moment of disorientation, then—
"This is… a dream?"
[Yes.]
The "voice" came from beside her.
Isolte whirled.
The "white" shattered.
Where her gaze fell, the void warped, collapsing into form.
Limbs. Torso. A head.
A blurred face. A flicker of a smile.
Unreadable. Unfathomable.
A paradox—her sensing flow should have discerned details, but the figure defied perception. Only an impression remained.
A human shape.
A god's authority.
Him.
The Milis faith's deity hovered above her, gazing down.
Awe and comfort intertwined.
Isolte tensed. Then, the "voice" came again—laced with amusement.
[Fake believer, coward, we meet again. Did your debate with that Milis heretic sway you?]
Her throat dried. She bowed hastily, hands clenched, before offering a proper Milis salute.
Her reaction to Zenith's "blasphemy" hadn't been arbitrary. She knew—
—Adherence to doctrine was the price of His gaze.
Because Milis Himself had told her.
And she had lived under that gaze ever since.
Before she could speak, He answered her thoughts.
[If you don't follow doctrine, how can you call yourself a believer? This Asura land… true faithful are rare.]
Isolte blinked, unsure how to respond.
[Coward.]
Her head snapped up. The god's face remained indistinct, but His "smile" deepened.
[Two months ago, you prayed to me in the temple of Alus. I gave you direction.]
[What you seek is right before you. Why hesitate?]
She froze.
Her prayers that day had been two questions:
—Would Allen return to the capital?
—What was his current situation?
That night, He had answered.
The first: Yes.
The second: He has attained what he sought. Along with details… and a prophecy—a "variable" arriving in three days. Then, the dream had ended.
The responses had fit her understanding of divine will. Proof of His existence.
Because three days later, Philip's letter arrived—the foretold "variable."
But… direction? What did that mean?
And why say He had only now turned His gaze upon her? Hadn't He always watched her? The dreams, even without clear answers, had been His attention. So what was this?
She looked up, confused.
Milis simply watched her—judging? Waiting?
She felt like a failure.
Then, His "voice" came again:
[All believers are under my gaze. But only when I truly see you can you hear my words.]
The gentle explanation flustered her. She nodded hastily.
[As for what you seek—if I look, I see all. Like now.]
Her cheeks burned. Shame curled in her chest.
[No need. Human desires are simple: power, wealth, fame, love. Nothing more. Remember, I was once human too.]
"I'm sorry you had to see such shallow worries… But the doctrine, my own feelings—I can't—"
Before she could finish, His "smile" widened.
Not mocking. Pitying.
[What you want.]
[How does it contradict doctrine?]
Her lips parted. No words came.
The god "smiled."
"But… Miss Sylphiette, they—"
[Coward.]
She stiffened.
Then—
His amusement vanished.
Rejection.
The white void ruptured.
Isolte gasped, staring upward as the sky collapsed—
—And her eyes flew open.
Dark ceiling. The inn's room.
3:40
She lay there, dazed.
Had Milis cast her out?
Because…
Cowardice?
Then—
A strange sensation.
Fabric shifting. Touch. Movement.
Even in the dim light, her Water God senses registered it clearly—
A hand.
On her chest.
Groping.
Her face went blank. She looked down.
A small, delicate hand.
Squeezing.
Kneading.
Her mouth opened. She turned her head.
A white-haired "animal" nestled against her.
Eyes shut. Ears twitching. Hands busy.
The assailant—Sylphiette.
Not content with touching, she murmured:
"Allen… stop holding my hand… we can't… mmph…"
Isolte's soul left her body.
It took a full minute to reboot.
Then, mechanically, she pried Sylphiette's hand away.
Instantly, Sylphiette relaxed.
She even sighed in relief—
—Then immediately reached out again, groping Isolte's chest with renewed vigor.
"Nn… no… Allen, do it yourself…"
Isolte stared.
Deadpan.
A quick check confirmed Sylphiette was asleep.
She exhaled.
"...Cowardice…"
"...Huh."
After a pause, she slid out of Sylphiette's range, settling back into bed.
Closed her eyes.
Tried to reconnect with the god. To ask properly.
But then—
The curtain fluttered.
Wind from Mortalit carried a scent.
Blood.
Her eyes snapped open.
Instantly alert, she linked the smell to the odd receptionist from earlier.
In one motion, she rolled out of bed, snatched her sword, and eased the door open.
The hallway was dark, silent.
She extended her sensing flow—no one nearby.
But the front desk's lantern, which should have been lit, was out.
She studied the darkness at the end of the hall, then glanced at Allen's door.
Didn't enter.
Instead, she retreated, locked her room, and slipped out the window.
Landed silently outside.
The "No Vacancy" sign swayed.
The blood's source—the tavern next door.
She re-entered the inn through the front.
The receptionist's corpse lay behind the desk.
Back upstairs, she checked every corner—nothing amiss.
Allen's door—the handle turned, but she didn't enter.
Her face paled.
She bolted downstairs, back outside.
The night was ink-black.
No hesitation—she sprinted toward the tavern, the stench of blood thickening—
But she skidded to a halt.
At her feet: droplets of blood.
She stared.
Then, inexplicably, changed course—following the trail around the tavern.
Step by step.
To the stables behind it.
Large. Empty. No horses.
Just the reek of blood.
The doors gaped open, darkness swallowing everything inside.
Was he there?
She stepped forward.
Into the black.
Into the stables.
As her foot touched the ground—
The moon broke through the clouds.
Light poured in.
And she saw.
A throne.
Of red and black.
Red—fresh blood.
Black—dried gore.
"Flowers"—severed heads.
"Thorns"—scattered limbs.
A mountain of corpses.
A seat fit for a king.
Empty.
She stood frozen, staring at the nightmare made real.
Then—
A pull in her chest.
She turned.
To the shadows beside the stable wall, untouched by moonlight.
Two gazes watched the throne.
One—a head on the ground, eyes lifeless.
The other—
A figure standing in the dark.
He looked at the throne.
Then at her.
Their eyes met through the silver light.
Familiar gray irises.
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