The day passed without further disturbance. The sun, after reigning high with golden brilliance, slid slowly toward the horizon, casting elongated shadows across the manor's pale stone walls. Each beam caressed the carved moldings and stirred up motes of dust, which shimmered like fragments of gold suspended in air. From the garden, the trees projected wavering silhouettes across the windows, while the rustling of leaves mingled with the hesitant song of birds returning to their nests. Time seemed to hold its breath, wrapped in twilight's warmth, and the dying light infused the manor with a faint, persistent melancholy.
Life within the manor resumed its ordinary rhythm. Servants glided along the corridors like muted phantoms, their measured steps barely leaving echoes. They straightened carpets, adjusted curtains, and smoothed cushions with reverent precision—movements that recalled the quiet upkeep of a sanctuary. Evelyra, still faintly unsettled by the afternoon's incident, gradually composed herself. Her posture stiffened into deliberate poise, every gesture carefully disciplined, as though she were reminding both body and mind of the mastery befitting her rank. Each tilt of her head, each graceful sweep of her hand, carried the weight of order and dignity, even as irritation flickered beneath the surface of her thoughts.
When night fell, she withdrew to her chambers. The moon, serene and high, filtered silver light through the tall windows. Curtains breathed with the night wind, carrying in the perfume of the garden below. Furniture glowed under the softened radiance, every outline sculpted into still, dreamlike shapes. The air thickened with silence, broken only by the creak of a chair or the subtle sigh of fabric beneath her steps.
At the center of her desk stood a typewriter. Its dark keys caught the dim gleam of the oil lamp beside it. Evelyra seated herself with solemnity, sliding an immaculate sheet into the roller. Her fingers hovered above the keys with ritual precision. Drawing a deep breath, she synchronized her body with the rhythm she was about to impose on words. Then, with decisive intent, she struck the first key.
The typewriter's rattle pierced the silence—steady, unyielding, like a heartbeat carved into the night. Each keystroke carried a fragment of her being, a sliver of soul transcribed onto paper. At times her gaze drifted into the void, searching for words elusive as shadows; then her eyes lit with sudden clarity when the right expression surfaced. Her lips moved faintly with each sentence, eyebrows tightening under the strain of concentration, her shoulders straightened by discipline. Every word seemed suspended between her inner world and the page, a fragile bridge between past and future.
The room became a sanctuary untouched by time. The oil lamp cast trembling halos on the walls, shadows dancing in flickers of light, steeping the chamber in reverence. The only sound was the typewriter's cadence, joined by the rustle of advancing paper. It felt as though she were striving to capture eternity itself—a secret truth the world must never know.
The door opened with quiet deliberation. A thin line of corridor light crept across the carpet. Katarina entered, carrying a small tray upon which rested a glass of clear water. Her steps whispered across the rug, her approach measured, as though reluctant to disturb the sanctity of the scene. She set the glass within Evelyra's reach, a gesture delicate and wordless, as though bowing before something sacred.
Evelyra lifted her eyes. The lamplight sculpted her face, revealing both the flush of concentration and the faint weariness softening her features. Her eyelids drooped slightly, yet she remained upright, steadfast—an unyielding figure rooted in discipline.
"You have been writing without pause for hours… perhaps you should rest," Katarina murmured, her voice no louder than a breath, tender but edged with concern.
For a moment, time seemed suspended again. Only the clock's ticking reminded them the world continued. Evelyra blinked slowly, as though returning from a trance. She reached for the glass with solemn care.
"Thank you," she whispered. The coolness of the water calmed the heat in her chest, and her gaze lingered on its surface, catching the lamp's faint reflection.
Katarina hesitated, clutching the tray against her. Unspoken words hovered between them before she finally asked:
"All these things you described… they truly happened last night, didn't they?"
Evelyra's fingers resumed striking keys, her voice steady:
"Hm… yes. My fight with the apostle, and the rewriting of reality." She paused, exhaling faintly, then continued in a lighter tone: "I should have reincarnated today, but turning back seventeen years—being reborn as an infant—ended up saving me."
Her brows knit slightly, a touch of annoyance breaking through.
"Not that it was my intention. Having to relearn the language of this world was infuriating. My 'Hero' status let me speak the common tongue, and as a goddess I had a skill that allowed me to comprehend any speech… but I sealed it."
Katarina leaned forward, curiosity sharpening her tone.
"Milady, then tell me—what do you look like in Amane's form?"
Evelyra stilled. Her gaze fixed on the blank sheet before her. The silence thickened, as though even the air waited. Then, at last, she lifted her eyes and replied with a faint, enigmatic smile:
"I told you before… You will see when the time comes."
Katarina puffed her cheeks, lowering her eyes in theatrical frustration.
"This moment is too long!" she exclaimed, fidgeting like a child denied a secret. "You listen to my thoughts with your skills, yet when it comes to this…"
She turned her head aside, but her eyes darted back, betraying her restless curiosity. Evelyra regarded her with a blend of exasperation and disbelief.
"Stop behaving like a child," she said, her voice restrained yet firm. Then, almost absentmindedly, she added: "Here. During your investigation, you may take Kagehane with you."
Katarina froze, startled by the offer. A shiver of anticipation ran through her as she summoned the katana she had once wielded against the forest beasts. Its blade glimmered faintly under the wavering lamp. Her eyes softened with awe, like a feline discovering some forbidden treasure.
Her hands brushed the guard with ceremonial reverence. With deliberate care, she guided the weapon into the shadows pooled at her feet. The darkness rippled like liquid, swallowing the blade whole. The silence deepened, charged with tension, as though the act itself carried the weight of a ritual.
A tremor passed through her arm—half loss, half relief. Entrusting the sword to the shadows was more than storage: it was communion, a pact with the abyss that knew her better than any living soul. The burden on her shoulders lightened instantly, both physical and symbolic.
Drawing a deep breath, she felt her lungs fill as though compensating for the weapon's absence. A fragile smile curved her lips.
"The shadow never betrays." Her eyes glimmered with quiet intimacy, as though sharing a private truth with the unseen.
Evelyra, watching in silence, frowned slightly.
"Why must even the act of storing a weapon feel like a ceremony with her…" she thought, half fascinated, half unsettled.
The girl shifted, her feet dissolving into the darkness below. The shadows embraced her like a living shroud, bearing her weight, swallowing her presence. Her voice lingered briefly as she faded:
"Very well, Milady. I'll go to Shadow's side and learn what I can of the church."
Her words dwindled, dissolving with her form into the deep silence of the chamber. In an instant, the veil of darkness rippled once more and consumed her entirely.
"Finally… gone," Evelyra murmured, relief in her tone. "I never know what to expect from her moods." Her eyes flicked toward the door, half-expecting some fleeting afterimage in the shadows. But none came.
Her fingers returned to the keys. The rhythm resumed, but her thoughts wandered—through memories, through vague possibilities, through futures yet unwritten.
"I hope she will always remain," she whispered, sincere, almost vulnerable. A tender smile softened her lips. Then she sank wholly back into her work, the typewriter's melody filling the room like a solemn hymn, while the night deepened its embrace around her.