Favour Favour
Within the royal castle, deep inside the royal library, the great lord and king of the Limelight Cities, Lux Julia Sheen, busied himself with the endless burdens of a kingdom.
Stacks upon stacks of parchment and paper covered the long table before him and had begun to slack slowly upon the floor as well. Reports of harvests, temple accounts, trade tallies, and complaints from half the city all waited their turn beneath his patient hand.
The only steady sound in the chamber was the soft scratching of his quill, which fluttered briskly across parchment like a chirping bird caught in a gentle dance on the wind. It gave the room an air of calm serenity.
That illusion of peace, however, was somewhat compromised by the thunderous snoring echoing from the other side of the room.
There, sprawled upon a cushioned bench with the confidence of a man who feared neither kings nor consequences, lay Lord Windham Breaker Squall, fast asleep. One boot dangled off the lounge, his cloak was hanging on the armchair, and his sword rested readily on a table as though it, too, had grown sluggish as it master.
To most men, sleeping in the presence of royalty might have been considered disrespectful.
To Lux, it was merely a small inconvenient.
Though many would call it disrespectful in the presence of a king, Lux scarcely noticed. He was deep within the familiar trance of his work, where the world beyond parchment and quill faded away.
Yet there was one thing that managed to disturb that peace.
Thud— Thud—
Footsteps.
Lux cast an annoyed glance toward the new sound.
He noticed a familiar white robe approaching the table. When he looked up, he immediately recognized the face.
Grand Elder Raimund Warmheart.
An elderly man who had risen to the highest rank within the Lioris cleric order as an Elder, second only to the Head of the Faith. He approached with his usual warm, untroubled smile.
Lux regarded him for a moment.
Then he glanced toward Windham, his retainer, who was still snoring.
Then back to Raimund.
The king sighed quietly, setting down his quill.
"Please tell me," Lux said dryly, "that whatever brings you here is either extremely important… or—"
SNORE—
The thunderous interruption rolled across the library.
Lux's eye twitched.
Without a word, he seized a rolled parchment from the pile beside him and flung it across the room with surprising accuracy.
Windham, who had seemed completely defenceless, caught the parchment in one hand without even looking at it.
At that moment, one of his eyes slowly open, and he cast him a tired, unimpressed glance.
"Stop snoring, you fool," Lux said flatly.
Windham sighed deeply, the long-suffering breath of a man who believed his sleep had been unjustly disturbed. He sat up, grabbed the sword resting on the table, and rose to his feet with an unhurried stretch.
Still yawning, he wandered toward Raimund and gave the elder a slow, measuring look from head to toe before a crooked smirk tugged at his mouth.
Raimund simply returned the gesture with a warm smile and a polite nod.
Apparently satisfied, Windham shrugged, walked behind Lux, and leaned against the wall near a tall window that reached the ceiling. He stretched his arms above his head, then settled there lazily, watching Raimund with quiet curiosity, hoping for some mild entertainment.
Lux sighed and leaned back in his chair, finally lifting his gaze to meet Raimund's.
"What is it? On with it," he said with a faint grit in his voice.
Raimund lowered his head respectfully.
"I have a favour to ask of you, my lord and king."
Lux snorted softly and returned his attention to the parchment before him.
"Which kind of favour?" he muttered. "I am not my sister, Raimund. No word nor pray of mine will reach our goddess."
"It is not a matter of faith that brings me here, my lord and king—"
"A moment, Raimund."
Lux raised a hand, stopping him. His quill paused in mid-stroke as he reached for a nearby report and gave it a swift glance. His eyes moved quickly over the lines before he leaned back again, turning the paper in his fingers.
A quiet chuckle escaped him.
"A cleric acting against the very command of his king in favour of his own faith," he mused. "Was that you, Raimund? The one scattering clerics throughout the city and draining the infirmary's coffers on charity?"
He flicked the parchment lightly into the air, and it drifted slowly toward Raimund, its contents revealed as it unfurled.
Royal Infirmary Expenditure Report.
Raimund bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment as he took in its meaning. As soon as he did, the parchment rolled itself up and slipped back through the air, returning neatly to Lux's table and settling among the pile of scrolls.
"My lord and king, fear not. The resources spent were minimal. We offered diagnoses freely, yes, and in rare cases provided materials or potions. Those were given only under exceptional circumstances, and many were nearing expiration regardless."
Lux hummed thoughtfully, still fanning his quill between his fingers.
"Charity from my establishment. My infirmary. My clerics," he said slowly. "How terribly suspicious."
"And this charity," he continued, "was it done for our Moon Goddess, Lioris? Or perhaps for your standing in cleric order? Trying to gather influence… tip the scales a little?"
"My lord and king," Raimund replied calmly, "you know me well. I do not seek such recognition."
Lux leaned back in his chair, studying him with quiet amusement.
"Shame," Lux said with a small smile. "I would gladly parade you as a holy figure, like one of Lioris's chosen. But you are not that. Perhaps faith might raise a common man like yourself into something… greater, and be blessed. Still, you are not."
He smiled faintly. "For I know what you are, Raimund."
His tone sharpened slightly.
"You are the Elder of the Crescent Clerics who serve as Healer for my Royal Infirmary. Do not stray from the duty I assigned you, Raimund. Stay away from political matters. I already have enough headaches from zealots demanding to be heard."
Raimund lowered his head.
"Forgive me, my lord and king."
Lux waved a hand impatiently.
"Enough. What is it you wished to ask of me?"
Raimund lifted his gaze.
"I wish to recruit a… special individual for our infirmary."
The king exhaled slowly, as though already bored.
"Ah. Then take them. Why trouble me with such trivialities?" Lux said, irritation threading his voice. "You are well within your authority. I have no desire to involve Lady Phobe over some foolish matter."
Raimund hesitated.
"This individual bears a blessing."
That earned a pause.
Raimund drew a file from within his robe and handed it over. Lux took it without ceremony, scanning it with idle disinterest. Then his eyes stopped.
A picture.
A small child, her skin marred by burns.
His gaze lingered before he turned the page.
"Which divine does this child serve? I see no record of it."
"The child does not share our faith," Raimund said quietly. "The patron is… unknown to us."
Lux stilled. Then, slowly, a thin smile formed.
"So. this is the favour you truly came for."
He leaned back, studying Raimund with sharpened interest.
"A blessed figure is rare. A blessed child… rarer still. But never without a patron." His fingers tapped lightly against the parchment. "An unknown divine tends to end poorly."
"I am aware, my lord," Raimund replied, lowering his head.
Lux leaned forward, his voice cooling.
"Then you already know my answer. I reject it. Report the child to the Paladins of Lioris for proper examination."
"My lord—" Raimund stepped forward, urgency breaking through his calm. "I sensed nothing of corruption. No trace of demon or devil within her soul."
Lux raised a brow, amused.
"And how would you know that? Have you met this child yourself?"
"I have. She was under my care. A victim of a wyvern's brutality. Burned, broken… yet she lived. Her survival alone defies reason. I observed her closely. I am certain she bears no such taint."
Lux watched him in silence.
"And?" he said softly. "You know as well as I do. The blessed are not governed by reason. Faith binds them more tightly than any chain."
He paused, then narrowed his gaze slightly.
"Such matters belong to the Head of the Faith. And that position, if I recall correctly, is not yours."
A quiet chuckle followed.
"A shame. I would have placed you there, if I could. But you are not what they require. They prefer their leaders touched by divinity. You are merely… reliable."
Raimund remained silent for a moment, then spoke.
"The child is also… afflicted. Cursed of Feebleminded."
Lux glanced at him, unimpressed.
"A feebleminded curse? Such fatuity hardly proves useful."
Lux attention drifted back to his desk. He picked up a pen, already half-absorbed in other matters.
"The child regains her mind… without her blessing taken," Raimund added carefully.
That gave pause.
Lux's pen stilled.
"…Are you telling me the child is cured of her affliction and turn blessed?" he asked, interest flickering at last. "And what of the Cheeriest Order? They are rather devoted to such cases. I would expect an uproar."
"They released the child," Raimund replied. "Without attachment."
Lux frowned.
"I do not believe it." His tone sharpened. "The study of such afflictions—blessed or cursed—is their very mandate, sanctioned by all divines."
He began rummaging through the clutter of his desk, searching for any reference, any record—finding none.
A quiet exhale escaped him.
"This is a troublesome matter, Raimund. I will require more than conviction. Do you have further reports?"
Raimund straightened, a flicker of hope returning.
"I do, my lord. Though much of it is rumour and hearsay."
"Of course it is," Lux murmured. "A feebleminded awaken from their torpor… how unusual."
He scribbled something onto a sheet, then set it aside.
"Very well."
Raimund stilled.
"Raimund... You may entice the child." His voice cooled. "But nothing more. And this matter remains unseen and unspoken. Understood?"
"Yes, my lord."
Lux held his gaze for a long moment. By the window, Windham shifted slightly, faintly entertained.
At last, Lux waved a hand.
"You may go, Raimund."
"Yes, my lord and king." Raimund bowed, unable to hide the small, relieved smile that touched his lips.
As he about to turned and leave.
"Raimund."
The single word stopped him mid-step.
He turned back.
Lux had turned his chair toward the window, light falling across his figure.
"If the child is found to be align with a faithful of Lioris, bring her to me. I would see her for myself."
A pause.
"And perhaps… let her cross paths with my sister. I am curious what will happen. Would she dice her up? That would be interesting," he said with a quiet chuckle.
Raimund felt unease settle in his chest.
"As you will, my lord and king."
"Leave." Lux said firmly.
The great doors began to close behind Raimund, their weight carrying a low echo across the vast library.
His footsteps followed, fading slowly as he walked the long stretch of marble and shadow. In a room so immense, even a man's departure took time to vanish.
At last, Raimund was gone.
Lux remained unmoved, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular, as the echo of retreating steps grew fainter and fainter until it disappeared entirely.
Only then did the silence return.
Windham let out a quiet breath, his voice carrying easily through the open space.
"Why burden yourself further? If it is entertainment you seek, you might as well visit a theatre. If needed, I could see to the child myself."
"And what?" Lux replied, irritation slipping into his voice. "Remove her yourself? I know you are not the most pious of knights, but solving every problem with murder is seldom the best course."
Windham gave a low chuckle, a spark of challenge in his eyes.
"Are you questioning my abilities, my king? I have ended many—young and devout alike—in your name."
Lux's reflection lingered faintly in the glass before him.
"I do not question your sanity, Windham," he said quietly. "Only your restraint. This matter is not a game to me. And—" He paused, narrowing his eyes. "That is not what I wish."
A brief silence settled between them.
"An irregularity," Windham muttered at last, stopping several paces behind him, arms folding loosely. "More troublesome thing we have to faces… and more still you tally."
Lux's eyes softened, though his voice remained sharp as a drawn blade.
"No… it's a good thing. It's a start."
Not every fate is written by the divine, some carve their path… by their own design.
Pullcart Venture
On the snowy cobblestones of end 17th Street, a small procession creaked along a gentle slope. A cart moved with surprisingly little effort, pulled by a woman in a furry white coat and pushed by another in a hooded white coat.
In the centre, sitting like a tiny monarch on her plush pink marshmallow coat, was a girl who seemed to delight in the absurdity of her throne of crate.
Her whimsical antics drew the attention of a few pedestrians passing by. A man carrying groceries stopped mid-step, staring at the trio with curiosity. Two children pointed and whispered to each other, while a baker at a window shook his head and muttered drowsily about his morning.
The girl wiggled happily in her crate, a mischievous smile curling across her face. She looked every bit the marshmallow queen, commanding her two mallow attendants with only the smallest wave of her wobble arms.
That girl was Kimmi.
"Stop moving around, Kimmi… you might topple," Catherine said, tugging the cart carefully.
"I'm not standing! I'm sitting… perfectly snug," Kimmi replied with a grin.
"Then just… don't swing it so much, dear," Catherine sighed.
"Fine…" Kimmi slowed, slouching dramatically before fully reclining in her crate as if it were her bed.
She turned to glance at the hooded woman helping push the cart. That was Vysett, her former caretaker from the infirmary, smiling calmly and entirely unbothered by her antics.
As the cart rolled smoothly along the nearly-flat incline and passed beneath the wall of stone archway marking the boundary between 17th and 18th Street, the scene and their surrounding change.
The buildings rose tall and narrow, lined closely together in rigid rows, forming an almost unbroken wall along the street. The once-wide thoroughfare constricted, shrinking into a tight passage where it was hard to tell whether one was on a main street or a twisting alley.
Crowds pressed along the icy cobblestones, their hurried steps and murmurs weaving a dense, restless current. Navigating the street became a challenge; even a cart, modest in size, had to inch carefully between the throng, the scraping of wheels against stone echoing softly against the towering facades.
Catherine takes a moment for a paused, catching her breath, and bent to check on her daughter.
Kimmi had already made herself completely comfortable, sprawling like a potatoes firm within it soil.
Catherine lips curved into a smile, but her expression tightened slightly when she looked at Vysett, who simply returned her gaze with serene composure.
Kimmi noticed the uneasy glance her mother cast toward Vysett. She knew full well that Vysett unsettled her mother's plans. Catherine had intended to leave her alone at home after the trouble she had caused earlier that morning.
Her mother had planned to bring her along to the storage for her work, but because of her unusual condition, she would have to remain locked in the house. It had been a disheartening prospect at the time.
Yet Kimmi understood her own condition well enough. She would stay at home, though the urge to follow her mother was strong.
Still, she was ready to endure loneliness and boredom within the walls of her home. Though it was painful to withstand the demands of her urges, she still worried about what her mother would think if she were to cause any more trouble.
But fortune shone upon her today; she remembered it clearly.
Gustmill Household—Half an hour earlier
Kimmi had been crying, sobbing at the doorstep of their store. She had watched her mother firmly catch her attempt to climb into the cart and bring her back to the door, urging her to stay home.
"Oh, dear, don't cry," Catherine said, her voice heavy with sadness. "Tomorrow I promise, we can go for a walk, or spend time with the Frasiers. But now is not the right time."
"I'll behave! I can! Please!" Kimmi clung tightly to Catherine's leg, refusing to let go.
"But you are not well today, Kimmi… you must rest," Catherine said, glancing at her daughters bandaged arm.
Kimmi noticed her mothers gaze and immediately covered the bandage with her coat. She sulked and shook her head. Slowly, she pried the bandage open, revealing nothing. "See! Nothing to worry about… it's all gone already."
"Hi! Kimmi, you're early!"
Kimmi turned toward the voice. There was Leyla, peeking from the window of their house—the Frasier Fine Frippery store next door.
"Where are you going?" Leyla asked, curiosity and a hint of envy in her eyes.
"Nowhere… Cane wouldn't let me follow her… I was to be abandoned alone at home," Kimmi said, sobbing.
Catherine almost clicked her tongue in surprise at her daughters words.
Leyla raised an eyebrow as she heard Kimmi use her mothers nickname—but then she caught on to an opportunity.
"You can stay here… if you want… only my brother's at home," Leyla offered, a touch wistful herself at being alone.
Kimmi eyes lit up.
"Can I?! I— Can!" she exclaimed, turning to her mother for confirmation.
Catherine was equally shocked. She had assumed the Frasier household would be empty—Emeline and her husband Leighton had gone to the trade hub—but she was wrong.
"I suppose—" Catherine began, about to agree, when someone interrupted them.
"Oh! Wonderful!" Kimmi chirped, bouncing on her toes as she raised her new toy—a wooden bird with tiny moving joints—high above her head like a sacred treasure. "I have an offering you absolutely cannot refuse! I will trade this… for friendship!"
"Really?!" Leyla gasped, eyes lighting up.
"Yes! Yes!" Kimmi nodded rapidly—then leaned in, lowering her voice just a little. "…Also, I want to borrow more books…"
Leyla blinked, her excitement faltering. "But… don't you already have all the books? Even mine…" Her shoulders drooped.
"Ohhh, those books!" Kimmi waved a hand dismissively. "I already read them!" She beamed. "Don't worry, I keep them very safe—under my bed! Nothing gets there. Except maybe mice… but we don't have mice! I think. Mother says I might be one sometimes."
She grinned, entirely pleased with that thought.
"So don't worry! I will return them when the time is right!"
"When you finally return them, I'd like them to be intact—no tears or droll" Leyla said with irritation, clearly doubtful that Kimmi could even read them.
'How might one read a picture? It could feel not… but what of taste?' Kimmi wondered suddenly, a faint trace of drool gathering at the corner of her mouth.
"Sure…" She said blankly as the urges already envision munching on the book with a bit of added flavour.
Catherine was pleased to see Kimmi interacting with her friend Leyla. She thought it might be best for her daughter to stay at the Frasier household. Hopefully, their elder son, Lawrence, would agree.
"Leyla, would you call your brother here?" Catherine asked.
"O-okay!" Leyla said quickly, then darted off through the house to find her brother.
"Oh, good morning to you, Miss Gustmill…"
A sweet, calm voice came from behind. Catherine turned. Fear prickled up her spine.
Before her stood a woman in a white coat with basket of bread—a member of the Crescent Cleric Order, one she knew all too well.
"Yes… good morning to you," Catherine said, her eyes sharp as she responded, then added cautiously, "Miss…?"
"Oh! It's Vvvvvvvv! The Bubble Witch!" Kimmi squealed, skip around Vysett in delight.
"Kimberly, you look well…" Vysett said, smiling as she watched Kimmi skip about, her movements almost like a playful ritual. Then she turned to Catherine. "My name is Vysett Flow… I am from—"
Vysett paused mid-sentence.
"She can make bubbles!" Kimmi interrupted, turning to her mother with excitement.
Catherine smiled faintly and nodded at Kimmi before addressing Vysett herself. "I know your allegiance… cleric," she said sharply, her tone leaving no room for doubt.
Her attention turned back to Kimmi, who stood happily beside Vysett, eyes wide as she inspected the basket of bread and drooled over its contents.
Vysett happily offered Kimmi a piece of baguette, which the girl nibbled like a little hamster. She then glanced up at her mother, who seemed to be boiling with anger—though Kimmi did not realize it—and, with a twist, she snaps the bread into two and carried it too her mother.
Catherine accepted the bread from Kimmi and bit into it, forcing a smile onto her face, though beneath it, her fear for her daughters safety simmered like a molten magma.
"What are you doing here, Vvvvvv?" Kimmi broke the silence.
"That is indeed a pertinent question, my dear," Catherine said, her tone measured and graceful. "What purpose does a Crescent Cleric have here so early in the morning?"
"Forgive me, Miss Gustmill… I am one of Kimberly's caretakers at the Royal Infirmary. She has a routine health check, thrice a week," Vysett said, pulling a medical folder from her basket and offering it to Catherine.
Catherine snatched it away and began to examine its contents. Her eyes widened as she read the harrowing reports detailing the injuries her daughter had suffered and the treatments used to save her.
As Catherine turned the pages, she saw numerous images showing marred scars and cuts that had once covered her daughter. She studied every detail, her eyes threatening to fill with tears. She had never realized how severe her daughter condition had been before the attack. Now, she understood why Crescent Cleric had taken such an interest in her daughter.
Turning to her daughter, who now seemed healthy and free of the shadows of her past suffering, Catherine's fear gave way to sorrow, and her anger toward the cleric began to fade.
"Cleric Vysett… is my daughter truly well?" Catherine inquired, her voice calm yet edged with the gravity of a mother's concern.
"Yes, conditionally," Vysett replied, offering a gentle smile. "She lives. I must still ensure her mental well-being. Many victims of the Cootic incident continue to suffer nightmares… it is most troubling. Kimberly, I trust, has not endured the same. Thought, during her time at the infirmary, she would request a small potion to aid her sleep," Vysett added, recalling Kimmi persistent antics of boredom complaint.
Catherine eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful at the mention of nightmares. Even awake, her daughter had been haunted by them.
"Is Kimberly all right?" Lawrence called from the upstairs window, concern evident in his voice. Beside him, his little sister Leyla watched them worriedly.
"She is perfectly well, dear Lawrence," Catherine said, her voice gentle, comforting both her daughter and her neighbour.
"I apologize, Miss Gustmill… I could not help overhearing your conversation. I am happy to remain with Kimberly until your return—it is, after all, my duty as her caretaker," Vysett said, offering a smile that hinted at subtle intentions.
"Most kind of you, Cleric Vysett," Catherine said, her voice poised and courteous. "However, my daughter and I were just about to depart. Might I request that you return at a more convenient times?"
She inclined her head slightly in apology, though the firmness beneath her poise left little room for negotiation.
Before Vysett could respond, Catherine moved.
She slipped an arm around Kimmi waist—who was still happily munching her bread—and lifted her with ease, settling her back into the cart seat that had already been prepared.
Kimmi blinked in astonishment.
'Mother changed her mind!'
She twisted around toward Leyla, her face lighting up.
"I am not abandoned! We are leaving, Leyla!" she declared triumphantly, wiggling in place as though celebrating a grand victory.
Leyla narrowed her eyes, clearly unsatisfied.
"But what about that offering?" Leyla said firmly.
Kimmi heard her but slowly hid her toys back inside her coat and turned to look away.
"Ah!" Leyla was shocked—she knew Kimmi was pretending not to listen. "I'll remember this, Kimmi! I'm not going to read you anything anymore!" she pouted.
"It's hard to maintain friendships…" Kimmi muttered, cupping her ear to block out the words.
Catherine overheard and whispered, "That's not kind of you, dear. Leyla is your friend…"
Kimmi whispered back to her mother, "Yes… but she doesn't have anything to trade…"
Catherine replied, "But Leyla would never read to you anymore."
Kimmi paused, considering it carefully.
'Leyla is a complicated friend… but Kimmi chose her for a reason,' she thought.
Kimmi turned back to Leyla. "Very well, Leyla… this is not your turn now… Soon," she said with a mischievous smile.
Catherine smiled awkwardly.
"Don't be so mean, Leyla… you've already been given plenty," Lawrence interjected.
"…Well fine. Have a nice day, Kimmi," she replied, a hint of disappointment slipping through.
"Be safe out there, Aunt Cane… and you as well, Kimmi," Lawrence called, worry threading his voice.
Catherine allowed her daughter the moment, watching the exchange with quiet patience before turning back to Vysett.
"We shall take our leave now. Farewell."
She exhaled softly, her breath steadying into something deeper, more deliberate.
"Fortify. Bolster."
At once, a subtle force gathered around her, stirring the air as though drawn inward by an unseen current. The space around Catherine seemed to tighten, sharpen—like the quiet before a storm.
She grasped the cart's handle and pulled.
The cart moved with effortless ease, gliding across the cobblestones as though the weight had been quietly erased.
Catherine walked faster, tried to put distance between themself and the cleric.
Kimmi eyes widened in awe. She knew her mother could use magic—she had seen small things before—but this was different.
This was new.
Quickly, she fished out a rolled scrap of paper from her pocket and scribbled down the words her mother had spoken, careful not to forget.
Vysett, sensing the subtle retreat, began to follow at a measured pace.
"Excuse me, Cleric… may I have a moment of your time?" Lawrence called, a warm smile upon his face.
"Ah… well," Vysett hesitated, her plans to shadow the Gustmill families interrupted.
"It will be but a brief tea… I promise it will not take long," Lawrence reassured her.
"I… forgive me, Mister Lawrence, is it not?" Vysett said, flustered. "I had almost lost sight of my duty. I must return… Lioris forgive me for idling. A good winter to you, Lawrence, and to you as well, Leyla."
She smiled kindly, yet as she turned away, her expression faltered, a flash of annoyance lingering behind the courteous mask.
Vysett continued along the path, her gaze subtly following Catherine and Kimmi as they moved ahead, unwilling to be left entirely behind.
From the windows above, Lawrence watched the cleric follow the Gustmills at a careful distance. As Catherine and Kimmi moved further away, the silence stretched between the siblings—until Leyla suddenly broke it.
"You want to have tea with her? You like her! Oh brother, I simply must tell Mother about this," she laughed, eyes sparkling with mischief.
Lawrence only smiled, playing along. "You wouldn't dare… I'll tell Father that you haven't been studying while he's away," he teased, smirking at his sister before letting out a quiet chuckle.
"Enough, Leyla. Go do your thing. The cold has seeped into the house long enough—I must close the windows," he said with mild exasperation.
Leyla shrugged, walking away slowly, a twinge of envy tugging at her as she watched Kimmi enjoy a rare chance to leave the house.
Lawrence lingered at the window a moment longer, smiling faintly at his sister, then turned his gaze back to the distant cleric trailing behind the Gustmills.
"Lioris' mercy…" he murmured softly, before letting the windows fall shut with a measured click.
Midway through Trade Hub
Kimmi lay sprawled across the cart, nestled among crates of merchandise. Peeking inside one, she found rows of finely carved wooden toys—far more intricate than the little bird she held.
With careful fingers, she twisted the bird's joints into a sitting pose and placed it beside her. Satisfied, she sit upright, open herself to the new surroundings.
The cart itself was spacious enough to fit three of her, and though it appeared simple, it carried a clever design. A leaf metal spring beneath its frame softened every jolt, turning the rough cobblestones into a gentle, rolling rhythm.
The street had grown busy. The narrowing road forced people closer together, and the cart drew attention wherever it passed. Faces turned. Voices followed. And, to Kimmi's growing awareness, so did conversations.
"Oh, good day to you, ma'am! What a wonderful child you have there," a passerby called.
"Good day to you as well, sir. She is my daughter. Say hello, Kimmi," Catherine replied.
"Hello, stranger…" Kimmi said absently, barely sparing him a glance as her eyes wandered over the buildings.
"Kimmi," Catherine prompted.
The man chuckled. "A fine daughter you have—helping her mother to work." He tipped his head. "I shall be on my way. Good day, ma'am… and goodbye, little one."
As he left, Kimmi leaned forward and whispered, "Mother… I was demoted. From wonderful to fine. He is not a good man."
"And whose fault might that be?" Catherine replied dryly.
"She did nothing wrong," Vysett interjected.
"I am aware," Catherine said, though her tone carried faint annoyance.
Kimmi sank back into the cart, her thoughts drifting.
'Strange… everyone seems hurried…'
People moved briskly through the cold, clutching their coats tight, yet some walked as though untouched by winters bite. She glanced at her mother. At Vysett. Neither seemed troubled by the chill.
Then she considered herself.
Even she did not feel it. Not truly. Not anymore.
"Odd…" Kimmi murmured.
"What is it, dear?" Catherine asked.
"Nothing… only… do you not feel the weather?" Kimmi tilted her head. "The cold feels… toothless."
Catherine slowed the cart, concern flickering across her face. Her gaze darted to the unlit lantern resting atop the crates. A quiet realization struck her.
She had forgotten to light it.
Vysett, too, frowned slightly. The cold had never troubled her—but for a child, it should.
"You do not feel the cold, Kimberly?" Vysett asked.
Kimmi shook her head. "Not often… I do not feel pain most of the time."
Vysett paused. "That is… not quite the same as temperature."
Kimmi tilted her head again, thoughtful. "No… pain is merely how the body understands things. Cold and heat can both burn… the difference lies in how we perceive them."
Vysett smiled faintly, though she did not fully grasp the meaning. "You are a very curious child, Kimberly."
Catherine said nothing.
Instead, she prepared the lantern with careful hands and struck a flame with her magic.
"Ignite"
Light bloomed. Warmth followed—spreading gently around them like an unseen cloak.
She exhaled, relief softening her expression, and turned to her daughter.
"Better now, dear?"
Kimmi nodded, though her attention was already captured.
The lantern glowed softly, its warmth reaching outward despite the open air.
Like a tiny sun in a fragile cage.
Kimmi leaned closer, eyes wide with quiet wonder.
Then, as if seized by sudden inspiration, she fished out her rolled scrap of paper and a stub of charcoal from her coat. With quick, eager motions, she began to draw.
The lantern was a common sight to her—she had seen many such things before. Yet this one felt… different.
It was not merely the warmth it gave, though even that seemed oddly gentle, as if it wrapped around her rather than pressed against her skin. No—what truly held her attention was the flame itself.
At the heart of the lantern, the fire did not flicker as one might expect. Instead, it gathered—round and whole—hovering at the center like a tiny sun. It turned slowly, almost thoughtfully, its light steady and alive.
Kimmi's charcoal scratched softly across the paper as she tried to capture its shape, its strange, quiet motion.
"Interesting…" she murmured to herself, head tilting as she studied both lantern and drawing.
After a moment, she smiled.
"You are a curious little thing… I do not think I have a name for you yet…"
She tapped the charcoal lightly against her chin, then brightened.
"For your warm... you shall be Sunny."
The name seemed to please her.
And so she returned to her drawing, as though she had just named a small, obedient star.
A shadow leaned in.
Vysett cast a glance over the child's shoulder, her eyes settling on the page. There, in simple lines and soft smudges, was the lantern—its rounded flame carefully drawn at the center. Beneath it, in uneven lettering, a name had been written.
Sunny
Vysett let out a quiet chuckle.
"Our Moon Goddess might take offense at that," she said lightly. "Naming her instruments after the Three Lords of Light… beware."
Kimmi paused mid-stroke and glanced up, curiosity flickering across her face. "Moon? Goddess?"
She turned back to the lantern, studying it more intently now, as though seeing it for the second time. Her gaze traced along its iron frame, where faint lines and symbols had been etched. Most meant nothing to her—but a few stirred a vague sense of recognition.
Moon Lantern
"It looks nothing like a moon…" Kimmi said, glancing back at Vysett.
Vysett smiled, intrigued. "Oh? And why do you think so?"
Kimmi tilted her head, uncertain, unable to quite form the answer.
"A cage with a circle at its center," Catherine said calmly, answering in her stead. "It symbolizes Lioris."
"Ohhh… that sort of thing," Kimmi said, nodding slowly. "I have not learned symbols yet… only alphabet." She smiled, a little awkwardly. "I suppose Vvvvv must love the moon very much… to care"
With renewed interest, she began to draw again—this time sketching a series of moons. One after another, from thin crescent to full, then waning once more.
"Here, look, Vvvvv!" she said brightly. "What do you think?"
She pointed at one of the shapes. "This is a crescent…"
Then, with small excitement, she gestured toward the emblem pinned to Vysett's coat—the symbol of the Crescent Clerics Clinic.
Vysett blinked, caught off guard. She had not expected this.
"Where did you learn that, Kimmi?" she asked, genuine curiosity slipping through her composed tone.
Catherine, watching, felt a quiet warmth stir within her. 'She must have learned it from Leyla…' she thought.
"Oh, it is easy!" Kimmi said cheerfully. "You just have to look at the sky at night and find the moon. It is very big… and very bright. And sometimes…"
She paused, thinking carefully.
"…there is a special month when it changes shape again and again. The whole month feels… Magical."
Her voice carried a simple certainty, as though she spoke of something obvious—something everyone should know.
Vysett and Catherine fell silent.
"Oh! And—and! You can also see the moon during the day—" Kimmi began eagerly, ready to share more of her discoveries.
"Shhh, dear…" Catherine gently interrupted, her voice soft but firm, as she placed a careful hand to still her.
"Lady Catherine," Vysett spoke with measured respect, "Kimberly has said nothing amiss. She merely expresses her wonder—and her understanding—of Lioris' grace."
Her gaze softened as it settled on Kimmi, touched by the girl's earnestness.
"Kimberly… might I have that drawing?" Vysett asked, a warm smile spreading across her face.
"You really like the moon… I see," Kimmi said thoughtfully. Then she shook her head. "But I cannot. This paper is mine, and there are other things written here… it is private."
"And I would not permit it," Catherine added calmly, her tone leaving no room for dispute.
"I understand," Vysett replied, inclining her head. "Then… might you draw it into my notebook?" she tried again, gentler this time.
"I think we should move along," Catherine said, her voice firm as she pulled the cart forward. "We are gathering too much attention by lingering."
The cart rolled onward.
Vysett remained where she stood.
Kimmi glanced back as the distance between them slowly stretched. The cleric stood motionless upon the road, her figure growing smaller, her expression softened into something faint and distant. To Kimmi, it looked like a weary smile.
'She must be sad,' Kimmi thought.
Yet it mattered little. Her mother's word was law.
The street carried them further away.
And still, Vysett did not move.
But the smile that lingered upon her lips was not sorrow.
It was quiet, knowing—almost pleased.
"Kimberly…" she murmured under her breath, her eyes alight with a dawning certainty.
"…might be a child of the Moon."
She walks through the present with ancient eyes, keeping what lingers when memory dies.