Night descended slowly across the wilderness.
The last breath of daylight melted into shadow, and the stars began to blink awake one by one. Beneath the vast, violet sky, the rock tortoise came to a heavy, groaning halt. Its shell—scarred by years and dust—settled into the earth with a rumble that echoed through the still air.
Luciel glanced up at the horizon, where the faint silver of the coming moon was beginning to edge the hills. "Time to stop for the night," he murmured. He set down his pack, brushed off his gloves, and turned toward the makeshift shelter they called home.
He rapped twice on the wooden door. "Mino. Dinner's ready."
A pause. Then her muffled voice came through, small and uncertain. "You eat first. I'm… not hungry."
Luciel frowned. He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. "Not hungry?" he muttered under his breath. "She's fourteen. Is this what they call the rebellious phase?"
The door creaked open so suddenly he almost stumbled.
Mino stood in the doorway, cheeks flushed and eyes blazing, her hands planted firmly on her hips. "I am not rebellious!"
Luciel bit back a laugh. "Of course you're not."
For a fleeting moment, he felt an odd warmth in his chest—like an exasperated father trying to reason with a spirited daughter.
He reached out and flicked her forehead lightly. "Come on, Little One. Dinner's waiting."
Her pout vanished the moment she stepped out and saw the interior of the hall.
Her blue eyes widened. "Wha—what happened to this place?"
The once-empty space had transformed. A tall square table stood proudly in the center, polished smooth. Four benches surrounded it, their surfaces gleaming faintly in the firelight. In the middle of the table sat a steel pot, steam curling up from its lid. Two wooden bowls and pairs of chopsticks were neatly arranged across from one another.
"Don't just stand there gawking," Luciel said with a faint smile. "Come eat before it gets cold."
"You made all this… this afternoon?" She walked around the table, fingertips brushing the edges as if to make sure it was real.
"I did it while finishing the big tub," he said, ladling broth into her bowl. "We can't keep eating crouched by the firepit forever."
Mino froze mid-step. "Wait—did you say tub? Like… a bathtub?"
Luciel nodded toward the corner, where a half-man–tall wooden basin gleamed faintly in the firelight.
"For storing water—and bathing."
Her jaw dropped. "You built that too?!"
"With my strength now, carving wood's easy. Used to take me hours to saw through a block. Now I just shape it." He took a calm sip of his own broth, as if he hadn't just built furniture and a bath by hand in a single afternoon.
Mino ran over to inspect it, completely forgetting the food. "It's huge! You could fit—what—ten of me in there?"
"Probably more." He smirked. "Though I'm not planning to test that theory."
She whirled back toward him, mouth open in awe. "But there's no water!"
"There will be when it rains," Luciel replied easily. "And if it doesn't—well, the Bloodbeard base will have plenty. Anywhere people live, there's a source."
"But it hasn't rained in seventeen days." Her voice faltered. She sat down, suddenly deflated. "I smell like a dying beast, and now there's a bathtub I can't even use."
Luciel chuckled quietly. "Eat, Mino. Brooding won't make the sky rain any faster."
He tore off a piece of roasted meat and nodded toward her untouched bowl. "Finish dinner. I've got something for you after."
That caught her attention. "What is it?" she asked, perking up.
"You'll see. But not until you're done eating."
Her blue eyes narrowed playfully. "You're bribing me."
"Whatever works."
She giggled, finally picking up her chopsticks. Within minutes she was eating with the single-minded focus only hunger and curiosity could inspire—one hand holding meat, the other spooning broth. Luciel ate quietly, content to watch her enjoy the simple meal.
When she licked the last drop from her bowl, she looked up expectantly. "Done!"
Luciel smirked. "You sure? Didn't miss a crumb?"
She shook her head vigorously, rabbit ears bouncing. "Not one!"
The image made him laugh—a small, scruffy girl, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, waiting for a treat like a child expecting candy.
"All right," he said at last. "Then this is for you."
From behind his chair, he pulled out a drawing board, carefully wrapped in cloth. He held it out with both hands. "Be careful. Don't touch the surface—the charcoal will smudge."
Mino's hands trembled slightly as she took it. "What is it?"
"See for yourself."
She turned it around—and froze.
The image on the board captured a landscape that was both strange and heartbreakingly familiar: rolling meadows under a vast blue sky, the crooked little windmill by the river, and the curved bridge that led to her childhood home. Every line, every shadow was alive with memory.
Her throat tightened. "This… this is—"
Luciel's voice was soft. "It's called Hometown."
Tears blurred her vision. "It's beautiful…"
He reached out, resting a hand gently on her head. "I'm glad you think so." Then, giving her space, he stepped outside into the cool night air.
The world beyond the courtyard was pitch-black, so dark that even the outlines of the distant cliffs seemed swallowed whole. He stood there quietly, hands in his pockets, letting the wind brush past.
His mind wandered—to the strange twist of fate that had brought him here, to this world and this stubborn girl. If not for her kindness that first day, he might've died in some nameless ravine, stripped of everything. Instead, she'd shared her food, her shelter, and something rarer still: her trust.
Six, maybe seven days together, he thought. And she still looks at me like I can fix anything.
He exhaled slowly, the corners of his mouth turning up. Maybe he couldn't fix everything. But he could give her one beautiful memory.
A sudden sound tore through the night—
a long, mournful howl.
It rose and fell like a haunting song, distant yet powerful enough to shake the stillness.
Luciel's head snapped toward the horizon.
Tiny white sparks glimmered in the dark—eyes, dozens of them, moving as one.
Before he could speak, the door banged open behind him.
"Luciel!" Mino's voice was sharp with panic. "Get inside, now!"
She was standing in the doorway, tears still bright on her cheeks, eyes wide with fear. He hesitated, glancing once more at the hills.
"Come on!" She grabbed his sleeve, dragging him back inside before he could protest. The door slammed shut behind them with a hollow thud.
"What's going on?" he asked, scanning her face.
"Didn't you hear it?" Her voice shook. "That howl—it's a Moon Wolf pack. They're vicious, Luciel. They hunt anything that breathes!"
She hurried to the firepit, scattering half the burning logs and smothering the flames until only a faint glow remained. "We can't let them see the light."
When she finally exhaled, her shoulders trembled.
A moment ago she'd been crying over a painting—now terror had driven the color from her face.
Luciel watched her silently for a beat, then said with a faint, teasing smile, "You do remember we have beasts of our own, right?"
As if on cue, a low rumble shook the ground. The rock tortoise outside let out a thunderous growl that echoed across the plain.
Almost immediately, a distant answer came—another howl, deeper, more defiant.
Then another.
And another.
The howls rose and overlapped until the night itself seemed alive with voices—wolves calling, threatening, testing the boundaries of the tortoise's territory.
Mino clutched her ears. "They're getting closer!"
Luciel tilted his head, listening carefully. Then, slowly, the calls began to fade, retreating one after another into the darkness.
"They're leaving," he murmured.
Mino blinked, lowering her hands. "Really?"
He nodded. Years of training made him fluent in the language of beasts. "The tortoise warned them—'this is my territory.' The Moon Wolves answered, 'we'll be back.' But for now, they're gone."
Her ears perked slightly, trembling but upright again. "Thank goodness."
Luciel stoked the fire back to life, letting the warmth fill the hall again. "See? No harm done."
Mino managed a shaky smile and sat down, still clutching her chest. Then suddenly she froze. "Wait—my painting!"
She jumped up, panic flashing across her face. Her gaze swept the room until she saw it resting safely on the table, untouched. "Oh, thank the stars…" she breathed.
Luciel raised an eyebrow. "You were worried about me, then forgot your painting?"
"I—I can worry about both!" she protested, cheeks reddening.
He chuckled, shaking his head. "Fair enough."
Mino picked up the painting again, holding it as if it were made of glass. "Luciel… how should I keep it safe? I don't want it to get ruined."
"Hang it on your wall," he said simply. "Somewhere the firelight can reach."
"Will you… help me?" she asked softly.
Luciel smiled—an unguarded, gentle smile that came easily for once. "Of course."
He took the board, found a flat spot on the wooden wall of her small room, and set it in place. The firelight caught the lines of charcoal, giving the painted fields a soft golden hue, as if the dawn inside the picture were alive.
When he stepped back, Mino stood before it silently, hands clasped, eyes bright.
She didn't speak, but her expression said everything—the warmth, the gratitude, the sense of belonging she hadn't felt in a long time.
Luciel turned to leave, but paused at the doorway. For all the dangers of this world—the wolves, the raiders, the endless night—this quiet moment between them felt like a victory.
He smiled faintly and said, "Good night, Mino."
She looked over her shoulder, a shy smile tugging at her lips. "Good night, Luciel."
Outside, the wind had settled. The moon rose high and silver, and far away, the wolves howled again—not in anger this time, but in mourning. A song of the wild that belonged to the endless dark.