Night had long since fallen, wrapping the small wooden cabin in a gentle hush. The meal was finished, the scent of roasted roots and herbs still lingering faintly in the air. Outside, the wind combed through the trees, stirring the silver reflection of moonlight over the lake's surface. Inside, Luciel, Elara, and Mino sat together around the table, their small world lit by a single wavering lamp.
They would reach the Moon Lake Tribe tomorrow.
Luciel's hands moved steadily as he carved into a small wooden box, each stroke of his knife deliberate and patient. The rhythmic click—crack of blade against grain filled the silence like the beating of a heart. The box was meant to hold the Starlight Tea leaves—rare and precious things, deserving of something beautiful to cradle them.
He worked with the same focus he gave to everything: quiet, precise, almost reverent. Beauty, he believed, gave worth to even the simplest of things.
Mino sat opposite him, her elbows on the table and her chin resting in her palms. Her rabbit-like ears drooped slightly as she gazed into the lamplight. "We'll be at Moon Lake Tribe tomorrow," she murmured dreamily. "I wonder if my big sister might be there."
Luciel's knife hesitated mid-stroke. He didn't look up, only said softly, "She may not be. The tribes are scattered—people move often."
The girl's expression faltered, the light dimming a little in her blue eyes. "Oh… I suppose you're right." Her voice was soft, more to herself than to anyone else.
Luciel set his knife down and brushed the shavings aside. "Tell me," he said, after a pause. "What does your sister look like?"
Mino blinked, surprised. "Why?"
"I can sketch her," Luciel said simply. "If you have a picture, it'll be easier to ask around once we reach the Moon Lake Tribe."
"Really? You can draw someone you've never met?" The hopeful tilt in her voice was almost childlike.
Luciel nodded once. "If your description's clear enough. We did something similar in my old unit—sketches of faces, pieced together from words alone." His tone was casual, but Elara saw the shadow of old memories cross his eyes.
He stood, nailed a clean piece of white cloth to the wooden board by the wall, and began to sharpen a piece of charcoal until it came to a fine point. His motions were quiet and deliberate, the air thick with the faint scent of char and sawdust.
"Go on," he said, his voice calm. "Describe her."
Mino thought for a long moment, her ears twitching slightly. "My big sister is very beautiful," she began, fidgeting. "But she doesn't smile much. She's a little like Elara—kind of cold, but gentle too."
At that, Elara raised one white brow. "Cold, am I?" she said dryly.
The rabbit-eared girl flinched. "Ah—no! I just mean… your expression. You both look like people who don't laugh easily."
Luciel's lips quirked faintly, though his eyes stayed on the board. "Focus on her face, not her personality," he said. "Shape of her eyes, her hair, her ears—things like that."
"Right, right," Mino said quickly, tugging nervously at one ear. "Let's see… she had long black hair—very long. And she had cat ears, not rabbit ones. Her eyes were red, like rubies. Her face was prettier than mine." She puffed out her cheeks as if annoyed by that fact. "And she always looked calm, like nothing could surprise her."
Luciel's charcoal began to move across the cloth—slow, deliberate lines that took form beneath his hand. Elara watched in fascination as vague shapes became features, features became expression. It was like watching something alive slowly take shape from dust and shadow.
For half an hour, the only sound was the scratch of charcoal and the faint creak of the cabin's timbers. Then Luciel leaned back, eyes narrowing as he studied his work.
A young woman looked back from the board—black hair spilling down her shoulders, ears pointed and furred like a cat's, her gaze cool and unreadable.
"Something like this?" he asked, turning the board toward Mino.
The girl's blue eyes widened. "Oh! That looks a bit like her—but the nose should be a little higher, and her eyebrows shorter. And the corners of her mouth should be lower—she didn't smile much."
Luciel nodded and began to adjust the portrait, the lines shifting subtly. It took only a few minutes, but when he was done, he frowned faintly at the result.
Mino leaned forward eagerly. "Let me see!"
He passed her the board.
"Wow!" she breathed. "That's her. That's really her." She cradled the portrait carefully, as if afraid it might vanish.
Elara stood beside her, arms crossed, studying the drawing. "It looks about your age," she said, her silver hair catching the lamplight. "You're good, Luciel. I didn't think you could pull that from just a few words."
Luciel shrugged. "Practice. Though honestly—" He glanced at the board again. "Before I made the changes, she looked older. Maybe that's what your sister would look like now."
"Really?" Mino blinked, gazing down at the image. Her expression softened, nostalgia flickering in her eyes. "It does feel like her… from before."
Luciel brushed charcoal dust from his fingers. "Then it's probably close enough."
"I'm keeping this," Mino declared. She hugged the board to her chest, her voice suddenly brighter. "I'll use it to find her."
"Don't forget it tomorrow," Luciel said gently. "You'll need it."
"I won't!" she called as she scampered off to her small room, still holding the sketch as if it were treasure.
When her door closed, the cabin grew quieter again. The flame in the lamp swayed a little in the draft.
Elara, still standing near Luciel, glanced at the now-empty space where Mino had been. Her voice dropped low. "Do you really think she'll find her sister?"
Luciel's carving knife stilled. For a long time, he didn't answer. Then he exhaled softly. "No," he said at last.
It wasn't coldness in his voice—just quiet honesty, tinged with regret.
Elara sighed. She had expected that answer, yet hearing it out loud hurt anyway. "Then why not tell her? It'd be kinder than letting her chase something impossible."
Luciel set down his knife and looked toward the faint light spilling under Mino's door. "Because she already knows," he said. "She just doesn't want to let go of hope yet."
Elara frowned, her white brows drawing together. "You're saying she's pretending?"
He shook his head. "Not pretending. Just… choosing to believe. Hope, even if it's fragile, can be a kind of strength. Let her have that. If I told her it was hopeless, I'd be taking something precious from her."
He returned to his carving, the blade whispering against the wood again. The sound was steady, thoughtful.
"Besides," he added softly, "this little search of hers—it gives her a reason to smile. And it reminds me that not everything worth protecting has to be practical."
Elara stood silently for a while, watching the way his fingers moved, the calm patience in every gesture. Understanding bloomed slowly, along with something else—something tight and unfamiliar beneath her ribs.
She bit her lip. Her hands, pale and small, twisted at the fabric of her skirt. "You're kind to her," she murmured.
Luciel looked up, puzzled. "What's that?"
"Nothing." She shook her head, the words slipping out sharper than she intended. "I'm just… tired. I'll go rest."
He tilted his head, studying her. "You sure? You look—"
"I said I'm fine." Her voice wavered, betraying her. Before he could reply, she turned on her heel and fled toward her room, the hem of her pale dress brushing the floor like ghostlight.
The door shut softly behind her.
Luciel blinked after her, confusion flickering in his eyes, but he said nothing. After a moment, he sighed and returned to his work. The knife resumed its quiet rhythm, shaping wood beneath a steady hand.
---
Elara threw herself onto her bed, face buried in the pillow. Her heart thudded fast and uneven, an unfamiliar ache pulsing through her chest.
"What is this feeling?" she whispered into the quiet. "It's… annoying."
Her hands clenched in the sheets. The more she tried to push the thought away, the louder it became—the image of Luciel's calm eyes, the warmth in his voice when he spoke to Mino, the gentle patience that never once surfaced when he looked at her.
Was it envy? Anger? Or something else entirely?
Elara rolled onto her back, staring up at the rough wooden ceiling. Moonlight seeped through the small window, tracing pale lines across her hair and skin. For days now, the three of them had traveled together—eating, talking, working side by side. She had grown used to it, even comfortable. Luciel's quiet steadiness had become something she unconsciously relied on, like the rhythm of her own breath.
And now, suddenly, that calm center felt shaken.
She remembered the way he'd smiled at Mino—gentle, warm, the kind of expression that made people believe the world was still kind. She remembered how tenderly he'd drawn the portrait, how carefully he'd protected that small hope for her.
Why did that bother her so much?
"I don't understand," she whispered, pressing a hand against her chest. "Why does it hurt to see him care for her?"
Her heart answered in silence, beating fast beneath her palm.
Perhaps, she thought faintly, she had grown used to thinking she was the only one he looked after—the one who shared his quiet nights, his rare words, his calm. But Mino had slipped into that circle with such ease, and Luciel had let her.
That shouldn't matter. It wasn't as though Luciel belonged to her, or that she even wanted him to.
And yet, as she lay there in the moonlight, her stomach twisted with something that had no name—something sharp and hot and new.
Elara closed her eyes, but the feeling didn't fade. It only grew clearer.
She was jealous.
The realization hit like cold water. Ridiculous, she told herself. Utterly ridiculous. She turned onto her side, tugging the blanket over her head as if it could hide the thought.
But the ache wouldn't leave. It was tangled up somewhere deep, where reason couldn't reach. And in that darkness, something in her heart shifted—something fragile and dangerous and alive.
Outside, the night stretched on, silent and endless. The wind sighed across the lake, carrying with it the faintest sound of Luciel's carving—patient, steady, untroubled.
Elara listened to it through the thin wall, her chest tight, her mind a whirl of thoughts she couldn't name.
She didn't know it yet—but that strange ache blooming inside her was the beginning of something new. The first, trembling spark of a feeling she'd never known before.
The white-haired girl was jealous.