The tea’s aroma perfumed the living room. Iris swirled her teacup while looking at Mantil, who held her cup with both her hands and carefully drank it. Despite her effort, Mantil couldn’t resist peeping on Iris and mimicking her.

Gantil patted her daughter’s head while giving Iris an apologetic look.

“Your gift is splendid indeed,” Iris said while glancing at the chest Antina was holding. “What kind of reward would you like?”

“This is the least I can do for my daughter.”

“A transaction that saved her is still a transaction. The price you paid is already enough.”

“Even if it’s a mere transaction, I still feel grateful.” Gantil raised her right hand and clasped it gently. “Like how you expected nothing in return, I expected nothing either.”

“My desire to reward you is also purely mine.”

“If Mother doesn’t want anything, can I have it instead?” Mantil said.

Gantil turned to her daughter, shook her head, and returned to Iris. “Then, please give her a disguise.”

“Security for our associates is already in our contract.”

“Then . . . can I have your favour?”

Antina raised her eyebrows. “Mistress’s favour is too precious—"

Iris snapped her fingers, stopping Antina from speaking further. “I am merely a part of the Court of Indulgence; my influence cannot compare to other senior members.”

“But you’re the one who saved us,” Gantil said. “We trusted your judgement, Lady Iris. Your favour is the most valuable thing we could have.”

“Then my favour you shall receive.”

Iris stood up. She leaned on the coffee table, moving closer to Gantil, whose tense expression failed to conceal her fiery expectation. Iris smirked but did not advance further.

“Our excursion has taken much of your precious time.”

“Time spent with you is no time lost.”

Gantil picked up a bell stick and rang it. A few clerks entered the room with documents detailing the amount and quality of the goods transferred into the warehouses. These contracts mapped a web of merchants, high society, and powerful organisations.

Antina checked the papers while Iris checked the clerks, who nervously stood behind Gantil. The image of their first mate crawling on the street persisted in their retinas.

Resisting the urge to scold her subordinates, Gantil maintained a smile which was forever familiar to her crewmates. Her lips playfully curved up while her eyes flickered, sparkling with hidden flares. The clerks held their breaths, shifting their target of anxiety.

The official business swiftly concluded. The documents were spotless. The operation front was legitimate; all traces were fabricated to mislead potential investigation.

Iris raised her right hand. The room halted in its flow. Sounds receded into the depth of silence, and flickering lights stabilised under a solemn weight. Iris placed her hand on the table and yanked it upward.

A river of blurry cards scattered on the glass surface. Blue flames burst on top of them, but they suffered no burn. The cards, their faces unreadable, slowly revolved in their places, dancing amidst a tide of pale smoke. Silhouettes of unseen figures moved within these cards, although no one could glean anything from them.

Iris leaned on her sofa. “Would you do the honour?”

Gantil nodded. She studied the card arrangement while feeling the smoke’s current with her gaze. Lady Iris’s divination relied on the spirit. She must follow her heart until the answer reveals itself.

Mantil instead picked the one whose silhouette resembled Iris the most. The card cut her finger. She pulled back her hand and looked at her fingertip. She didn’t bleed. There was a glow stuck on her nail, which dissipated like a fairy mesmerising her.

Gantil caught her daughter’s hands before she bowed at Iris. She wanted to make an excuse for her daughter, but Iris’s amused expression had already excused her behaviour.

“What did you see, Mantil?” Iris said.

Mantil blinked. The fairy was no longer there. She looked at her mother, who gave her an encouraging nod, and then stared excitedly at Iris. “A vast ocean with raging waves. I—the future me—was sailing across the storm. I was a mage, with a sapphire staff and a magical hat!”

“What . . . does that mean?” Gantil said.

“Your daughter indeed has an affinity with the ocean. What she saw was a glimpse into the River of Time, a destination among many.”

“Am I . . . going to become a famous pirate?” Mantil said. “But I didn’t see Mom in my vision.”

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“You must’ve created your own crews then.” Gantil chuckled. “If you become famous, I’ll retire and live off your wealth. Maybe you’ll get to continue this business in my stead.”

Mantil’s eyes shimmered. “I’ll work hard for it. Please let me learn about magic soon.”

“You’ll have to finish those books first.”

Mantil eagerly excused herself and shuffled away with unfinished books in her hands. She energetically bid Iris and Antina farewell before taking snacks, hiding them in her pocket.

“She can be quite passionate,” Gantil said.

“The future is everchanging. What she saw may never materialise.”

“I’ve already prepared myself since the day I first ventured out ocean. The tide will eventually take me, like how it’s taken those before me.”

“Even under my wings?” Iris lifted her head. Translucent wings spread behind her, shielding her followers. Their unreal feathers drizzled around Gantil, who could feel their soft textures brushing all over her.

“I dare not make assumptions.”

“She will make it happen,” Antina said.

Iris slapped the table. The flaming cards jumped and, their blazes extinguished, fell according to their roles. Only a few had their faces upward, revealing in pristine detail the landscapes and stories within.

With a flick of her palm, the unused cards flew into Iris’s sleeve, assembling into a neat stack. She handed it to her maid, who returned it to her mistress’s box of cards.

Gantil examined the remaining cards. One revealed a disrepair warehouse surrounded by mutated vines of blood-dripping spikes. Lantern light shone through its broken windows, supported only by the ravenous moonlight above. A hooded figure stood atop the wall of fog, glaring at the warehouse with his crimson slit-like eyes.

The devil's pupils shifted to Gantil. She found herself unable to move. Distorted murmurs reached her heart, and countless gazes focused on her vulnerable mind. Dizziness ambushed her, and her vision darkened.

Iris seized Gantil’s collar and dragged her in. She gave Gantil a strong kiss, biting her lower lip until it bled. Gantil snapped back, but she had already lost the strength to resist. Her blood touched her tongue, but another sensation overwhelmed that taste.

A lightheaded moan escaped Gantil. Iris finally pushed away her partner. She then picked up the card and tore it. A scream penetrated through the face of the card, but Iris crushed it with her hand.

“I . . . didn’t expect such an intense situation,” Iris said. “You wouldn’t blame my inappropriate action, would you?”

Gantil touched her lips, her focus shifting away from Iris’s face. “You saved me, Lady Iris. I don’t mind it.”

“Mistress, you should’ve let me look at the cards instead.”

“Fake jealousy doesn’t impress me, Antina. You know I’d give a much greater prize.”

“Can I not hoard you for myself?”

Iris picked another card and pricked its face. The silhouette of a princess playing a chess game against the darkness rippled across the card. The garden they found themselves in walled away all escapes except for a great marble arch, which led to an obscured gate, dimly lit by a hanging lantern.

Iris frowned. She closed her eyes. Pink mist radiated from her fair skin, splashing out of her sleeves and attire, and consumed the living room. Gantil blocked her face from the mist, but they coursed around her hands. She inhaled a puff of sweet, drowsy air, but her body did not reject it.

A vision overlapped with her perception. Above the warehouses, outside the magical array of concealment, a man in a ceremonial black cloak flew through the clouds, leaving a thin black tail, which crumbled as ashes and scattered groundward.

His cloak contorted, screaming out its unending hunger like a bloodhound who caught a wisp of a fresh carcass.

He turned to look at Gantil, his bloodshot eyes staring through the distance separating them. The pink mist guarding Gantil quivered. Crimson snake-like lines rapidly grew around them.

The snakes hissed at Gantil, who reached for her dagger but was stopped by Antina’s gentle hold. The shadow beneath Gantil sprung up. Tendrils coiled around the snakes and dragged them into the abyss.

The mist dispersed. Antina caught Gantil, whose legs had given up their strength. She delicately placed Gantil on the sofa while looking at an open window. Iris was standing by it, staring into the horizon. She adjusted her jacket and tilted her cap, which grew translucent like her fleeting presence.

The Agent of Healed Heart paused in his tracks. The weak gaze on him faded, but another suffocating feeling took its place. His Dying Feast Cloak shrieked.

Space before him cracked. An explosion engulfed him. Milky white mists spread across the sky. Outlines of floating, towering trees sprouted from nothing and toward nowhere. Their great canopies blocked out sunlight, raining instead illusory leaves.

The Agent tugged his cloak and flung it forward. Skeleton maws, constricted by thorny chains, flew against the tide. Their sharp teeth bit the great trees, dispersing their unphysical presence. Blue and red vines rushed at the skulls and pierced their gaping mouths.

Golden halberds swung from the sky. The Agent raised his right hand. A crucible containing a beating heart appeared on it. Heartbeat rippled against the swings, pushing in screeching tunes the holy judgement.

The mist vanished, and so did the forest. The crushed skulls fragmented as shards, which his Dying Feast Cloak devoured.

The impact left sparkles, like comets congratulating the birth of a star, the star that grabbed all attention. The star, a lady whose face hid behind her fashionable cap, flashed an excited smile.

“I’ve never seen you before,” The Agent said. “We had no past grudge.”

“I loathe your stench,” the lady said. “Shouldn’t I get rid of them before they fester in my garden?”

“Sacrilege will be punished with death.”

The lady swiped her hand. A whip lashed out at The Agent. Its tip blasted a wave of purple light, which left tiny cracks in its path. The void peeped out at the world, but the ever-present pressure crushed the fissures into nonexistence.

The closing impacts bloomed behind the strike, like a butterfly flapping its glassy wings. The Agent tossed the crucible at it. The beating heart ruptured into a sea of blood filled with pulsating flesh. The flesh assembled into a scythe and struck at the whip.

Sharp splinters of light punctured the Dying Feast Cloak, grazing The Agent. He stepped backwards. Grey blood dripped from his eyes. Vessel-like tendrils grew on his fresh wounds, mending them.

A rain of purple waves overwhelmed his cloak, whose canine skulls failed to defend themselves. He continually retreated while losing his body mass, getting reformed by his veins before getting shredded by the unending grind.

Although his flesh couldn’t regenerate fast enough, The Agent kept his eyes locked on the mysterious lady. As his tattered cloak roared, sending ghostly apparitions of gigantic wolves and lions and vultures, The Agent took out a sacrificial dagger and stabbed himself.

His chest split open. His heart, crutched by a black claw, sent a firm ripple. The sun sunk. Its radiance fell from the sky. The night rose to the precipice, on which a crown of thorns occupied.

At the centre of the crown, a singular eye opened. Its shadow morphed into a figure. The man stepped out with his left hand holding a pitch black cane. Weary eyes on the cane darted everywhere until they came to rest on the obscured lady.

Iris lifted her head. Her cap could no longer hide her azure eyes. Her smile never ceased.