Fifty seconds of flight still lingered at her fingertips. The sensation of the paper bird's wings grazing the beam of the Seimeido—that had been yesterday. Yet this morning, as she threaded her arms through the sleeves of white vestments, Akina opened the fingers of her left hand as if to confirm something. The thread of spiritual power. That sensation Gingetsu had taught her was already becoming her own. It settled in the depths of her chest as a weight she could not name—neither joy nor fear, but something between. Shūmei Purification—among the eight seasonal purifications the Aindō house performed each year, this ritual falling on the autumnal equinox was the most important observance, combining a complete inspection and reinforcement of the triple barrier. The entire family gathered in white vestments at the Seimeido, offering their spiritual power in time with the head of house's liturgical chant. For Akina, it was always a day that made her acutely aware of the distance between herself and her elder sister. As she passed through the corridor and was about to step onto the entrance platform, the back of Yoshikawa Tatsu entered her field of vision. The head servant in her fifties—that woman who had served the Aindō house for thirty years—was crossing the entrance with several cloth-wrapped bundles cradled in both arms. The shape of the wrappings still bore traces of travel preparations. Akina's feet stopped. "Tatsu, those are—" "Lady Reika has returned, miss." Tatsu answered without turning. Her voice held its usual composure, but those few words struck Akina like a dousing of cold water across her entire body. Reika had come home. Akina's fingertips unconsciously gripped the sleeve of her white vestments. Yesterday's achievement of fifty seconds transformed in an instant into something else entirely. Before her elder sister—Aindō Reika—with sensitivity level eight, the fifty seconds of flight, the night at the Oborotei, everything about Gingetsu, all of it would be laid bare. The fear of being seen through, and the contradictory desire to be acknowledged, ignited simultaneously in Akina's chest, scattering sparks. ＊ Reika appeared in the Seimeido, standing in the corridor's light. Her lustrous chestnut hair was bound into a single long braid, and eyes of vivid golden hue slowly surveyed the interior. A small cherry blossom tattoo on the ring finger of her right hand—Akina had known since childhood that this was Reika's mark. A dignified brow and piercing gaze. Yet this morning, Reika wrapped that sharpness in a thin smile. "It's been a while." The words were brief. Spoken not to Akina, but as she turned her body toward Kyōya. Reika placed her hand on Kyōya's arm and inquired about something with familiar warmth. At a distance where Akina's ears could not reach, a small space of conversation opened between the two. Kyōya's profile seemed softer by a fraction than usual—though it might have been her imagination. Yet something in the depths of Akina's chest beat irregularly for just a moment. Akina did not yet wish to apply the word jealousy to herself. So she called it a "strange unease" instead, and pressed that sensation beneath the white vestments at her chest. Kyōya's gaze shifted from Reika to Akina for only an instant. It was a searching look. A wordless question in place of "Are you all right?" Akina nodded slightly. "Your training is bearing fruit. That is all." Kyōya answered quietly to Reika. He knew Akina was listening. Yet his words carried an intention to protect—the choice not to divulge information fell into the depths of Akina's chest as a quiet warmth. At the same time, a small apology toward Reika mingled with it like a thorn. ＊ The public demonstration of the Shūmei Purification began. Itsumi Sōichirō stood with a record ledger in hand, Reika seated in the rear. Kyōya leaned his back against a pillar by the entrance, arms crossed. Akina held the spiritual talisman at the ready. She gathered her consciousness at her fingertips. Like threading a string—she repeated those words now like an incantation in her heart. The sensation of spiritual power flowing from her fingertips was unmistakable. One second, five seconds, ten seconds. The paper bird grasped the air of the Seimeido and continued its flight. When it surpassed thirty seconds, Itsumi's brush stopped. Forty seconds. Fifty seconds. Sixty seconds— The paper bird still flew. At the sixty-third second, the paper bird descended quietly. Yet it did not land. Instead, it alighted softly upon Akina's shoulder. It lowered its body, folded its wings, and became still as if that place were its nest. Silence fell. "...Go back." Akina tilted her shoulder to urge it away. The paper bird did not move. She tried pushing it lightly with her hand. The bird shifted slightly, then took up position near her collarbone. "Please, go home." It would not budge. Stubborn. A strange pause flowed through the Seimeido. Itsumi cleared his throat. It was a cough that concealed emotion. Kyōya's arms loosened for a moment. Only Reika did not laugh in that instant. Akina felt Reika's gaze upon her—it was not the look of a guardian. It was a gaze that measured something, quiet yet sharp. The sensitivity level eight of the twilight realm dwelt there. The spiritual talisman in Akina's hand trembled faintly. (I will be seen through.) Even as she thought this—the desire to be acknowledged was undeniably there. Both burned simultaneously in her chest, and both were real. ＊ Akina walked slowly down the corridor after the demonstration ended. The hem of her white vestments held the chill of the stone passage. Footsteps approached from behind. The pace naturally aligned itself with Akina's own. "According to last month's report, it was three seconds." Reika's voice was gentle. Neither accusatory nor interrogative. Simply stating fact in a soft tone. And precisely because of that, Akina found it frightening. A cold question would have been easier to answer. "I believe it is the accumulation of training." Akina chose her words carefully. It was not a lie—merely incomplete. Reika returned a brief "I see" and directed her gaze down the corridor. In the direction where Kyōya's back was visible. Reika walked toward Kyōya. Akina stopped and stepped into the shadow of a pillar. The voices did not reach her. Yet she understood what Reika was asking. Her sister was now seeking information about her younger sister from the cousin who served as her watchdog. Kyōya received Reika's question for one second. Then he opened his mouth. Brief words. They did not reach Akina's ears. Yet she saw Reika's expression shift subtly—the expression of one who had obtained only half of the information she sought. Kyōya spoke only less information than what he had recorded in the monthly report. Akina watched from the corridor's shadow. She saw the profile of her cousin, who was closing his mouth for her sake. Her breathing became shallow. She placed her hand against the wall. The depths of her chest tightened, and warmth and guilt mingled simultaneously, both equally real. ＊ At dusk, as the sky dissolved into orange. Reika walked alone along the north side of the estate. From the veranda, Akina followed her back with only her eyes. Reika's gait appeared leisurely, yet it moved in a definite direction—toward the edge of the copse near the entrance to the hidden realm. Reika's feet stopped. Beneath the moss on the ground lay traces of an ancient barrier. The air density was lower than elsewhere. And from within drifted an unknown spiritual presence—sensitivity level eight would surely have detected it. Reika's spine straightened slightly. Evidence of concentration. Akina's fingertips grew cold. "Lady Reika, dinner preparations are complete." Tatsu's voice fell into the garden. For a moment, the tension drained from Reika's shoulders. The thread of intuition that had been rising was quietly severed by that voice. Reika turned and composed a gentle smile. "I'll be right there." On the veranda, Akina exhaled a single thin breath. The boards of the veranda held the chill of evening. ＊ In the depths of night. Akina extinguished the lamp. It had been a quarter hour since she had retired to her room, feigning exhaustion from the Shūmei Purification. Akina knew that Reika had extended her sensitivity toward the vicinity of the hidden realm's entrance. Yet still, her feet moved toward it. (I know. And yet I come.) Walking through the copse, Akina acknowledged this fact without further excuse. The damp scent of leaf mold dissolved into the night air. The chill of autumn, past the equinox, was sharp, and white breath dissolved and vanished into darkness. The spiritual vein that ran north and south beneath the Musashino plateau—the "Flow of Purple Abyss"—grew strongest from the autumnal equinox through the winter solstice, and the air of the hidden realm was particularly heavy in this season. The moss at her feet caught the moonlight faintly and glowed. The Oborotei—the crumbling pavilion covered in ivy and moss, standing some fifty paces east of the sealing torii—came into view. Gingetsu stood gazing up at the moon. His silver-white hair swayed faintly in the night breeze. Skin pale and translucent. Deep crimson eyes that gleamed in the darkness of night turned quietly toward Akina as he sensed her presence. That figure, draped in three hundred years of solitude, always possessed an inhuman beauty beneath the moonlight. Something in the depths of Akina's chest beat strongly. "Reika's spiritual presence reached the entrance to the hidden realm." He spoke this first. Not in a tone of reproach, nor one urging caution. Simply stating fact in a calm voice. Akina held the weight of those words in her chest for a time. That a youkai who had lived three hundred years would first convey this to her—she could not quite put the meaning of that act into words. The word "concern" rose in her mind, yet she still hesitated to use it toward Gingetsu. "And yet, I came." Akina said this. Gingetsu remained silent for a time, still gazing at the moon. The ivy of the pavilion swayed in the night wind. The sound of insects came from far away. A thin voice, near the end of autumn. At last, Gingetsu spoke. His voice carried the smooth, low cadence of recited verse. "Three watched you tonight." Akina waited silently for him to continue. "In the demonstration hall, your elder sister with sensitivity level eight. In the corridor, your cousin who closed his mouth out of duty. And in the steps toward here, your own doubt questioning you ceaselessly." Gingetsu turned his deep crimson eyes toward Akina. "Where lies the will of you, who are watched from three directions?" The question pierced the core of Akina's chest. Fear of being discovered by her sister. Guilt at continuing to deceive Kyōya. And—something beyond words, yet the reason she came here night after night. All of these moved within her simultaneously. She must not choose for someone else's sake, but must seek an answer for her own—for the first time, she felt this confronted directly. Akina met Gingetsu's deep crimson gaze straight on. Her eyes grew wet. Yet she could not avert her gaze. She did not wish to. "I do not yet know whom I will choose." Akina spoke slowly. "I cannot believe it right to deceive Reika, nor to wound Kyōya. But—" She drew a breath. "Coming to you is not because someone told me to. I come because I wish to." Silence filled the Oborotei. Gingetsu's deep crimson eyes trembled ever so slightly. In the depths of three hundred years of solitude, something moved—Akina saw it. She saw it, and understood. In that moment of understanding, her eyes came to the very edge of tears, yet barely held back. The two gazes remained locked, and time seemed to stop, the air within the pavilion growing dense. Then. From the ivy