The Art of Gold Digging

162, The Weight of Gold.

Just off the title alone, Amy could already tell this chapter was going to be a pain in the ass. Maybe that's why she couldn't bring herself to actually start reading it.

As she sat there, in a corner of the obsidian room, a long sigh escaped her, loud enough to have Lyra's eyes on her momentarily.

They involuntarily locked eyes for a single second before Lyra rapidly snapped back to Crow, continuing his healing. Contrary to Zayd who was still minding his own business and Ash who was still napping, the girl had been staring intermittently in this direction for a while, the reason still a mystery.

Amy was almost tempted to ask her outright what her problem was, but there was a little thing that took precedence over everything else right now, the manga chapter… And yet, despite all this, she still did not start reading it.

She knew losing time was the worst possible thing she could do right now; the inevitable return of Lain and Iris along with Libris' imminent shutdown were things she had to worry about. However, the thought of re-experiencing even a modified version of her past unsettled her deeply.

Yet, again, she had no time to lose. Libris was going to go into "sleep" at any moment. Her hand was basically being forced…like always…

It felt surreal sometimes, to think about her situation. There was always something going on, always something she had to take care of, and always something that forced her to keep pushing more and more.

She was tired, had been for a while, not only physically or mentally. It was something more primal. Playing this character of hers, dealing with this growing responsibility… She felt not just exhausted, but also numb.

To feel that way… It honestly wasn't so surprising after everything that she went through. Yet it still felt unnatural; it wasn't the tiredness from back during the week of training before the infiltration in the headmistress' office, this one was different somehow.

There was a growing numbness in her chest, almost as if her feelings were slowly being drained and burnt. Crow's severed arm, the headmistress' corpse, and even Elias' death, she regarded it all with blurry eyes, if that made sense. She did not know if that was a good or a bad thing, but she did know that the feeling would probably only grow bigger from now on.

Okay, okay— enough of this.

With a shake of her head, she forced her attention back to the chapter. Enough was enough. Regardless of her feelings about this, time kept ticking. She needed to get to it ASAP.

She closed her eyes, taking deep breaths for a few seconds, before finally opening them once again. Then, without wasting any more time, Amy finally got to the chapter.

She ignored the cover that she had already seen and went directly to the first page. And of course, she immediately regretted it.

The chapter started with Amy, perhaps eight years old, sitting at a desk while doing some kind of weird activity. She seemed to be channeling some weird magic with a book reminiscent of Libris.

The room was made of wood, simple, and had nothing special about it, just like Amy's old room—a little different here and there, but the layout was the same. A bed to the side, a desk next to a brown wall, and a yellow round carpet. A simple room with the only thing standing out being the two people in it.

Little Amy wasn't alone. To her side was a woman the present Amy recognized—instead of brown, her hair was now blonde. She also looked younger and somehow less jaded than she remembered, yet still cold…and angrier…

Ania Stake, Amy's mother was staring as Amy seemed to be practicing something.

The manga panel showed little Amy struggling with the book-like artifact, her small hands trembling as she seemingly tried to channel magic through it. Golden light flickered weakly around her fingers before fading entirely.

"Again," her mother said, her speech bubble purposefully big.

It took the real Amy more than a couple of seconds to internalize this was really happening, but also to make the connection with her memories…because indeed this was a memory, and not a particularly pleasant one. In hindsight she should have seen it coming, that out of all her memories this day would be picked.

Every single one of her interactions with her mother had always been sorta memorable, in a bad way. So it wasn't surprising she remembered this one so easily. Amy could count with her fingers the number of times she had seen her mother with a genuine angry expression, so she made the connection instantly.

It wasn't hard to figure out the meaning behind the art and what was really going on. She guessed that whatever she was doing with the book was changed to fit the manga's story. In her memory, it had been school's advanced homework, but here, she was probably practicing something else.

Amy let out a sigh.

Lots of sighs today…

She once again shook her head, the feeling of numbness growing once again in her chest. After staring at nothing for a few seconds she once again returned her attention to the manga.

Just words on a page. You already experienced this in more than one nightmare…literally…

An extra sigh later, Amy finally went back to reading the chapter.

"I'm tired, Mom," little Amy whispered, sweat drawn on her forehead.

Her mother's golden eyes—so different from her old brown ones—showed no sympathy. "I said again."

"But—"

A slam on the desk made little Amy freeze in place, choking out her words. She didn't even dare to gaze back at her mother as she tried once again, focusing all her energy on the book. A brief spark of light appeared, then immediately died.

"I just can't understand—Amy! How can you really not do something as simple as this?" Her mother's expression was hidden from the panel, only her words were shown. "I can't believe you are barely able to even provide a glimmer. How would you explain that to your father?"

"I'm trying—"

"No, you are just lazy. Not trying hard enough, that's what you are doing."

The scene continued, showing little Amy's growing exhaustion, her mother's increasing frustration, the mounting pressure in that small wooden room. Each failure met with angrier criticism, each attempt growing weaker than the last.

Amy stared at the panels. She remembered this day so clearly—or something very much like it. The endless drilling, the stress, the feeling of never being good enough no matter how hard she tried.

Even if the contents were adapted into this world, it did not differ from her memories. Maybe even worse since she could actually see them.

It felt as if she could be swallowed at any second in them, the memories. It took a lot of willpower to not let her mind drift freely.

And even yet, she could see herself losing concentration. Falling into the past.

She continued reading—nothing much happened in the next couple of panels, just more barrage from her mother. The more she read the deeper she fell.

Until at some point, it no longer felt like she was reading, but instead living it herself.

-————-　■　-————-

She was shivering despite how hot the room felt. Amy—twelve years old, small for her age—clutched the small reed-yellowish grimoire with both hands, bringing it to her chest as she breathed heavily.

"Again. And try to focus this time on the love of the Goddess," Her Mother instructed from behind her. Amy did not dare to look at the expression on her face.

She closed her eyes, trying to remember the meditation techniques Father had taught her before he left. Center yourself. Feel the energy in your core. Let it flow naturally through your hands into the book.

A warm tingling sensation spread from her stomach to her fingertips. She opened her eyes hopefully, willing the light to appear.

Nothing.

"I think I felt something this time," she lied quickly, not wanting to see that look of disappointment again. "But, I just need—"

"I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear any of it, Amy. Just do it already. Do I look like I have the entire day? Tell me, do I seem like I have nothing better to do?" Her mother moved closer, her heels clicking against the wooden floor. "Show me the light. That's the only thing I want. Can't you do even something as simple as that?"

"I'm trying..." Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Trying isn't enough!" Her mother's voice cracked like a whip. "Your father will be here tonight. What am I supposed to tell him? That our daughter can't even produce a simple light? That all these months of training were wasted?"

Amy felt her mother pacing behind her. She seemed desperate, almost frantic.

"The other kids in the village—"

"You're not like the other children," Amy's mother snapped. "Your blood isn't like theirs. You can't afford to be ordinary. We can't afford to fail. Do you understand, Amy?"

Tears began forming in Amy's eyes. "But I can't do it."

"Again."

"I can't—"

"Again"

Amy shut her mouth and tried again. And again she failed. Each attempt grew more desperate, more strained. The grimoire grew slippery in her sweating palms, her breathing becoming ragged. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours, the room seeming to close in with each failure.

"Please," she whispered, not to her mother but to the book itself. "Please work."

The grimoire remained unresponsive.

Her mother finally stopped pacing. Amy could feel her standing there, could hear the sharp intake of breath that meant she'd made a decision.

"Enough." The word came out flat, devoid of the earlier anger. Somehow that was worse. "Just... enough."

Amy lowered the book, her small arms trembling from exhaustion. "I'm sorry, Mom. I really tried. Maybe... maybe I'm just not like Dad. Maybe I can't—"

"I said enough. You clearly can't do it."

"But he could always make it work," Amy continued, too tired to stop the words from spilling out. "He made it look so easy. And you could too, before. Maybe if instead of you alone, if he was here too, showing me—"

The slap came without warning. Not hard enough to knock her down, but sharp enough to turn her head, to leave her cheek stinging and her eyes wide with shock.

The silence that followed was deafening.

"Amy, I—" Her mother's hand hung in the air for a moment before dropping to her side. "I didn't mean to— Ugh… You shouldn't have mentioned your father— He is a busy man…"

Amy touched her burning cheek, tears finally spilling over.

"Stop…"

The tears did not stop despite her mother's words.

"Stop, Amy… Look, I'm sorry. Stop." Her mother knelt down, reaching out as if to touch Amy's face, then pulling back. "I'm just... stressed. You know how important this is. Our objective is the grandest of them all… We—No, you, can't afford to fail… You are the only one, Amy. No other person in this world can, not even me, only you… I have to be strict, even if I don't want to.

"They're watching. They're always watching, and one day they will come for us, just like they came for all the others. And when you can't even manage a simple light after months of practice… Your father is already disappointed in you being a woman, if he finds out that in addition to your gender, I can't teach you—" She caught herself, and took a shaky breath. "It's not fair to put this on you, but life isn't fair. You need to understand that."

Amy said nothing, just held the grimoire tighter.

"We'll stop for today," her mother said, standing and smoothing her dress with trembling hands. "You're too emotional now anyway. Your father will…" she paused for a second, before speaking. "Your father will hopefully understand…" she finally added.

A knock at the door interrupted her.

Both of them froze.

"Amy?" A young voice called from outside. "Amy, are you there? It's Mira!"

"Speaking of the devil…" Her mother's expression shifted instantly, the vulnerability vanishing behind a mask of composure. She moved to the door with grace, as if the last few minutes hadn't happened at all.

"One moment," she called out, her voice perfectly pleasant. She turned back to Amy, who still sat frozen at the desk. "Wipe your face, add makeup if necessary. I won't have the neighbors talking."

-————-　■　-————-

Amy blinked, finding herself back in the obsidian chamber. The memories—or at least something based on them—faded gradually, leaving her staring at the manga page in her hands.

[Amy?] Libris's voice seemed to come from far away.

"Mmm…?"

[Still there?]

"Still here," she said automatically, her voice flat. "Just... got lost in it for a second."

[Are you sure? Your breathing changed, and your reading speed has drastically decreased.]

"Really?" Amy glanced around the chamber. Zayd was still meditating, Ash still snoring, Lyra still focused on healing Crow. "Shit. How much time do we have left?"

[Twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds.]

"Right." Amy shook her head, trying to clear the lingering fog of memory.

[So… Are you truly alright…?]

"I'm fine, really. It's just... it all feels so blurry now. Like watching someone else's life through frosted glass, if that makes sense."

[Amy…]

"No, really. I mean it this time. With everything going on right now, this is the last thing that bothers me." She traced a crack on Libris's cover absently. "Besides, there were some differences from my actual memories. The magic grimoire replacing school's shit—the one that looks similar to you but not quite—then all the talk about 'them' watching us, my mother's hair being blonde instead of brown… It really feels like I was reading someone else's life… mostly…"

[If you say so…]

"Yeah." Amy turned back to the chapter. "Where were we? Oh yeah, Mira showing up."

She found her place on the page, where young Amy sat at the desk while her mother moved toward the door. The next panel showed the door opening to reveal a young girl with curly black hair, thick glasses, and—

"Jesus Christ," Amy muttered. "They gave her braces. In a fantasy setting. She looks ridiculous."

[We've had this conversation already.]

"Have we? When?"

[Yes, we did indeed talk about the technology of this world and its logic.]

"Oh." Amy blinked. "Right. Sorry, everything's kind of... blending together right now."

[Amy, there is nothing to say sorry for. That wasn't meant to be a scolding… Either way, we need to continue. Time is—]

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Amy focused back on the page. "No more time to lose."

She dove back into the chapter, letting the narrative pull her in once again.

————— ■ —————

To Amy's surprise, it took very little convincing—almost no convincing—for her mother to let her go outside with Mira.

Currently, Amy found herself walking under the bright sky alongside Mira, down the village's main dirt road. Her cheek still stung from the slap. She tried to think of anything but that.

"Did you see what happened at the market yesterday?" Mira said, swinging her arms as they walked. "That traveling merchant—beautiful, with golden hair that floats around and eyes like stars—the one who sells those colorful books—she completely tripped over Mrs. Chen's golden retriever and sent her entire cart flying."

Amy managed a small smile. "Really? I missed that."

"Oh yeah, books everywhere! Red ones, blue ones, some with even tiny ribbon bells on them. Mrs. Chen's dog just sat there afterward, looking so smug. Like it planned the whole thing." Mira adjusted her glasses with a theatrical sigh. "Speaking of which, you will not believe what I discovered about that dog."

"Tell me," Amy said, and she meant it. The girl's stories were always a nice way to distract herself from... everything.

"So you know how everyone says it's been stealing food from around the village? Well, I followed it yesterday after the book incident, and it doesn't steal food at all. It just sits by the bakery entrance and stares at people eating until they feel guilty and give it scraps."

"That's... actually pretty smart."

"Right? That dog is a genius. Pure manipulation." Mira kicked a pebble, sending it skittering across the dirt road. "And then—oh, this is the best part—the baker's son started trying to shoo it away, but the dog just ignored him completely. Like he was invisible."

Amy found herself hanging on every word unintentionally, watching Mira's animated face, the way her eyes lit up when she talked, the way she gestured with her whole body.

"The baker's son never seems to know what to do with himself," Amy said, partly to keep the conversation going.

"Oh gods, don't get me started on him. He's been acting so weird lately. Yesterday he kept dropping things whenever someone looked at him directly. Nearly set his own apron on fire trying to pull bread out of the oven while Mrs. Hart was watching."

"Maybe he's just nervous about something?"

"Maybe. Or maybe he's just clumsy. Did you know he once got his foot stuck in a bucket and had to hop all the way to the well to get it off?" Mira grinned. "The whole village heard him clanging around like a one-legged ghost."

Amy let out a genuine laugh—the first one she'd had in what felt like days. "That's terrible."

"But hilarious."

Amy barely knew about the village gossip. She was always too focused on her studies, her practice, her failures. Village life had always seemed so... simple from the outside. People worried about festivals and clumsy baker's sons. Normal problems. Normal conversations.

"I'm still surprised at how you manage to know this many things about the village."

"It comes with time. Your family—with the exception of your father—are new to the countryside, so it's normal you don't know the art of gossiping." Mira's expression grew dreamy. "I wonder what it would be like to live in the capital. All those people, all those shops, all that noise and chaos."

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"You'd want to live there?"

"Maybe. Sometimes I think about what it would be like to just... go somewhere completely different. See new things, meet new people, have new problems instead of the same old ones every day." Mira glanced at Amy sideways. "Don't you ever think about that? About going back there?"

Amy felt her chest tighten. "Sometimes."

"Do you miss it?"

"I... I don't know. I like the quiet here, but… It was nice before, when nobody knew me… Though I don't remember much since I was kind of little… but still…" The words came out before she could stop them.

"Huh…? Why? Don't you like the attention, Miss Popular Girl?"

The words hit Amy strangely. They felt... distant. Like Mira was talking about someone else entirely.

"Yeah, maybe," Amy said, forcing her voice to stay light. "Either way, wasn't there something you wanted to talk to me about before?"

"Oh, right! Nah, it was nothing important. I just wanted to comment that your mom's so cool," Mira said, swinging her arms as they walked. "She always smells like those fancy soaps from the capital, doesn't she? Mine just smells like flour and disappointment."

Amy grimaced for a single second before faking a laugh. "Disappointment has a smell?"

"Oh yeah, it's like... burnt bread mixed with the face she makes when she looks at me." Mira adjusted her glasses with a theatrical sigh. "Speaking of which, you will not believe what happened at breakfast today."

"Tell me."

Thank the Goddess for the topic change…

"So my mom made porridge again—the lumpy kind that looks like it was already chewed and spat back out. And I'm sitting there, right? Staring at this... this abomination in a bowl, and I told her I didn't want it."

"What did she say?"

"Oh, she went full dramatic. Can't even remember half of the scolding!" Mira threw her hands up, mimicking her mother's exaggerated gestures. "And then my dad—you know how he gets when mom starts her speeches—he jumps in to aid. It's just so annoying."

Amy nodded while watching Mira's animated face, the way her eyes lit up when she talked, the way she gestured with her whole body—Amy found herself hanging on every word unintentionally. Even when those words made her feel some kind of weird way.

"That sounds really frustrating," Amy said carefully, her voice neutral.

"Right? Like, I'm not asking for a feast here. I just want food that doesn't look like it came from a stable." Mira kicked a pebble, sending it skittering across the dirt road. "And then—oh, this is the best part—my mom said I needed to learn to be less picky like I'm some kind of spoiled princess."

Amy's jaw tightened, but she hid it well.

"Your parents are pretty protective though," Amy said, partly to keep the conversation going, partly because she was genuinely curious about every aspect of Mira's life. "Remember when you wanted to go to the festival last month?"

"Oh gods, don't remind me." Mira rolled her eyes. "My dad acted like the traveling merchants were going to kidnap me or something. Meanwhile, your mom just let you go."

Amy remembered that differently. Her mother had only let her go because she'd been having a good day with her ability practice. But she didn't correct Mira. Instead, she stored away this new piece of information—that Mira noticed things about her family, thought about them, and compared them to her own.

Mira's life… it had always been so interesting to her… If only she could live one like hers…

"And my dad keeps making these jokes about how I'll never find a husband if I keep being so difficult about food," Mira continued, making a face. "Like, hello? I'm twelve. I don't want to think about husbands, I want to think about... I don't know, normal things."

"What kind of normal things?"

"I don't know... like why the baker's son keeps staring at you during market day."

"He stares at me? I hadn't noticed," she lied. It was so obvious that even she could tell.

"Are you kidding? He's completely smitten. It's actually kind of cute how obvious he is about it." Mira grinned. "Though I told him he doesn't have a chance. You're way too smart for him. Also, you're always so focused on your studies." Mira bumped her shoulder against Amy's playfully. "Your mom really keeps you busy, doesn't she?"

Amy felt her stomach clench. "Yeah, she... she's been really intense lately. More than usual."

"Intense how?" Mira asked, and Amy could hear a small hint of concern in her voice. That concern made Amy's chest tight with something that felt like gratitude and desperation mixed together.

"Just... focused. In my studies. She wants me to be perfect at everything, I guess. And I mean… everything." Amy chose her words carefully, not wanting to say too much for fear of her parents.

"Well, that's what you get for being so popular," Mira said with a laugh, nudging Amy again. "There is always a downside to everything, isn't there?"

Amy's hands clenched into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. The urge to turn around and scream at Mira, to tell her she had no idea what she was talking about, to explain that some of them didn't get to complain about lumpy porridge because they were too busy trying not to disappoint everyone around them—it all rose up in her throat.

But then she looked at Mira's face, saw the easy smile, the way her eyes crinkled behind her glasses, and the anger slowly evaporated.

Mira didn't know. She couldn't know. And maybe that was better. Maybe it was better to let Mira think that way—her and everybody else...

"Yeah, maybe," Amy said, forcing her voice to stay light. Her hands slowly unclenched. "So, you mentioned a traveling merchant in the market, right?"

"Oh, right!" Mira's attention immediately shifted, her previous comment already forgotten. "She is just so weird and eccentric, also— Hey, how about we go see her?"

"Mmm… sure," Amy said after a few seconds of pondering. Anywhere away from her house was indeed perfect.

"Race you there!" Mira took off running, her laughter trailing behind her like music.

"Huh- W-wait!"

***

Amy scrambled after Mira, her shorter legs struggling to keep up as they raced down the dirt road toward the village center. The market square came into view—a collection of wooden stalls clustered around an old stone wall.

"There!" Mira pointed toward where a few merchants had set up their wares. "That's where she was yesterday."

But as they approached, weaving between the sparse crowd, it became clear that the mysterious merchant with the floating golden hair was nowhere to be found. The spot where Mira claimed she'd been was occupied by a gruff-looking man selling turnips and onions.

"Excuse me," Mira asked the turnip merchant, slightly out of breath. "The woman who was here yesterday—the one with the ribbons and books—do you know where she went?"

The man looked up from arranging his vegetables, squinting at the two girls. "Ah, you mean the strange one with the fancy hair? She packed up this morning, and said something about moving to the other side of the village. Try the old mill road, maybe."

Amy and Mira exchanged glances.

"The old mill road is pretty far," Amy said, glancing at the sun's position. It was already past midday. "My mother said I should be back before dusk."

"We can split up," Mira's eyes sparkled with the excitement of a minor adventure. "I'll check the eastern side near the old mill, you take the western district?"

Amy nodded, remembering her mother's warning about returning before dusk. "Just... let's meet back here when the sun starts setting, okay?"

"Deal!" Mira bounded off with characteristic energy, leaving Amy standing alone in the gradually emptying market square.

The western district was quieter, mostly residential with a few small shops tucked between houses. Amy wandered through the streets, asking people around about the merchant and receiving mostly shrugs in response.

"Amy! Amy, over here!"

She turned to see a group of children around her age waving enthusiastically from a small courtyard between two houses. She recognized them—she'd played with them occasionally, though she couldn't remember their names clearly.

"Come play with us!" called a red-haired boy, gesturing toward what looked like some kind of elaborate game involving sticks and stones. "We're starting a new round!"

Amy felt her face automatically arrange itself into a pleasant smile. She needed to be perfect at all times, never let anyone see through her disguise. Just like her mother and father wanted it. The less people knew about her, the less suspicion her family enemies would have about her. "Oh, that's so nice of you to ask, but I'm actually looking for someone right now. Maybe next time?"

"Aw, come on! Just for a few minutes?" pleaded a girl with pigtails. "You never play with us anymore."

"I know, I'm sorry. My studies have been keeping me really busy lately." The practiced words flowed easily. "But I promise I'll try to join you all soon, okay?"

The disappointment on their faces was immediate and genuine, and Amy felt the familiar twist of guilt in her stomach. But she also felt something else—a strange relief that she had an excuse to avoid another social performance.

"Okay," the red-haired boy said, his enthusiasm dampened. "Next time then."

Amy waved goodbye and continued her search, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. As she turned down a narrow lane between two houses, she caught sight of two elderly women sitting on a bench, their heads bent close together in conversation.

"—such a shame about that poor child," one was saying in a stage whisper that wasn't meant to be overheard but somehow always was.

"Indeed," the other replied, clucking her tongue. "With a mother like that, what chance does she have?"

Amy slowed her pace, her heart beginning to race despite herself.

"Gold digger, pure and simple," the first woman continued. "Came from the capital with nothing but her looks and that innocent act. Trapped that poor man with her wiles."

Amy's steps faltered. She knew she should keep walking, should ignore them just like her mother had taught her. "They're old, Amy. Their minds aren't what they used to be. They create stories to fill the empty spaces in their days. Pay them no mind."

Amy's hands clenched into fists at her sides. She forced herself to keep walking, but the echo of their voices followed her down the lane.

By the time Amy reached the end of the lane, her cheeks were burning with shame and anger. She spent the rest of the afternoon searching mechanically through the western district, asking about the merchant without really listening to the responses. Her mind kept circling back to the women's words, even as she tried to push them away.

The sun was beginning to sink toward the horizon when she finally gave up and returned to the market square. Mira was already there, sitting on the edge of the old stone well and swinging her legs.

"Any luck?" Mira asked brightly as Amy approached.

"No," Amy said, surprised by how flat her own voice sounded despite making a conscious effort in sounding brightly. "You?"

"Found her! She was set up near the old mill just like that man said. But..." Mira's expression fell slightly. "She was really weird about it when I asked about the books. Started muttering about 'not conviction' and 'not the one she was searching for' and other dramatic nonsense. I think she might be a little touched in the head."

Amy nodded absently, her mind still replaying the conversation she'd overheard.

"Are you okay?" Mira asked, tilting her head. "You seem... distant."

"I'm fine," Amy said automatically. "Just tired."

"Well, at least we found her! Maybe we can go back tomorrow and—"

"Maybe," Amy cut her off. "I should get home. My mother will be worried."

Mira's face lit up with that familiar, infuriating brightness. "Oh, you're so lucky! My mom would probably be glad if I stayed out past dark. She acts all protective and stuff, but the moment I get out her sight I can see the big grin on her face. I really can't understand it."

The words hit Amy like a slap. All the suppressed anger from the day—the failed magic practice, her mother's disappointed sighs, the gossiping women, the perfect performance she had to maintain—suddenly boiled over.

"Lucky?" Amy turned to stare at Mira. "You think I'm lucky?"

Mira blinked, clearly taken aback by the sharp edge in Amy's voice. "I... well, your parents actually care about where you are and—"

"They don't truly care about me," Amy said, her voice getting louder despite herself. "They care about whether I'm good enough, smart enough, powerful enough. About whether I'm worth the trouble of keeping around."

"Amy, I didn't mean—"

"No, you never mean anything, do you? You just say whatever comes into your head without thinking." Amy's hands were shaking now. "You complain about lumpy porridge and parents who give you too much freedom, and you think that makes you so sympathetic. But you have no idea what it's like to never be good enough, no matter how hard you try."

Mira's face had gone pale behind her glasses. "I... I'm sorry. I didn't know you felt—"

"Of course you didn't know. You don't know anything about me. You just assume everything is perfect because that's easier than actually paying attention." Amy took a step back, suddenly horrified by her own words. "I have to go."

She turned and ran, leaving Mira sitting alone by the well, her mouth open in shock.

***

Amy burst through the front door of her house, her chest heaving and her eyes burning with unshed tears.

"Amy?" Her mother's voice came from the kitchen. "Is that you? You're just in time for dinner."

Amy closed her eyes, taking a deep breath to compose herself. When she opened them again, her expression was carefully neutral. "Sorry, I'm late. I lost track of time."

"Go wash up. Your father will be home soon."

Amy nodded and made her way to the washbasin, splashing cold water on her face and hands. In the small mirror above the basin, she practiced her smile until it looked natural again.

***

The front door opened with a creak, and Amy's father stepped inside. He was tall and lean, with the same golden hair as her mother's new color, but his eyes were different—pale blue and strangely intense.

"My beautiful girls," he said, his voice warm but somehow distant. He kissed Amy's mother on the cheek and ruffled Amy's hair. "How I've missed you both."

"Welcome home, dear," Amy's mother said, her smile lifeless. "Dinner's ready."

They sat around the small table, and for the first few minutes, everything was what Amy understood as normal. Her father told them about his travels, about the strange weather in the eastern provinces and the caravans he'd encountered. He had a way of making even mundane details sound interesting.

"And what about you, little star?" he asked, turning to Amy. "How have your studies been progressing?"

Amy felt her mother's eyes on her, felt the weight of expectation settling on her shoulders. "They've been... challenging," she said carefully. "But I'm learning a lot."

"Challenging is good," her father said, leaning forward slightly. "Growth only comes through struggle. Show me what you've learned."

Amy's throat went dry. "Now?"

"Why not? I've been looking forward to seeing your progress." His smile was encouraging, but there was something hungry in his pale eyes. "Your mother's letters have been... vague about the details."

Amy looked at her mother, who was gripping her spoon so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

"Perhaps after dinner, dear," her mother said quickly. "She's been practicing all day, and she's tired."

"Tired?" Amy's father's voice remained pleasant, but Amy could hear the sharp edge creeping in. "From what? A few hours of basic exercises?"

"It's not that simple," Amy's mother said, her voice becoming defensive. "She's still young, and the techniques you want her to learn are advanced. She needs more time."

"Time." Amy's father set down his spoon with deliberate care. "We don't have time, dear. She's had months of time. How much more does she need?"

"She's doing her best—"

"Her best isn't good enough."

Amy stared down at her stew, her appetite completely gone. The familiar knot of shame and inadequacy tightened in her stomach.

"You are asking too much from her," her mother said, her voice rising slightly. "She's special. She has potential, but she needs proper guidance, not constant pressure."

"Special?" Amy's father laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Is that what you call it when a child can't master techniques that should be instinctive to someone of her blood?"

"She's trying—"

"She's failing. And so are you." Amy's father stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "I trusted you to prepare her properly. I gave you everything you needed—books, resources, my own techniques. And this is the result?"

Amy's mother shot to her feet as well, her face flushed with anger. "Don't you dare blame me for this. I'm not the one who disappears for weeks at a time, leaving me to handle everything alone."

"I'm working to save us all!" Amy's father's voice was getting louder now. "I'm trying to secure our future, to make sure we have a place in the world that's coming. While you sit here playing house and making excuses for mediocrity."

"Playing house?" Amy's mother's voice cracked with fury. "I'm raising your daughter completely by myself! Do you realize just how hard it is to actually develop her ability?"

"Maybe if you pushed her harder instead of coddling her—"

"Maybe if you were actually here to help instead of just showing up to criticize—"

"I'm here now, aren't I? And what do I find? A daughter who's learned nothing and a wife who's—"

"A wife who's what?" Amy's mother stepped closer, her hands clenched into fists. "Say it. Say what you really think of me."

Amy's father's face went cold. "You want the truth? You're weak. You were weak when I met you, and you've made our daughter weak too. You fill her head with comfort and excuses instead of strength and discipline."

"And you fill her head with impossible expectations and your own twisted ambitions!" Amy's mother was shouting now, all pretense of control gone. "She's a child, not a weapon for your grand plans!"

"She's a tool that needs to be sharpened, not a pet to be indulged!"

"Listen to yourself! You talk about our daughter like she's a thing, not a person!"

"She's our future! We both know it. Our only chance at—"

"At what? Saving ourselves? At power? At proving you're more than just a useless failed prince? Nothing more than a deserter?"

The silence that followed was deafening. Amy's father went very still, his pale eyes fixed on his wife with an expression that made Amy's blood run cold.

"What did you say?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

"You heard me."

"Stop," Amy whispered, but neither of them heard her.

"I was never a failure," Amy's father said, his voice getting dangerously quiet. "I left Avalon because I had to."

"Why? For what? From your own failures? From the debts you couldn't pay? From the promises you couldn't keep?"

"I left because of YOU!" Amy's father exploded, his composure finally cracking. "Because I had to protect you both!"

"Liar! You are just trying to manipulate me!"

"Please, the only one manipulating someone here is you." He gestured wildly at Amy. "You want to keep her weak so she'll never leave you the way I should have left you!"

"Don't you dare—"

Amy's mother grabbed the milk pitcher from the table and hurled it at her father's head. He ducked, and it shattered against the wall behind him, milk and ceramic shards flying everywhere.

"You want to talk about control?" Amy's mother was screaming at the top of her lungs, her face twisted with rage. "You show up here once a month, demand perfection from a twelve-year-old child, and then blame me when she can't live up to your impossible standards!"

Amy's father grabbed his own bowl and threw it, stew splattering across the wall and floor. "Always making excuses for her."

"She's terrified of you! She's terrified of disappointing you! How is she supposed to learn anything when she's too scared to even try?"

"Fear of me? You are the one she's terrified of."

Amy's mother picked up a serving plate from the table, waving it as she spoke. "I won't let you destroy her the way you destroyed me!"

"I didn't destroy you!" Amy's father lunged forward, grabbing for the plate. "You destroyed yourself with your weakness and your—"

They struggled over the plate, both of them shouting, both of them lost in their anger. Amy watched in horror as they knocked over chairs, as more dishes crashed to the floor, as they grappled in the lamplight.

"Stop!" Amy screamed, but they couldn't hear her over their own shouting.

"I hate you!" Amy's mother was crying now, tears streaming down her face as she fought. "I hate what you've turned me into! I hate what you're trying to turn her into!"

"Then leave!" Amy's father snarled, his face twisted with rage. "Pack your things and get out! Take your precious daughter and—"

In their struggle, Amy's father's hand broke free and struck Amy's mother across the face with a resounding crack. The force of the blow sent her stumbling backward, and she lost her footing, falling hard against the wall before sliding down to the floor.

Amy stood frozen, staring at her mother who was now slumped against the wall, a trickle of blood running from her nose, her eyes dazed and unfocused. The woman who had been shouting moments before was now making soft, pained sounds, her hand pressed to her cheek.

Amy's father stood motionless, his hand still raised, his face pale and empty. He looked like he'd just woken up from a dream and couldn't quite remember where he was.

Amy's mother blinked slowly, trying to focus. She looked around the destroyed kitchen, at the overturned chairs and broken dishes, and then her gaze settled on Amy.

"Amy..." she whispered, her voice thick and strange. "Amy, come here."

Amy's feet moved without her conscious command, carrying her across the kitchen until she was kneeling beside her mother. Up close, she could see the bruise already forming on the woman's face, the way her eyes still looked unfocused.

"...your fault..." Amy's mother's voice was shaking with pain and rage.

Amy blinked, not understanding. "What?"

Her mother's hand reached out, fingers trembling, and touched Amy's cheek. Then simply sighed.

Amy's father was breathing hard. When Amy looked up, she saw him backing toward the door, his hands shaking.

He turned and left, leaving the door hanging open behind him.

Amy looked back at her mother, who was still staring at her with those pain-filled eyes.

"...your fault," her mother whispered again. "All your fault..."

Then Amy's mother seemed to come back to herself, her eyes widening as she realized what she'd said.

Without wasting any time, she abruptly stood up, already moving toward the door. She couldn't stay here, couldn't listen to any more words, couldn't breathe in this suffocating space anymore.

She left the house, her bare feet carrying her out into the night.

Behind her, she could swear to have heard her mother's voice calling her—her imagination, that was what it was.

She continued running through the dark village streets, letting the night swallow her whole.

The night air was cold against her skin, and she realized she was still wearing her dinner dress, now wrinkled and stained with small drops of spilled stew from when she'd knelt beside her mother. The sight of the dark spots made her stomach lurch, and she pressed herself against the wall of a narrow alley between two houses, trying to catch her breath.

Your fault, her mother's voice echoed in her mind. All your fault.

Amy slid down the wall until she was sitting on the cold ground, her knees drawn up to her chest. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stop the shaking that had started in her hands and was now spreading through her entire body.

She had failed. Failed at magic, failed at being good enough, failed at being the daughter they needed. All because she wasn't strong enough, wasn't special enough, wasn't worth the trouble of keeping around.

"Such a sorrowful sight," a gentle voice said from the mouth of the alley.

Amy looked up, startled. A woman stood there, backlit by the moonlight—tall and elegant, with golden hair that seemed to float around her shoulders as if moved by an invisible wind. Her eyes sparkled like stars, and she wore flowing robes that shimmered with colors that seemed to shift and change as Amy watched.

The traveling merchant. The one Mira had been looking for.

-————-　■　-————-

Amy blinked hard, finding herself back in the obsidian chamber, staring at the manga page where the golden-haired figure had appeared.

"Oh," she said quietly, her voice oddly flat. "There she is. Quite the dramatic entrance."

[You don't sound surprised.]

"I'm not… I had a feeling they wouldn't use the original storyline where Mira was the one who found me, talking with me, tried to help..." Amy's grip on Libris tightened. "The readers probably can't imagine my character doing something like bullying, so that moment—the one who made me obsessed with her—got removed from the story." Amy's voice was completely flat now, emotionless. "I'm right, aren't I?"

[...]

"I mean, finding out the Goddess butted into the story feels almost expected. My memories mixing with the story and all that…right…?"

[Amy, you sure you're alright?]

"As fine as I could possibly be."

Amy forced herself to keep reading.

The manga showed the woman approaching, her dialogue appearing in darkly colored speech bubbles: "Are you lost, child?"

Little Amy wiped her eyes quickly, the motion shown in a small action panel. "I'm not lost. I'm just... I'm just sitting here."

The woman moved closer in the next panel. "Of course you are, dear one. But you look so very sad."

"I'm fine," Amy said, her speech bubble small and wavering, showing her emotional state.

The woman knelt down in front of Amy, taking up most of the panel. Her strange, star-like eyes dominated the frame. "Are you now? Tell me. What is it that you want more than anything else in this world?"

The panel showed Amy staring up at the woman, unable to look away from those eyes.

"I just..." Amy's voice came out in a whisper, shown by the tiny, delicate speech bubble. "I just wanted to make people happier."

The woman smiled. "Oh? Such a simple desire. Such a pure wish." The next panel showed her reaching into her traveling pack and pulling out an amber book with a yellow triangle symbol etched into the cover. "And such wishes, my dear, deserve to be granted."

She held the book out to Amy, who found herself reaching for it without thinking—shown in a dramatic panel where both their hands reached toward the book in the center of the frame. The moment Amy's fingers touched the leather, small sparkles and warm light emanated from the point of contact.

"What is it?" Amy asked, her speech bubble showing wonder and confusion.

"A gift," the woman said, her smile never wavering. "A companion who will help you learn to make others happy. To become exactly what they need you to be."

Amy clutched the book to her chest in the next panel, and for the first time since leaving her house, her expression showed something other than despair.

"Thank you," she whispered, her eyes slightly shining.

"Think nothing of it, dear one." The woman stood gracefully. "After all, what are friends for?"

The final panels showed her turning and walking back into the shadows, her figure gradually fading until she disappeared entirely, leaving Amy alone with the book in her hands. The last panel was a wide shot of Amy sitting in the alley, the warm glow from the book the only light in the darkness.

[End of Chapter 162]