They started walking again.
Same path. Same strange, glowing underwater world.
But it didn't feel the same.
Fall wasn't talking. No smug remarks. No dry observations.
Just silence. Hollow.
It was very different this time.
Spring glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.
He wasn't looking at her. He walked just a few steps ahead.
His expression was unreadable, but not in the usual way—not the sharp, playful mask he wore when he wanted to get under her skin.
No, this was different.
He looked tired.
They walked like that for a long while—feet splashing gently through shallow pools, bioluminescent fish darting around their boots.
Her insides were burning. Kindled.
And then—softly.
"You… took care of me."
Fall's steps faltered. Just slightly. Barely enough to notice. But she heard did.
She didn't look at him. Her voice was quiet. Smaller than usual.
"You didn't have to," she murmured. "But you did. All the time."
He didn't answer.
Didn't even turn.
Just kept walking.
The silence stretched between them, thin and cold.
She closed her eyes for a breath, then opened them again. The words were hard. Like stones in her throat.
"…Thank you."
It came out soft.
He didn't respond right away.
And when she glanced at him again—just a flick of her eyes—he was still staring straight ahead. Jaw tight. Brows drawn in thought.
Then—after a moment so long it nearly ached—
He nodded.
Just once.
No smile. No joke.
Just that.
It should've been enough.
But it wasn't.
She looked down at the path again. Her steps suddenly felt too loud.
Beside her, Fall's face finally shifted.
A hint of the usual smirk started to return, curling at the edge of his mouth like it was trying to crawl its way back into place.
The world around them changed as the light above faded—what might have been the sun dimming in the world above.
Everything turned blue and violet.
The coral underfoot pulsed with slow, red light like a heartbeat.
When Spring accidentally stepped on one, it let out a soft, crystalline tone—like a harp string plucked underwater.
They both froze.
Fall, curious, nudged another with the tip of his boot. A different note—higher, drawn out.
It wasn't just one coral.
It was hundreds.
A field of living music, lying on the ocean floor.
Above them, ribbon-finned fish glided like lanterns, trailing sparkles. The water carried scents that shouldn't exist there—salt, sweet fruit, burning herbs and something more. Something festive.
Then they heard it.
Not the corals. Something else.
Laughter.
Glass clinking. A flute playing a strange, slow tune.
A crowd murmuring. Voices drifting up like bubbles from below.
Just ahead, nestled in a curtain of drifting seaweed, a staircase wound downward into soft, glowing light.
Spring blinked. "Are those—?"
"Spirits," Fall murmured, eyes narrowing.
They descended together.
And below—
A market.
Not one like any surface world had ever seen.
Stalls grown out of shell and corals curved around open circles of sand. Jellyfish lanterns hovered over walkways. Vendors drifted above and below, some shaped like bioluminescent rays, others like glowing masks.
A spirit shaped like a smooth orb of shifting glass was trying to sell a swirling jar of ink to a squid with far too many eyes.
Fall grinned. "Look at this. A fair. I give that jar two minutes before it explodes into confetti, or something."
Spring snorted despite herself. "You're awful."
"Thank you."
As they wandered, the spirits shimmered faintly when they laughed. Talked in all kinds of languages. None of them seemed to notice Fall or Spring.
It was peaceful here.
Spring glanced at Fall. He wasn't watching the spirits.
He was watching her.
He seemed to be himself again. But this time his expression wasn't smug, it was hopeful. Like a small child that really wanted to gain something.
Maybe because she still felt guilty for that… situation earlier, or maybe because of something else—she gave in.
"…Fine," she muttered. "Let's look around."
His eyes lit up immediately.
"Oh," he said, teasing, "should we hold hands too?"
"Absolutely not."
They moved side by side through the glowing stalls.
A spirit made of drifting seaweed and pearl fragments swam by, its voice chiming like wind through kelp.
"Try the mush candy! Sweet as your first love, light as foam!"
Fall raised a brow. "That sounds fake. There's no way it tastes like—"
"Fall!" Spring hissed, cheeks beginning to redden.
The spirit twirled slowly, unbothered. "…Tastes like youth."
Spring gave him a pointed look.
"Interesting," he said, far too entertained. He nudged her with his elbow. "What if it erases all my worst qualities? Worth a shot, right?"
She plucked a piece of translucent fruit from the air and placed it in her mouth.
The taste was sharp and cool, followed by tingling.
"…Okay. That's actually good."
Fall tried it second. He blinked, then made a face. "Hideous."
"You're exaggerating."
She paused. Then squinted at him.
"Wait… do demons even eat?"
"Not really." He shrugged. "But you'd laugh if I told you the one thing I can still taste."
"I'm pretty sure I don't want to hear the answer," she said, already regretting asking.
He leaned in slightly, smug. Closing the distance between them like it was second nature.
"Come on. Take a guess."
She eyed him—half skeptical, half amused. Then looked around for inspiration. Something caught her eye. A floaty, familiar shape drifting near one of the booths.
"…Chocolate?"
Fall blinked. Then grinned wide. "Wow, Spring. I'm impressed."
He wasn't lying. His eyes followed his words with a spark.
"No way. You can still eat chocolate?"
He nodded solemnly, as if it were some ancient truth.
The thought hit her—
This hellfire-soaked, sin-marked, half-feral demon—lounging through a glowing spirit market with chocolate as his one remaining joy.
It made her giggle.
She tried to hide it. Truly, she did.
But it slipped out—small and bright.
He just watched her. Eyes melting.
A little further on, a spirit made entirely of translucent fins and hollow eyes drifted toward Spring—its body shifting like smoke trapped in water.
Its voice was layered, a dozen echoes overlapping:
"Trade me your reflection… and I'll give you a mermaid's song."
Spring tilted her head. "What—?"
"No," Fall said sharply.
The spirit paused, blinking with eyes that weren't really eyes.
Fall stepped forward, calm and cold as a deep current.
"Try speaking to her again," he said, voice low. "And I'll let you create a new tune."
The spirit recoiled. Then vanished in a burst of ink and soundless bubbles.
"…Wow," Spring muttered.
"What?" Fall said. "That was polite."
"That was polite?"
"Diplomacy," he replied with a casual shrug, "comes in many forms."
Spring glanced at the empty space where the spirit had vanished. "Maybe I wanted a mermaid's song."
"Trust me," he said, still watching the water, "you don't."
Later, they reached a game stall—spiralling shells spinning in erratic loops. A coral creature shaped vaguely like a mushroom waved its stubby arms.
"Spear Toss!" it sang. "Prize of your choice!"
Fall turned to Spring, deadly serious. "This is war."
"You're competitive about ghost games?"
"There's a prize," he said. "Who knows what ancient power lies within. It could be incredible."
"I am not playing this."
She played anyway.
They threw glowing spears at the shells. Spring's landed dead center. Fall's missed. Twice.
"Rigged," he muttered.
"Sure."
"We have a winner!" the coral creature chirped, tossing its arms up. "Pick anything!"
Spring scanned the prizes—trinkets, glowing stones, charms, a suspiciously twitching frog.
Fall pointed at a small wooden box near the back of the shelf. Dusty. Plain. It looked entirely out of place.
"That one," he said.
The vendor blinked. "Ah… that old thing?"
Fall shrugged. "That's the one."
The creature handed it over with an odd look. "No refunds."
Fall passed Spring a smug look as he turned the box in his hands. It was sealed with no lock, no seam. Just warm to the touch.
"What is it?" she asked, frowning.
He grinned. "Dunno. But it picked me."
"You picked it."
"Same thing."
She eyed the box, suspicious. "Is it humming?"
"…Mildly."
"Fall—"
He tucked it under his arm, already walking off. "We're keeping it."
She sighed, following. "This is how curses happen."
"You're overdue for one." He said.
"Speak for yourself."
"What? I was already cursed. And I am still here."
Her heart beat stopped.
He glanced back, his grin widening. "Come on. It's probably just full of teeth or, even better, emotional consequences."
"I swear, if this thing links our souls or something—"
"Then we're bonded for life," he called.
She groaned. "I hate this place."
He hummed, swinging the box once. "You say that now, but you weren't so bitter earlier."
Her breath caught.
"That's not fair."
A beat.
"Fine. But I'm still keeping it."
They kept walking.
The crowd swelled around them.
"You're smiling," Fall said softly.
"No, I'm not."
"You are."
"Must be the cursed box."
"Mm. Must be."
A pause stretched between them, and for the first time in years it was quiet and warm.
Spring glanced at him sideways. "What's so bad about a mermaid's song, anyway?"
Fall blinked. "Aside from the mind control and vanishing into the sea forever?"
She arched a brow. "Where did you even hear that?"
"Spring," he said, feigning offense, "I amThe State Arcanist. I don't show up unprepared."
She squinted at him. "So you studied mermaids?"
He didn't hesitate. "Yes. Thoroughly. While eating chocolate."
That did it.
She laughed—bright and unguarded, the sound echoing like bubbles through the water.
Fall went quiet. Just for a second.
He looked at her—really looked at her.
And in that moment, his smile softened. Uncertain. Maybe a little hopeful.
And then—
A swift.
A ripple of light cut across the ceiling of the world—silver laced with violet, blooming.
It was just light—falling like the reflection of a dying star through the water.
Spring stopped walking.
The glow brushed over her shoulders, caught in her hair, kissed her skin like a phantom of glitter.
"Fireworks?" she asked, voice hushed.
"Underwater world version," Fall murmured.
She stared upward, watching.
"They're beautiful," she whispered at last.
He didn't answer right away. Just hummed in agreement—low and distracted.
She turned to him.
He wasn't looking at the sky.
He was looking at her.
She shifted slightly under his gaze. "What?"
He hesitated. He looked like he has been thinking about how to say this for a while. He knew what to say, but it felt like saying it might cost something. Everything.
"What do you think the Veil is trying to tell us?" he asked. His voice was quiet. Measured.
She didn't respond.
But she already thought about it.
The Veil doesn't lie.
It reveals.
The Veil doesn't lie.
It reveals.
That was the law. The truth.
So what wasthis?
This strange, weightless peace.
The music of corals underfoot. The distant laughter.
This moment beside him—where nothing was being asked of her except to feel.
Was the Veil saying…
They were happy once?
That they… could be happy… again?
Her chest tightened.
No. No. No. That couldn't be right.
He broke her.
He left her in ruins.
She wasn't supposed to feel this way again.
Not with him.
Not here.
And yet—here she was.
Letting herself laugh.
Genuinely.
Why?
Why did it have to be this—
Them having fun together, in a place torn from their reality as a trial of the Veil?
She looked down at her hands, glowing faintly in the spirit-light.
"Fall…" she said, voice thinner than she wanted.
He didn't look at her.
He lifted the small prize box instead, turning it over in his palm. "Look."
Her brow creased.
"You didn't pick it at random, did you?"
"…No."
She waited. He hesitated.
"What is it?"
"A memory lens," he said at last.
Her breath hitched.
He wasn't smiling anymore.
"It brings one memory into reality… No tricks. Exactly how it happened. Or at least how the wearer saw it."
He paused.
"I want you to see," he said.
She took a step back.
His eyes met hers, and something unspoken passed between them.
"I need you to see what really happened that night."
"What the—"
Is he joking?
He wasn't. He was dead serious.
"Why would I ever want to re—"
Her words cut off.
Fall's eyes widened.
His breath hitched—
Blood spilled from his mouth.
"Fall!" Spring screamed.