Chapter 2: A Virtue in Nature


    Kira’s vision gradually faded, its lingering echoes replaced by the gentle aroma of cherry and vanilla, mingling with the low hum of machinery. In the dim light, her grandfather sat in his worn chair beside her, the familiar scent of his pipe offering a small measure of comfort.


    Noticing her stir, he asked softly, “How do you feel?”


    Kira managed a small nod and murmured, “I feel fine.”


    Her grandfather shook his head and let out a weary sigh. Taking a long, thoughtful puff from his pipe, he replied in a low, rough voice, “Two visions in such a short time… even for Ark seers, that’s rare. And it’s hard on your body—you’ve been asleep for nearly the whole day.”


    Panic flickered in her eyes. “What about the moon? Has it already arrived?” she asked.


    His grip on the pipe tightened slightly. “Not yet.”


    A heavy silence fell between them, thick as fog, as the low hum of the research post filled the pause. Finally, he said, “Even if Alune emerges from the Abyss, I think you should stay here. It’s too dangerous up there.”


    Kira’s eyes flashed with determination. “I’m not a child—I’ve been trained for this. I can handle it.”


    Her grandfather shook his head slowly, his grip tightening on the pipe. “Maintaining an atmosphere bubble under combat conditions is very different from training, Kira. A single moment’s lapse, and you’re exposed to the vacuum. Recreating that bubble—and the oxygen you need—is even more difficult.”


    Kira''s jaw tightened, but she met his gaze with unwavering resolve. Deep down, she knew she was meant to be there.


    The tense moment was abruptly broken by the station’s AI, its voice flat and mechanical:


    "Alert: Long-range sensors have detected a large mass moving within the Abyss. Trajectory analysis and estimated mass yield a 99.47% probability that the object is Alune. Unable to triangulate exact reentry point. Estimated time of arrival: 37 minutes."


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    Her grandfather stood immediately, his expression darkening as he processed the news. “We need to get to the observatory,” he said, his voice firm but steady.


    Kira’s heart pounded as the gravity of the situation sank in. In a flurry of panic, she realized she was still in her pajamas. “Wait!” she cried, but her grandfather didn’t pause; he just let out a chuckle as he moved swiftly down the hall.


    Her heart still hammering, Kira reached for her clothes—then hesitated. Something was off. As she tugged at the fabric, she realized the sweater was on backward, and the back had been knotted tightly in several places. Then she heard it—that barely suppressed chuckle drifting down the hallway. Her eyes narrowed. That old man. He did this on purpose.


    With a growl of frustration, she thrashed and yanked at the stubborn fabric, her movements erratic and desperate. Finally, with one last forceful tug, she managed to break free, ripping off the backward sweater along with her pajama top. In her haste, the cot wobbled just enough—too late, she realized. With a startled cry, she pitched forward, landing hard against the freezing floor.


    She shrieked as the cold bit into her exposed skin, scrambling to her feet and frantically searching for her robes.


    He walked out onto the observation deck, making his way to the railing. Pausing for a moment, he leaned against it, and as the airlock pulsed closed behind him, a broad smirk spread across his face. With a confident air, he took a couple of careful puffs from his pipe, lost in contemplation—until the gentle whoosh of the airlock snapped him back to the present.


    He could hear her footsteps coming up behind him, and when she finally stopped, she said, “That was not funny.”


    He let out a soft chuckle. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”


    Her tone shifted to a pouting, slightly angry mumble. “You have to buy me a new sweater.”


    “Who designs a sweater you have to tie like a damned corset?” he laughed.


    “Two!” she yelled back, her frustration mingling with amusement.


    Finally, he turned to his granddaughter.


    In that moment, it was as if nature itself held its breath. Kira emerged into the cool night, her eyes—twin amethysts catching the starlight—gleaming with streaks of blue flickering through them like distant meteors.


    A gentle swarm of fireflies gathered around her, their soft green luminescence caressing the cascading waves of her hair. Each strand of her midnight-black locks, interlaced with vivid red streaks that glowed like smoldering embers, caught the flickering light as the fireflies began a delicate waltz. Their gentle pulses traced the intricate details of her attire—a magical ensemble, a seamless fusion of shrine maiden tradition and combat practicality. The fabric flowed with each breath, accentuating her curves with an almost otherworldly grace.


    Draped elegantly over her exposed shoulders was a living scarf, its unattached sleeves fluttering freely. As the fireflies danced along its graceful lines, their pulses intermingled with the night, setting the scarf into a rhythmic symphony of deep, resonant blues and shimmering purples—like a quiet melody woven into the fabric of the dark.