Fine Delicacies was split into two halves.

The left side was a restaurant; the right was a warehouse shop, its shelves piled like little hills—cakes, bread, roasted meat, and more.

At the right-hand counter sat a man in his thirties. He stroked his prickly stubble like a rasp over bark, counted coins that chimed like rain, and let a sly heh-heh leak out now and then.

“Money, ah—pretty sweet. Heh-heh.”

Bang.

The wooden door slammed open like thunder splitting a calm sky. His happy counting shattered; irritation rose like smoke in his chest.

“Who’s that? Can’t push a door gently? No hands, huh? Break it and you’ll pay!”

He slapped the ledger shut and drew a gleaming, wide-curved blade from under the counter. He stood, blade catching light like a shard of moon.

Standing made him see, and seeing made him flinch.

A girl ran toward him—long black hair like spilled ink, a deep-violet cloak flowing like dusk. Her lovely face carried fear first, and under the fear, a prickle of vexation.

Vittor froze; the knife almost slipped.

It wasn’t her looks that froze him—it was blood. He and Lucimia were kin, if only collateral. This shop-warehouse belonged under the Lancelot Family, the place every merchant in town came to stock up.

He glanced down at the blade in his hand, then remembered his shout. Awkwardness sprouted like weeds.

Lucimia didn’t give him time. She grabbed his arm and tucked herself behind him like a sparrow under an eave.

“Uncle Vittor, I’m being chased! Think of something!”

“You’re being chased?” The words hit; Vittor’s grip hardened on the blade.

A heartbeat later, a boy in a black shirt burst into the shop. He drew breath to yell “wif—” but froze when he saw a rough-faced man with a big knife, and a girl peeking out from behind him like half a moon.

The boy swallowed and rooted to the spot, a sapling in a storm.

“It’s him?” Vittor tapped the air with his blade tip toward the boy.

“Mm-hmm.” Lucimia nodded like a sparrow pecking grain.

“This…” Vittor had expected some street tough. Or no—maybe a tiny tough.

Then the boy’s mother stormed in, cursing like a kettle boiling over.

“You little brat, do you even know who she is? Look at her hair—what color? She’s from the Lancelot Family! You got a death wish?”

Bent over and breath heaving like a bellows, she smacked the boy’s backside with a sharp clap.

“Look carefully. Isn’t she Lancelot Family?”

The boy’s eyes went wide.

Black hair was rare here. Only members of the Lancelot Family bore it. He finally understood who stood before him.

With that explained, Vittor caught the picture.

A kid dazzled by Lucimia’s beauty, chasing without sense. A child’s folly, nothing more.

The mother pressed the boy’s head down, apologies tumbling like beads.

“I’m so sorry for the trouble. You’re too beautiful; my son couldn’t control himself and bothered you. It’s my poor discipline!”

“…Sorry,” the boy muttered, voice small as a mouse.

“…Mm.” Lucimia gave a brief nod.

Vittor thumped the blade onto the counter with a flat knock. “All right. If that’s all, then out. Don’t mess with my business. I’ll let it slide this time—don’t repeat it.”

“Yes, yes—so sorry!” The mother hauled the boy toward the door.

“Wait till I get you home.” She swatted his backside again on the way out, scolding like a whip-crack.

“Ah, boys like that—give a man a headache,” Vittor said, rubbing his temples like smoothing crumpled paper.

“Hm? What’s wrong, Lucimia?” He noticed her standing stock-still, face blank, eyes fixed on where the boy had left—like a hawk staring after a shadow.

“What is it? Don’t want to forgive them? Then tell the town guard. They’ll handle it fairly.” Vittor thought she was still hot with anger.

“…No.” Lucimia shook her head, the motion light as a leaf.

“Then what?”

“It’s… never mind. Nothing. And—thank you, Uncle Vittor.”

“Haha, don’t thank me. It’s right to help.” He grinned, pride sparking. “I once wanted to be a Holy Knight. No talent for it, but I’ll gladly draw a blade for small things.” He lifted the big knife and gave it a playful swing, steel humming like a dragonfly.

Lucimia smiled, then her face shaded again.

She had seen the boy’s expression as he left.

None of the earlier leering. No fear of the blade. No wounded pride from his mother’s scolding.

Only a pair of cold eyes, a python’s stare locking on prey. It sent a chill sliding down her spine like winter water.

A woman’s intuition pricked—wrong, wrong.

Would someone really chase her merely for a pretty face?

It felt too sudden, too bizarre, too soap-drama absurd.

She wouldn’t let “You’re so beautiful” puff her up into thoughtlessness. Her mind stayed cool as a lake.

Besides, she’d worn a cloak and hood on the road. Only the run had knocked the hood back, revealing her face for a moment.

Then there was that look as he left…

Wait.

She replayed the mother’s words.

Something like—Look closely who she is.

A frightening guess rose like a shadow behind her. Maybe he wasn’t drawn by beauty at all. Maybe he was confirming her identity.

But why confirm her identity? Human traffickers? Kidnap a lone noble lady, sell her as a slave? Or squeeze the family for coin?

Lucimia sank into thought, silence deep as a well.

…

After leaving, the boy and his mother slipped into a narrow, dark alley, shadows pooling like ink.

“I confirmed it. She’s Lucimia! She’s the young lady of the Exorcist Family! She’s alone! Just her! Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh…”

The dull-eyed boy turned suddenly manic. His grin split to the ears; his eyes drooped into sickle-sharp crescents. A smile spread that chilled bone like a night wind.

The mother mirrored him, voice curling into an evil titter. “If we replace her, won’t we earn the Lord’s favor? Heh-heh—hee-hee…”

“Right, right. Replace her, get into the Lancelot Family, then replace the rest. Replacing an Exorcist Family—won’t that make the Lord delighted?”

“How do we replace her? How?”

“Look at her getup. She must’ve slipped out from her family. Must have something she wants to do alone. We tail her quietly. When no one’s around… ke-ke-ke.” The boy’s excitement climbed, his laugh roughening like gravel.

“You’re right, you’re right—ke-ke-ke.”

“Ke-ke-ke.”

With their laughter trailing like smoke, the two faded into the dark.