Lucimia took Yuna to a public restroom. She locked herself in a stall, thoughts swirling like ink in a basin, wondering if the octopus that killed Julie was the same one that replaced Vittor.

If the stuttering man’s words rang true, then with the scraps she had, Lucimia replayed last night like chess stones sliding across a rain-dark board.

An octopus tried to replace Julie, but got caught by the stutterer, like a thief under lantern light. It ditched the corpse and fled, then replaced Cole or Vittor.

If the real Vittor brought food and wine to confess to Julie last night, the fleeing octopus could’ve met him by chance and swapped him, like a mask thrown on mid-run.

If Vittor lied and stitched a story on the spot, then the runner could’ve taken either Vittor or the captain, like a coin tossed into fog.

Indecision tightened around her like cold vines.

Cole had acted odd, a ripple on still water, yet not sure. But Vittor she’d tested herself; his memory didn’t match. She never asked for roast at noon today.

By the odds, the killer octopus likely became Vittor. If she wanted vengeance, she should strike him first, like an arrow loosed at the darkest silhouette.

Heat flared; her fists knotted, teeth bit her lip. She wanted to vault the shop window now, hit the false Vittor from behind like thunder out of a clear sky.

Vittor often brought her good food, warmth like steam rising from a winter pot, and Lucimia knew his kindness.

These vile octopuses picked her dear ones, like wolves circling the lamplight, and anger roared through her.

Deceivers were unforgivable, iron-cold words like a blade laid on stone.

Think it, do it; impatience crackled like dry tinder.

She explained to Yuna, left her in the restroom like a sheltered swallow, and planned to fight alone.

Yet gentle Yuna, who rarely fussed and followed like a shadow, suddenly changed her mind, a breeze shifting before rain.

She tugged Lucimia’s skirt and whispered, “Lucy, sis, breathe. Don’t let emotion steer your judgment…” Her voice drifted like cool mist.

Yuna’s words worked like a calming needle, dousing the fire that had sprinted through Lucimia’s chest.

She stilled, feeling her mood wobble like a boat on choppy water.

She patted her chest, steadying it like a drum, and forced her breath to settle.

Right—no wild swings. She recalled last night’s shifting thoughts, a tide tugged by the Dark Deity; she must not be dragged.

She set emotion aside, stepped outside herself like frost clearing a pane, and sorted what she knew.

An octopus aimed to replace Julie, got spotted by the stutterer, ran, then met Vittor or Cole and replaced one, like a mask slipped in a narrow alley.

Is that it? Is that… it? The thought echoed like a pebble dropped into a well.

No—wait. A thorn in the logic pricked her, a snag like bramble on a path.

Lucimia caught herself, toes on the cliff edge of a trap; she had almost stepped into it like a sleepwalker.

Why would the octopus run, like wind scattering leaves?

That was the biggest hole, a crater in the road. Emotion had fogged her lens; how did she miss it?

If discovered, it could’ve replaced the stuttering man, snuff him like a candle, and leave no witness to drift like a loose leaf.

Why abandon a weak stutterer and face trained Vittor or Cole head-on, like a hare charging a hound?

Unless the stutterer outclassed Vittor, which felt absurd; she saw no hidden strength, only tremors like reeds in wind.

She kept chewing at the motive, like a fox gnawing a trap, yet nothing gave.

Unless the stutterer was a secret agent, the octopus failed last night and fled, and this morning he acted undercover, like theater on wet streets.

That was too melodramatic, bubbles of soap that pop at a touch—plainly impossible.

Then came a colder guess, frost creeping under the door—the stuttering man was a Deceiver too.

If Deceivers pass messages in death, whispers like moths to a flame, this could be a hunt set for Lucimia.

First they killed Julie, plucking her heartstrings like a sudden storm. Then Cole’s men kept insisting they weren’t Deceivers, feeding suspicion after yesterday’s attack.

Next, they put the stutterer on stage as witness, performing for her like actors behind paper lanterns. He handed her false lines.

With Cole already under a cloud, Cole took the stutterer away in front of her, stirring worry like a hawk shadow over a field.

For revenge, she’d chase clues; the witness became the first thread, a red string trailing through fog.

His safety would tug her along, pulling her to shadow soldiers, trying to save him like a swimmer against a riptide.

Once she followed, a ring of Deceivers would close, jaws like a net tightening.

But cautious hunters add a second snare; Deceivers were meticulous, knots within knots.

Julie was dead. If Lucimia didn’t tail soldiers and instead told Vittor first, the false Vittor could supply the rest, drop a crack on purpose, and steer her to attack him like a beacon in the night.

False Vittor’s place would be trapped as well, a pit covered with leaves.

Either path she chose, Deceivers lurked in the hedges, waiting like cats at dusk.

So they even guessed she’d test Vittor? The thought slid cold, like water down her spine.

As it clicked, gooseflesh rose along her back, an icy field of bumps. For the first time, she felt the Deceivers’ terror, sharp as winter iron.

Thanks to Yuna’s gentle brake, if she had charged in, odds were grim, like dice weighted against her.

Thinking that, she dispelled Yuna’s Invisibility Spell and gave her a fierce cuddle, kneading her like warm dough.

Good—solid ground underfoot again.

Now that the trap lay bare, what should she do, wind or stone?

Right—she had a bodyguard, Miss Kaeli, a steady pine in a storm.

She didn’t know Kaeli’s true strength, but today’s play, Kaeli must’ve seen it clear as sunlight on water.

What would the maid choose? Run to notify the family? Could Kaeli read this snare?

If Kaeli struck at Vittor while Lucimia hid in the restroom, wouldn’t she drop into the same trap, like a falcon diving into a net?

No. She needed to check, urgency tapping like rain on tiles.

She grabbed Yuna’s hand and jogged out, feet pattering like sparrows across stone.

Her mind felt crisp, sky after rain; halfway down the hall, another contradiction flashed like lightning.

Would Deceivers really assume she’d pick between two? What if she told the family instead?

The family could join the Church and strike together, storm and bell. Wouldn’t that undo the plan?

Could Deceivers smart enough to weave this trap miss that, like tailors forgetting a seam?

They’d shown cracks on purpose; playing along could get them caught. Weren’t they afraid, fear like owls in the dark?

And these Deceivers, restless of late—what was their goal, root or flower?

It felt like a maze again, mist curling between hedges.

With unease in her chest like fluttering moths, Lucimia reached the familiar shop.

She pressed her ear to the door; inside, quiet pooled like still pond water. She eased it open, a sliver of light, and watched.

No signs of a fight—no toppled chairs, no scuffs. Miss Kaeli wasn’t there, and even Vittor had gone, emptiness like dust motes in a beam.

Where had he gone, like a shadow slipping under a threshold?

Lucimia pushed the door wide and stepped in. She tiptoed into the storeroom, eyes sweeping like a lantern arc—no figures, only shelves.

Where did Vittor go? Did he play the act to the hilt and head to the guards, a trail like footprints washed by rain?

And Miss Kaeli? Was she still watching like a hawk, or did she alert the family, or go to find Captain Cole, paths branching like deer tracks?