After breakfast, morning light sifted like flour; Lucimia left the family with Yuna at her side.
She told her parents she wanted a stroll, a breeze through reeds; they agreed, since Kaeli would shadow them like a silent moon.
Unease pricked like thorns in her chest; in the last loop, Kaeli had been replaced.
Even a Deceiver leaves rustling grass; Kaeli had some strength, so losing to one shouldn’t mean utter silence.
Resignation settled like dust on lacquer; she couldn’t know that process, and this round, keeping them safe was enough.
She took the front gate, a clean arch of stone; she didn’t climb the wall like a cat over tiles.
Cold dew of fear touched her neck; the wall route might bring the Blue Ringed Octopus again.
She went out to make Yuna’s presence feel natural, a veil becoming silk; constant invisibility was a chore.
Lucimia lowered her head; the stone-brick road ran like a gray river, and she walked it step by step.
The town looked well-grown, like rice fields turned orderly; other places were mud soup or stones tossed like bones.
She didn’t head straight for the public washroom; she wandered the morning streets, lantern-bright without lanterns.
With Kaeli watching like a hidden star, home-to-washroom felt wrong; a play should be sung in full.
People flowed like a tide; vendors’ cries fluttered like sparrows along the eaves.
This street was the face, smooth and sunny; last time she’d taken the shadowed back.
So, last time the Blue Ringed Octopus boy came from the opposite stream; this time, he’d likely follow her current.
She only needed to mind the flow, and her hooded cloak lay like a quiet cloud over her hair.
Lucimia browsed and paused; each stall was a little island in a morning sea.
“What’s this?” She stopped at a food stall, pointing at a diamond of bread like a cut gem.
It was hollow in the center, stuffed with green sauce, an emerald pool in wheat.
The stall owner, a smiling grandmother, spoke like warm tea: “It’s bread. The sauce is salty-bitter. You might not like it.”
She pointed to another bread dusted with sugar like frost. “This one’s sweet. Fresh from the oven. Want to try one?”
Desire tugged like a cat at fish; she wanted both, but breakfast still sat heavy as a stone.
“Sorry, I just ate. I can’t fit more. Next time.”
“What a pity,” the grandmother sighed, her breath like steam fading.
Lucimia left, glanced at cakes that shone like little moons, thought, and drifted back like a kite returning.
“Hm? Changed your mind?” The grandmother’s smile trembled like an old leaf.
“Could you hold these two for me? I’ll be back to buy them soon.”
The grandmother hesitated, worry like a crease in paper. “What if you don’t? I bake at home and sell for breakfast. Every coin matters.”
Lucimia considered, calm as still water, and drew a silver coin from her Storage Ring, bright as a new blade.
“This silver coin’s for you. Keep them for me—think of it as a holding fee.”
Words stumbled like pebbles from the grandmother’s mouth. “This coin could buy all my bread—and still more!”
“Don’t worry,” Lucimia said, placing the coin in her palm like a warm egg. “Just keep them.”
The grandmother’s hands shook like willow branches; she examined the coin, afraid it was a painted leaf.
The more she looked, the more shock rose like a tide; the coin was new, bright, newly minted sun.
She’d handled silver before, dull as worn shells; this one gleamed like water, untouched by hands.
She lifted her gaze and caught a strand of black hair under the hood, night-silk flowing.
This—! Recognition struck like a bell: someone of the Lancelot nobility here in the Town of Tranquility.
She swallowed, voice turning formal like temple bells. “Shall I reserve all the cakes for you?”
Lucimia waved lightly, a crane’s wing in air. “No need. Just hold those.”
The grandmother could only watch the girl leave, eyes following like lantern light.
She’d bought the cakes for Yuna, whose morning stomach was an empty bowl.
Last time, she brought Yuna out of the washroom and fed her only after the evening banquet, hunger a thin thread all day.
No repeats; after the stroll and the play, she took Yuna to the washroom, a curtain parting as planned.
Using the last loop’s method, she staged it cleanly, and Yuna slipped from invisibility like mist becoming rain.
Good—she could hold her hand in daylight, a white ribbon between them.
Lucimia took Yuna’s small hand; it was soft as new silk, warm as sun on peach skin.
It was only to keep her from getting lost, a tether of care.
She returned to the grandmother’s stall, took two breads, and handed the sweet one to Yuna like a little gift star.
She bit into the green-sauce bread; the crust crackled like dry leaves, the inside was soft as clouds.
The sauce was indeed salty-bitter, a river with two tastes.
“What is this flavor… so odd,” she murmured, nose wrinkling like a kitten’s.
Such a waste of good wheat; treasure turned to nettles.
Still, she finished in a few quick bites, neat as a sparrow pecking, then clapped her hands clean.
Yuna nibbled in soft bites, graceful as a small rabbit, more noble than Lucimia by far.
They walked on, quiet as a stream; Lucimia decided not to wander further, lest trouble bud like weeds.
Better to return home, sit with tea-calm, and choose the right plan.
As they moved, a shape in the far crowd pricked her like ice; familiarity crashed like a wave.
She tugged Yuna and jogged into a side alley, a slit of shade; she pressed to the wall and peeked like a fox.
A short boy in black, arms cradling a bundle of vegetables like green reeds.
Not a stranger—the Blue Ringed Octopus from the last loop, wearing a boy’s skin again.
“What’s going on? Why is he here?” Her brow folded like mountains.
By the clock in her head, their meeting time had passed; he should’ve crossed to the far side like a drifting log.
Right—last time he walked with his mother; this time? The sky beside him was empty.
Lucimia studied him, eyes sharp as a hawk’s; no woman walked with him, and he held the vegetables alone.
If her memory was true as carved jade, last loop a woman led him, and she carried those greens.
