Maybe her granddaughter’s stubborn pleading and Lucimia’s steady flame finally touched her; the old woman turned back, eyes like cold rain, and measured Lucimia again.

“I don’t buy that a short little thing like you is a doctor,” she said, voice snapping like dry bamboo in wind.

Discomfort first, like a damp cloud pressing on her chest; Lucimia answered, “You can’t judge a person by looks,” her tone flat as still water.

The image of a kindly elder shattered like frost under a boot; this old woman held thorns where petals should be.

She never reached for apology, only pointed at the wooden basin like a dull moon; “Do you know what I just splashed?”

Lucimia shook her head, mood a bruise-dark sky; “Mm… something that drives out sickness?”

The old woman’s face iced over like a river in winter; she flicked her arm and snapped, “Hmph, you don’t even know that and call yourself a doctor? Go play. Move. My patience is a brittle reed.”

Whoosh—the undying fire she’d cast out curled back like a red snake; she turned away, footsteps hard as stones.

…

The mood sank first, like dusk sliding down a mountain; anger followed, hot ash under skin.

She wanted to say her patience was a clay bowl cracking too; she’d kept spring-light warmth, yet the other woman threw storms, never a single sorry.

A fierce impulse rose like a wolf in snow; just force it—rush in, use Devouring to swallow Dori’s sickness, let proof burn bright for the old woman.

Then reason flickered like a lantern in wind; she didn’t need the elder at all—heal Dori, get Shebelle’s intel on the Time Ability User, and leave.

She was a Dark Deity, a night tide under moon; why bind herself with village strings instead of walking straight like wind?

Letting someone climb higher up her nose felt like ants under bark; without a lesson, could this tree stand?

A colder thought slid in like a blade of ice; why not kill her outright and end the noise?

She looked like a capable mage, a storm held tight; Devouring a strong soul could lessen the power needed to resist Elyssus’s Deception.

That way her Authority Power would pour freer, like a river after a broken dam; the idea gleamed like black glass.

Yes, it felt neat and sharp, a clean cut on silk; do it, do it…

“No—wait… tsk… my head hurts,” she hissed, pain ringing like iron on an anvil.

Her skull felt hammered by a giant; the world wheeled like crows around a tower, and she pitched into Desty’s arms.

“Eh?” Desty stared, surprise fluttering like sparrows; the black-haired girl had fallen against her chest. “What’s wrong?”

A soft scent circled Lucimia’s nose like early tea steam; awareness slid back, a ripple in dark water.

“No, it’s nothing…” She rubbed her temple, fingers tracing a sunstone ache, then stood steady like a pole in rain.

“Maybe… I just woke up and need rest,” she said, voice like embers cooling.

Desty nodded, half-believing, half-cloud; “Makes sense… I feel a bit weak too,” she murmured, like grass after hail.

“Whew…” Lucimia breathed out, a wind through reeds; she shook her head, and the mad thoughts scattered like frightened sparrows.

They came fast and flew faster, like storm seeds on air; they weren’t hers, not the path she chose.

Confusion first, then suspicion like smoke; what was that—pollution staining the well?

It was a frightening smear, a shadow under oil; even now, a part of her felt Devouring that elder for fuel sounded tragically reasonable.

“Ah, it failed after all,” a familiar voice slid in, mocking like a fox’s grin in snow.

It echoed in her mind, low and sharp, notes overlapping like twin knives; it was…

“Elyssus…” The name fell like frost, crisp and bitter.

“Ahh, what a pity,” it cooed, silk over thorns; “I’ve nudged you since you woke, using Deception to warp your thoughts.”

“Heh,” Lucimia let a cold laugh drift like winter breath; her eyes were slate, her heart a locked chest.

No wonder her warmth had felt thin as paper to the girl; Elyssus had salted the well with mischief.

Even so, she’d likely refuse, but with softer hands, like dusk closing a door gently instead of wind slamming it.

“Tsk tsk, Lucimia, isn’t it perfectly logical?” the voice clicked its tongue like a restless snake; “Devour that elder, gather energy, face me easier. She means nothing to you.”

Disgust first, a bitter iron taste; Lucimia spat one word in her mind, flat as a slate: “Scram.”

Elyssus didn’t flare, only clicked its tongue again, a teacher’s sigh like rain on tin; “Tsk tsk, Lucimia, Lucimia.”

“As a Dark Deity elder, I’m teaching craft and claw; pity you won’t learn,” it said, smoke wearing a crown.

Lucimia pushed back, steady as a stone gate; “Your words don’t work on me. You want me to lose control so you can seize me, right?”

Silence fell like snow cutting sound; the thread snapped, and the voice went dark, no seduction, no breath.

Unease first, then resolve like a drawn bow; she had to dismantle Elyssus’s believers and every Magic Array, fast.

Break one node, and its power would ebb like a tide; its grip on her would loosen like bark from wet wood.

She watched the old woman snag Shebelle’s arm, dragging her home like a flood carrying reeds; Shebelle’s eyes begged, twin lamps in fog.

Lucimia sighed, a cloud letting rain fall; her shoulders sank like tired sails.

“Forget it. I’ll come back later,” she said, voice calm as a stone path.

Handle Elyssus first, like cutting weeds at the root; the Bannubi Empire should hold its believers too.

Contact one, and locations would surface like fish rising; the hunt would be simple as following tracks in fresh snow.

She didn’t know how deep the stain ran, a black dye in her stream; her thinking felt quick to frenzy, to extremes, to rigid iron.

That wasn’t a good sign, a crack spreading under glaze; it worried her like wolves at a fence.

“What now?” Desty asked, concern like a hand on a lantern; her eyes searched like moons over water.

Helplessness first, then a shrug like loose branches; “What can we do? Great—you want to help, and they turn the door,” Lucimia said.

Desty kept quiet, lips sealed like a prayer bead; silence pooled like still ink.

After a breath, she spoke, voice careful as threads; “We should investigate the plague’s cause, and how far it spreads.”

Lucimia reached for the void like a night river to call Elyssus’s believers; Desty’s words tugged back like a reed hook.

“Then you go. I’ve got other business,” Lucimia said, tone flat like slate.

“Fine,” Desty snapped her face aside like a cat flicking its tail; she set off alone, steps thin as reeds.

Lucimia watched her wobble like a fawn on ice; “If danger comes, turn tail and run,” she called, teasing as late sun. “Maybe I’ll be merciful and save you.”

“What are you saying?!” Desty spun, blush and ire like peach and flame; “Don’t joke!”

“I’m not joking,” Lucimia said, voice cool as well water.

“Hmph,” Desty huffed, a small storm under bangs, and strode a few steps like a stubborn goat.

Lucimia turned inward, ready to sink into the void again, a diver under moonlight, to contact believers…

Creak—the cabin’s wooden door swung open like a mouth in old timber.

She cut the reach, the thread snipped like spider silk; irritation pricked like nettles.

What now? The question rose like smoke curling.

She looked up at the cabin, eyes a pair of calm pools; Desty paused too, turning back like a reed bending.

Out came not the old woman nor Shebelle, but a man, stepping through shadow like dawn through mist.

He wore tea-brown short hair, a clear face young as new bark; he was near twenty, tall enough to duck the lintel.

“Please wait, you two,” he said softly, voice like wind brushing rice fields.