Alert, Lucimia snapped up Devouring, a shadow swallowing the fumes, and swore she’d scrub herself clean later.

“Alright, go on in.” The words fell like a gate swinging.

“Thanks.” Desty dipped her head and slipped inside like a sparrow.

Lucimia didn’t thank him; passing by, she opened her Magic Eye, a cold lantern, and lingered on the wooden basin’s residue.

It looked no different from Anjelo’s witch powder, ash-fine and pollen-pale.

She drew back her gaze like a blade and hurried into the city’s light.

Inside, a broad square opened like a stone lake; in the center, a pool held a statue rising like a frozen ripple.

She looked up; on a distant height, a gilded manor blazed like scales in sun—that had to be Count Gaha’s home.

To the left lay the sea, a steel-blue sheet; a harbor bit the shore, and a great merchant ship slept at its teeth.

To the right, dense houses huddled like tiles; a market buzzed like a hive, with other stalls nested around.

The layout wasn’t symmetrical, but the zones split like fields; it felt ordered, not a tangled net.

The townsfolk didn’t look plague-worn; they bought vegetables like morning chores and basked in sun like cats, not a locked ward.

One thing stood out: every resident smoked; they drew in a long breath like incense, faces melting into bliss.

Children dropped white slices into cups; bubbles pearled up like rain, and they drank with a sigh of cool breeze.

“What’s that?” Desty asked, a wary bird flicking her head.

“Uh… smoke?” Lucimia’s voice was a soft cloud.

“Is it?” Doubt hung like mist.

While they whispered, a woman bustled up, warmth like steam, cutting into their space.

Lucimia and Desty stepped back a pace, leaves stirred by a gust.

The woman leaned in, manners like a pushed door; she opened a waist pouch like a blooming flower.

Inside lay the same smokes the others puffed, and the fizzy tablets kids had dropped like snowflakes.

She pointed and beamed, eyes crescent-bright. “Little ladies, want some Mystic Return Smoke? Or Mystic Return Tablets?”

“Not pricey—one silver coin for two smokes, or ten tablets,” she chimed like a bell.

Oh. Just a pitch. The thought landed like a pebble.

Lucimia loosened her guard a notch and studied the goods, eyes skimming like a skater.

“What do they do?” Her tone was cool water.

The woman giggled, excitement fluttering like flags. “First time in town, huh? Listen, this stuff works wonders!”

She waved her hands, windmill-fast. “One puff, and your illnesses scatter like scared birds!”

“Severe turns mild, mild turns sound; if you’re healthy, it clears your mind like mountain air.”

“Trouble fades like dusk, and it even adds years like rings in a tree!”

Smooth patter, Lucimia thought, the words rolling like beads.

“So? Want some?” The woman waggled a smoke under Lucimia’s nose, scent curling up like incense.

It was the same smell as the witch powder the soldiers splashed on her, a sweet rot under sugar.

“N…o…” Lucimia waved it away, a fan pushing heat.

She didn’t need it; she didn’t smoke; something about it rubbed wrong, like grit under skin.

“Hey!” The woman mistook it for price, words tumbling like coins. “Tell you what, you’re new, I’ll cut it.”

“One silver, three smokes or fifteen tablets—how’s that? That’s generous as rain.”

So no real discount, just a different basket. Sweat pricked like dew at Lucimia’s neck.

“Really no. We’ve got things to do. We’ll talk after we settle in, alright?” Her refusal was a soft gate closing.

The woman wouldn’t quit; she sighed and shook her head, reed-thin. “Girls, listen—this is precious!”

“When it’s gone, it’s gone; you wait ages like winter. I just got stock and ran to you!”

Lucimia still declined, a stone in a stream.

The woman clung like burrs, chanting that one is better than none. Patience snapped like a twig.

Lucimia cut her a cold side glance, night pooling in her eyes; the woman felt something lock on, jaws in the dark.

Whatever it was felt hungry.

She fled at once, footsteps scattering like sparrows.

Only then did Lucimia exhale, a long ribbon of air. “What a bother.”

“Mm-hmm.” Desty nodded, a small drumbeat.

The hawker drifted off and pitched to others, her voice a net.

Lucimia watched; people bought cleanly, hands reaching like reeds; a crowd pressed in, and the pouch emptied fast.

Is it really that magical? Curiosity ticked like rain.

Suppose it did clear illness. Lucimia’s mind flashed red—was it tied to that blood-worm?

Maybe the worm spread the sickness, but the sickness itself was ordinary, no stain of corruption.

No—if it were ordinary, it wouldn’t flare so fast, lightning on dry grass.

Maybe the worm sped the onset, a drum quickening the march.

She didn’t understand, and she didn’t want to; Dark Deity tangles were a marsh, better skirted.

What she needed was an inn first, a roof like a held breath; then a lead on a Time Ability User, then a ticket out by ship.

And she’d confirm she’d truly scrubbed the illness from herself, no embers left.

They moved to ask for lodging, words ready like coins.

Just then, a man who’d bought smoke walked over, curiosity bright as a match. “Why didn’t you buy?”

“Huh?” Desty turned, puzzled, head tilted like a finch. “Why should we?”

Lucimia had told her she’d used “magic” to shield her, so no fear of infection, a charm like a veil.

The man smiled, a crescent. “You’re dumb not to. There’s only so much.”

“When it’s gone, you wait ages, till Count Gaha makes more; making it’s hard, like squeezing stone.”

“And without it, if you get sick now, you just wait to die—carted to the cemetery and burned, even the ash buried.”

“Thank heaven Count Gaha invented the witch powder, or the whole city would’ve died out like a snuffed lamp.”

Desty fell silent, a bead of sweat cold as rain.

Lucimia heard only one note in that clatter. “Who did you say invented it?”

“Huh? Count Gaha. Emon Gaha,” he said, matter-of-fact as noon.

“Emon Gaha…” she repeated under her breath, fogged.

Anjelo had said he invented it. Why was it Count Gaha here, wearing the laurel?

Did Count Gaha steal Anjelo’s invention, or did Anjelo steal his, thieves crossing like shadows?

While Lucimia weighed it, the man fished out two white tablets, smooth as pebbles. “Here, I’ve got two left.”

“Want ’em? One silver for two. Don’t ask why it’s pricey—you should’ve bought earlier.”

“No.” Lucimia cut it off and tugged Desty away, their steps quick as rain.