“Something feels off—Is this really Anjelo’s witch powder? The scent’s wrong.” Desty finally noticed the oddity.

“I don’t know—forget it. I can’t be bothered and won’t use it. Let’s find an inn.” Lucimia scanned the streets, eyes sweeping like birds seeking roosts.

“Tavern... gem shop... roast meats...” The words rose like signboards in her mind.

To her left, a tavern breathed heavy wine; to her right, young women drifted before a gem shop; a family led kids toward sizzling meats.

The ground lay in flat stone bricks, clean as washed river pebble.

The street swelled like a stream of ants; few looked lost to death. If no one had said “plague,” she wouldn’t see it.

It takes filth, chaos, and neglect to birth a plague, like rot needing damp, dark, and time.

But here, the planning held like neat garden rows; clean ground, ordinary folk living plainly; everything lined up and calm.

Was it the smoke and those fizzing tablets? Did they let Count Gaha hold the spread in a sealed district?

Yet the smoke and tablets felt wrong, like perfume over mildew.

“Maybe they just added sugar, or scent boosters,” Lucimia guessed, thoughts drifting like incense.

Maybe she’s just paranoid. The raw stuff might be real witch powder, dressed up for sale like grain polished for market.

“Mm. That must be it,” she told herself, like tying a ribbon on doubt.

One worry still gnawed: Were those monsters steered by people, or by that worm?

If it’s the former, the mind behind them might try another way to besiege the city, like water finding a new crack.

And why attack at all? The question sat in her chest like a cold stone.

As Lucimia walked and thought, a young woman suddenly ran up and blocked her path like a sparrow darting to a branch.

It startled Lucimia; she hopped back two steps, heart flicking like a fish.

Her nerves spiked like pricked thorns—What the—what the?

Do people here enjoy jumping into faces to spook strangers, like cats leaping from shadows?

Local custom?

Should I play along—when in Rome—like slipping into borrowed shoes?

While thinking, Lucimia studied the woman, gaze steady as moonlight.

The woman wore a lace-trimmed silk gown; multicolored clips bloomed in her hair; she smiled at Lucimia and Desty like spring.

“Two beautiful ladies,” the woman praised, words dripping like honey.

Desty’s brows arched like little wings at the compliment.

Hearing her patter and noting the market buzz, Lucimia caught on. “What are you selling? Just say it.” Her voice cut clean as a knife.

“Uh...” The woman’s smile froze like icing; Lucimia’s bluntness jammed her words.

She was a pro; in two beats, she recovered. “You’re so witty, beautiful miss. Someone like you suits this gray-black comb.”

She lifted a gray-black wooden comb from her basket. Moon-shaped, it bore carved patterns on the grip that Lucimia couldn’t read, like vines in dusk.

The woman set it on her palm. “It’s a Nightwood Comb, carved from a tree with magic. It smooths hair like calm water, and its shade matches yours.”

“Wow, that’s nice. I want one—got red?” Desty wavered, eyes shining like lanterns.

Lucimia eyed the comb and nodded, gaze catching on it like a cat on a ribbon.

It did look good, but— The thought hung like a cloud rim.

She wouldn’t buy. Her resolve sat like a stone in a stream.

Please—her Storage Ring held several combs already. She didn’t lack this one; hers were finer. No need to toss coins like petals.

So she refused. “Thanks, but I have other combs. I don’t need a new one now.” Her words were cool as shade.

The woman didn’t flinch. She kept smiling. “Miss, why not try it first? Your hair looks a bit tangled. A free sample—I’ll help you.”

Her smile glowed like lamplight.

“Uh... messy...” The word scratched her pride like a thorn.

Her memory jolted like a bell; she touched her head. So many strands had knotted like fishing line.

Fair. She’d fought a battle, drifted long on a river, and hadn’t touched a comb since; mess gathers like leaves in wind.

Still, she didn’t want to buy; it only hardened her wish to find a room and groom herself, like a horse seeking stable.

As she readied a time-pressed refusal, the woman added with a smile, “Every lady’s hairstyle is her crown.” The sentence rang like a bell.

“...” Silence spread like ink in water.

The line made Lucimia swallow the words she’d formed, like drawing back an arrow.

She looked at the comb, then at the smiling woman... Her thoughts spun like a windmill.

...

After a while, time settling like dust.

Lucimia and Desty walked on. The earlier tangles had vanished like storm clouds; sleek, clean hair trailed behind them like silk streams.

“...I still bought it.” The admission dropped like a pebble.

Lucimia frowned, staring at the comb in her hand like a culprit.

Her fingers slid over it—smooth as river stone, well-polished, no flaws; it fit her grip just right and glided through hair like rain.

The craftsmanship was indeed fine, like neat stitches in a robe.

But the woman sold it to her for five silver coins, like a hawk snatching a fish.

And she had actually paid, coin ringing like small bells.

In the Town of Tranquility, a fine wooden comb costs at most one silver coin, like bread priced fair at dawn.

Lucimia had plenty of money, but she wasn’t one to scatter it like seeds in barren soil.

Regret—deep regret—rolled in like low thunder.

Blame that honeyed line; curse it. Next time, she wouldn’t fall for sweet tongues, like bees avoiding false flowers.

She pocketed the comb and looked at Desty. The red-haired girl cradled her red comb like a bird; she combed so lightly, fearing a snap.

“I mean...” Lucimia spoke, voice low as dusk.

“What’s up?” Desty tilted her head like a curious sparrow.

“You didn’t have much money, right? How much is left after that comb?” Her question landed like a measured tap.

“...” At that, Desty jolted like a deer hearing a twig snap.

“Seems... only eight left...” she murmured, voice small as a mouse. “Oh no—will I not afford an inn?”

“Sigh...” Lucimia breathed out. “I’ll book a double room. You can stay with me.” Her offer opened like a sheltering umbrella.

“Really? That’s great! Thank you!” Desty squeezed Lucimia’s hand, joy bubbling like a spring.

As for the inn’s location? The thought pointed like a signpost.

Lucimia had asked the comb seller; it’s at the end of the market, like an anchor at a pier.

Trade used to flow here; inns were full, buzzing like hives. Now, with the plague, trade stopped. Only a few merchants stay, and they’ll sail off in days. Then the inn will sit empty as a shed.

Unless the plague passes, the innkeeper will pack up, sell the place, or change trades, like a bird seeking a new tree.