After buying the wooden comb, Lucimia slipped back into invisibility, a wisp of fog hugging alleys as she hurried for the inn.

She stood at a crossroads, thunder massing on the horizon: how to handle Emongaha’s people?

Take Desty and bolt, like hares through tall grass; or meet them head-on, like a cliff taking waves.

Playing tame wasn’t impossible, a sheathed blade to watch Emongaha up close; assassination, though, felt like sewing in a rainstorm.

While thoughts churned like dark water, Lucimia drifted back to the inn without noticing.

The door swung, and she saw a ring of bodies around the owner, like shields hemming a hearth.

Huh? It was them, wolves at the door.

She focused and counted seven or eight heavy-armored soldiers, iron beetles by the counter. Among them stood someone she knew well—Lev.

A chill of steel rose off him, a naked killing intent, like frost he didn’t bother to hide.

What’s going on? They’d come to the doorstep already, a spear in daylight instead of a knife at midnight?

Right, no wonder; this was their turf, their den, no need to prowl. A pebble of error pricked her heart.

A soldier rapped the counter with a clenched knuckle, a woodpecker tempo. “I heard from the lady at the comb shop. A black-haired girl asked about an inn, with a red-haired companion. You told her it was this place. Did they come?”

“Uh…” The burly innkeeper was ringed by big men, greatswords on every back like slabs of night. Fear steamed off him.

Winter neared, yet heat crawled under his skin; he wiped sweat with his wrist, lips trembling, ready to speak.

Crap! Thunder cracked in Lucimia’s chest: he’d probably say he’d seen them and lead Lev to Room 203.

And Lev could see her even while invisible, a hawk spotting a moth in dusk. She couldn’t linger.

In that heartbeat, she chose to move, to spirit Desty away like a squirrel vanishing up a tree.

She couldn’t guess their exact play, but she felt Lev’s killing air and their war-gear, iron rain before a storm.

The one sent to meet her wasn’t a robed clerk with guards, but soldiers built to kill, knives meant for throats.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t win; hurt them, and she’d be wanted like the Plague Followers, a burr she didn’t need.

So she pivoted at the corner, feet quick as rain, and jogged up the stairs.

Then the owner’s smile chimed behind her, a lantern in fog: “Hey, with this plague, who’s still lodging? Just a few traders. Besides them, no black-haired girl checked in.”

Lucimia paused mid-step, a pebble skidding on tile.

He hadn’t led them up? Why lie?

She gave the owner another look, like testing a coin’s edge, then kept up for the second floor.

“You sure?” the soldier pressed, words hitting like dull hammers.

“Sure.” The owner nodded, a reed bending but not breaking.

“Fine.” The soldier yielded for now and laid three portrait sketches on the counter, leaves in a row, and asked, “Seen these three?”

“Uh, no.” The owner shook his head, like a bell with no clapper.

While they spoke, Lev slowly turned his head, a wolf catching a rustle, gaze landing on the stairwell corner.

After a few silent beats, he murmured, river-quiet, “Keep checking here. I’m stepping out.”

The others answered in unison, a clipped “Yes,” obedience like stones under a current.

Lev eased back, slipped outside, and lifted his eyes to the second and third-floor windows, a hawk circling.

His gaze swept once, locked onto a point like a nail, then he lowered his head and looped around back.

Lucimia sprinted to the second floor, keys already in hand, metal fish in water. She turned the lock and pushed the door.

Inside, Desty sat at the desk, flipping three sheets like autumn leaves, the portrait sketches of the Plague Followers.

So she knew what the rally had said.

Lucimia shut the door fast, voice low yet urgent, rain under eaves: “Stop reading. Hide with me.”

“Huh?” Desty blinked, a deer in brush. “Why hide?”

“Because soldiers downstairs are on us, and danger’s in their shadow.”

“But…” Desty still didn’t get it, a clear spring untroubled. “You caught that Plague Follower. They must be here to thank you. You skipped the payout; maybe they’re delivering it.”

Give me a break. Lucimia wanted to deck her, but she swallowed it, a fist unclenching under water. “I didn’t see coins, and no Storage Ring on them.”

“Uh… maybe they want you at the barracks to claim it, maybe sign for it,” Desty said, always leaning toward sunlight.

From her view, Lucimia had helped the Independents against the God-Adherents, so they looked friendly, a blue sky after rain.

Lucimia didn’t buy it. She remembered eavesdropping as a mosquito, her stealth pricked like a bubble, likely by Lev.

If so, once they heard an outsider mage was around, they’d connect threads, like a weaver at dawn.

Locals would know if the town had any strong mages, a well everyone drinks from.

Worse, she’d been a mosquito—an omen of sickness; they might tag her as a Plague Follower, a fly on rot.

Why help catch Gendi? Maybe part of a plan, smoke before arrows.

They didn’t know why Gendi stopped using that acceleration trick; they didn’t know she had the Devouring Authority.

They could call it theater, a stage blade instead of steel.

Maybe they feared Gendi in a cell carried a mission, a hidden fuse; so they killed him quick to cut variance.

That wasn’t impossible; the logic held water like a tight jar.

Her origin was hazy too; she’d claimed Luke Village, but Lev and Emongaha, high as mountains, would know who lived there.

From their angle, Lucimia was a problem, no, a gaping problem, a cracked bell in a silent hall.

Wait—a spark in dry grass.

After she helped catch Gendi, a memory bit like frost: a soldier urged her to collect the bounty at once.

Maybe they’d wanted to probe her right then, a hook under calm water.

“I should’ve seen it.” Lucimia palmed her head, a stone under a wave.

This wasn’t a show from her past life; this was iron and breath. You can’t treat them like NPCs; they think and suspect.

People in high seats aren’t fools; they’re foxes on ridges.

She’d made a mistake, staring at one tree and missing the forest, a moth circling one flame.

They’d marked her long ago, ink drying while she dawdled.

A grand rally made waves; how could Lucimia not know? Skipping the reward screamed wrong, like a drum off-beat.

You take down cultists of a Dark Deity, a hero by daylight, yet don’t claim coin—who wouldn’t raise a brow?

That’s a flag, bright as blood.

Even if she wasn’t a follower of the Plague God, she could be tied to another Dark Deity, snakes that bite each other.

In common eyes, Dark Deities clash; maybe she’d used the Independents to wipe the Plague Followers, killing wolves with tigers.

Either way, they’re all God-Adherents, all enemies to the Independents, a storm from any quarter.