Unmoved, the adjutant leaned back a notch, his knuckles drumming the table like a judge’s gavel.

Because we found Dark Deity cultists in your inn, like rot beneath your floorboards.

Found in my inn? That’s your reason? The innkeeper laughed in anger, steam hissing like a kettle. He shook his head like a pendulum and spoke.

I’m a plain man, a blade of grass in the crowd; how do I spot Dark Deity cultists at my door?

Instead of casting nets over minnows like me, go chase the real Plague Followers, like wolves on a fresh scent.

For all you know, this is their smoke screen, ash thrown in your eyes like windblown sand.

He had a point, and the adjutant nodded once, like a stone tipping in a stream.

You’re right, he said, but we leave no suspicious fish slipping our net, not even a silver scale.

So you’ll stay here for now, like winter shut behind shutters, and cooperate.

If you’re cleared as not a Plague Follower, we’ll compensate you, like coin laid on a scale.

He rose, turned, and drew a thumb across his throat toward Lev, a cold knife of a gesture.

Lev was silent for a few heartbeats, his voice cooling like quenched steel: Lock him up first.

Yes, the adjutant answered, the word falling like a nail.

They marched the innkeeper to his cell, boots thudding like drums, then their footsteps ebbed like a tide.

When the soldiers were gone, two girls’ silhouettes bloomed by the iron door like ink on rice paper.

They were Lucimia and Desty, two swallows alighting on a cold eave.

So scary, Desty whispered, patting her chest like a sparrow beating its wings; we tailed them right under their noses.

Indeed, Lucimia breathed, her words a thin thread of frost.

They had hidden behind Lev the whole time, still as stones in a river.

The more you dread meeting someone, the more fate drags them to you like a magnet in sand.

To keep Lev from noticing, they used an Invisibility Spell to approach, then turned into sand, then shed the veil.

Even if Lev saw, it would be fine, like fog over a mask; he can pierce invisibility, not disguise.

They learned that in their fight, a lesson carved like a scar; otherwise he’d have hunted them like a hound.

He wouldn’t have lost a hand to the Fuzzy Orb, which had disguised itself as a wooden chair, like a spider as bark.

By the way, did you see Lev’s hand, Lucimia asked, her voice pricking like a thorn.

I did, Desty said; he looked vain, staring at his own hand like a mirror.

Lucimia winced inside, a ripple over still water, remembering Desty didn’t know the Fuzzy Orb had devoured his hand.

She had just watched Lev’s right hand; the one devoured had somehow grown back, like spring grass after frost.

Shock flared first, heat behind her ribs, then the questions marched in like ants.

What did he use, she thought, the thought circling like a hawk.

By rights, that hand was gone for good, like a branch lopped clean.

There’s no Healing Magic caster in town, only herbs to stanch blood, like moss over a cut stone.

Even with Healing Magic, you can’t regrow a limb; that takes true regeneration, a miracle like rain on dead wood.

Forget it, she told herself, the words a damp cloth; business first.

She released Desty’s wrist, the grip unwinding like a vine, and stepped to the iron door.

She drew a Magic Array and set down the Fuzzy Orb, each motion smooth as brushstrokes.

Done, Lucimia said, clapping once, like dust off the hands.

That was fast, Desty said; do we hunt others while we watch, like owls and sentries?

Yes, Lucimia nodded, her chin dipping like a leaf.

She didn’t leave at once; instead she stood before the iron door, thoughts pooling like ink.

Could I use the Fuzzy Orb’s Devouring to eat the innkeeper’s memories, like a tide swallowing footprints?

If he is one, we end him like snuffing a lamp; if not, use Reversion and return what we took.

That could work, the idea glowed like a coal.

But how to phrase it, she wondered, words slipping like fish.

Too broad, and it runs wild like floodwater; too narrow, and you miss the key like a needle lost.

Devour this man’s memories of yesterday, she framed, a line drawn between mountain and grain.

It sat between macro and micro, a bit forced, but acceptable, like a shoe that almost fits.

All right, she decided, the whisper a nod; she let the Fuzzy Orb out to sip yesterday.

Up came images: waking, eating, serving guests, sleeping, reading smutty books, like beads on a dull abacus.

Eating, sleeping, serving, smut before bed, sleeping, like a wheel stuck in mud.

What is this, she thought, her brows knitting like gathered clouds.

Unwilling to quit, she shifted the net to today and the day before, like casting twice into the same pond.

The catch felt the same, dull and heavy, like silt.

Is he really not a Plague Follower?

Doubt cooled her chest like shade.

She almost called the Fuzzy Orb back, reflex tight as a fist, but caution held like a hand on the rein.

Let’s go, Lucimia told Desty, her voice a quiet bell.

Oh, okay, Desty said, nodding like a bobbing gourd.

They walked the street again, eyes roaming like lanterns, the road empty as a dried riverbed.

It was a stark contrast to the lively quarter earlier, like summer against winter.

Plague is terrifying, Lucimia breathed, the words misting like breath in frost.

Bang!

As she thought that, a side door slammed open, a figure flying out like a thrown sack.

He speared the ground face-first and slid, like a fish on wet boards.

It hurt to watch, pain pricking like pins.

What happened, Desty yelped, stepping back in long strides, like a foal skittering, to Lucimia’s side.

Lucimia turned and watched the man on the ground, slowly pushing up like a broken puppet.

His face was skinned and bloody, teeth bared, pain written there like claw marks.

Worse, his arms were blotched with bulging pustules, leaking white pus, like blisters on rotten bark.

Lucimia’s eyes widened a hair, a petal opening; he’s sick, she said, and drew Desty back a step.

The man clutched his face and rose, unsteady as a reed, when bedding and clothes hurled from inside hit him.

He toppled back, and his arm landed on a boil; it burst, oozing thick white mixed with bright red, like milk and wine.

Ahh, he hunched with pain, his face twisting like wet cloth, yet he bit down the scream.

A woman stepped out with wooden tongs, breath ragged like bellows, and flung the rest of the clothes, tongs and all.

Her eyes were cold with disgust, winter in a glance: I don’t want to be infected, so get out.

Wait, the man gasped, struggling to stand like a calf; give me one Mystic Return Smoke.

Why should I, she snapped; I still need them, and you’re dying, so let the living have the chance like sun to seeds.

That’s my purchase, he ground out, his words like grit, and I only need one; the rest are yours.

She said nothing, a shutter slamming like a gust; she knew she wasn’t right, but shut the door fast.

Ahhh, it hurts, the man wailed, dropping like a sack of grain.

Lucimia, Desty tugged her sleeve, the touch a small anchor.

Lucimia glanced at Desty, then at the man, and sighed, a leaf falling; I’ll try.

She had just stepped forward when the man stiffened, his eyes swelling like frogs’ eggs.

They bulged larger and larger, then—pop—the spheres burst.

Out of them crawled blood-red worms, braided together like wet threads.

Too late, Lucimia shook her head, the motion a slow bell, and flicked a Fireball Spell.

Flame took the worms and the pitiful man, a clean sweep like autumn fire through dry grass.