Night fell fast on the first day, like ink poured over rooftops. To keep Ment from sniffing her out, Lucimia never stepped outside. She holed up in the inn's cellar, like a fox in a burrow.

Food wasn't a problem; Pete from the tavern would bring it like a warm breeze. Or she'd draw it from her Storage Ring, like winter stores kept in a chest.

At the same time, Nirael had handed Lucimia six glass vials, green liquid sloshing like swamp light. Call it venom. It's meant to taint the Cross, a stain like mold on marble. Something of Nirael's origin energy glimmered inside, like coals under moss. Lucimia didn't understand it, but the weight felt precious as jade.

There were five contamination points, yet Nirael gave six. A margin for error, like an extra oar on a storm boat. She slid them into her Storage Ring, cold glass kissing metal.

Lucimia also sent the Fuzzy Orb burrowing into Nirael, like a silkworm into bark. They'd agreed on that before the Reversion, a thread laid in advance.

Word drifted in from outside like wind under a door. Patrols flooded the streets, steel boots ticking like hail. Some soldiers probed about Lucimia's Magic Array, needles under silk. Ment had clearly cast his net, wide as a river delta.

Emongaha even made a public announcement, loud as a bell in the square. To reward the self-made mage, they wanted her at the barracks for honor and praise.

It read like Ment's olive branch, a silken snare. Lucimia never planned to go, resolve hard as frost.

The thought came cold first, like frost on glass. In a few days, he'd sense her refusal, like smoke bearing news. Then he'd come hard, pulling out his trump card like a hidden blade.

Lucimia sat at the desk, pen scratching like a cricket. She sketched guesses of Ment's trump cards, castles in cloud. Then she slashed them out one by one, like leaves falling. The ideas ran wild, stallions over the sky. Unless Ment wanted a deathmatch, he wouldn't use such mad methods.

"Forget it. Rest," she breathed, voice like a candle guttering. Night outside had deepened, a velvet curtain. She chose to stick to her plan, a path like a thread through reeds. She also unfurled the Devouring Authority, a black umbrella in strange rain. She wouldn't let Ment seal her abilities in some unknown way, a trap like thin ice.

The night passed dreamless, like a lake without ripples.

Lucimia woke with cool clarity, like dawn on stone. She checked and felt Ment still hadn't found her shadow.

"Morning," Nirael greeted, his voice thin as reed wind. The little mouse had spent the night perched on the desk, circling like a watchman.

"Morning," Lucimia answered, warmth like steam rising. She glanced at Desty, still sprawled on the bed, snoring softly like a kitten.

Let her sleep, she thought, the kindness a soft blanket. There was nothing urgent now, a sea at low tide.

After washing, she settled back at the desk, calm pooling like water in a basin.

She had nothing else to do, emptiness like a room of dust motes. She could only wait for the believers to finish absorbing energy, then self-detonate to gather the worms. Bored stiff, she formed a water orb in her palm, moonlight in a well. She shifted it into a Fireball Spell, a red ember sun. Then she cooled it into an ice sphere, a bright frost pearl.

With nothing better, she honed her magic like a blade on whetstone.

"Your casting rhythm's smooth," Nirael said, eyes like flints catching light. "Smoother than some mages I've seen. Which academy did you graduate from?"

Heat touched her cheeks first, like a shy dawn. "Uh..." Lucimia paused, words tiptoeing like mice. "I... taught myself."

Nirael fell silent, the pause hanging like mist.

"Do you do magic?" Lucimia asked, curiosity fluttering like a sparrow.

"I don't," he said, the answer flat as a stone.

"Oh... Folks in the Bannubi Empire don't use much magic?" she asked, the question drifting like smoke.

"Yeah," Nirael said, words steady as drumbeats. "There are a few top mages, though," he said, tone even as rain. "That high wall, and the sensing Magic Array in the sky?" "A Ninth Rank Mage made them, crafts clean as cut stone." "Among common folk, few use magic. At most, a handful can cast the Fireball Spell, sparks in the dark." "But the Empire's got many a Swordmaster," he went on, voice steady as hooves. "Beasts prowl around and within the borders like winter wolves." "Someone has to cull them, blades flashing like moonlight." "Magic eats resources like a hungry furnace." "Ordinary families can't feed it, so they choose the sword, lean and enduring."

"I see," Lucimia said, her nod light as falling ash.

"The Sword Saint of the First Era hailed from the Bannubi Empire," Nirael added, pride gleaming like steel.

"'Sword Saint of the First Era?'" Lucimia frowned, her ignorance a small shadow.

"You don't know?" Nirael blinked, surprise like a pebble in a pond. "Forget it, I can tell you a bit now." "In the First Era, a world-spanning war swept the globe like wildfire." "Among those who fought were the Sword Saint, and... Olivya."

"Olivya?" she echoed, the name tasting like snow.

"Mm," he hummed, the sound small as a bee.

"Who exactly is Olivya?" she asked, curiosity rising like tide. "What did she do?" she pressed, breath bright as sparks. "And that war—what sparked it? A Dark Deity?"

"I'll tell you later," Nirael said, drawing a curtain like nightfall.

"Tch..." Lucimia clicked her tongue, annoyance a tiny spark.

A knock tapped the cellar door, knuckles like rain on wood. Lucimia knew it was Gendi, certainty snug as a glove. Last night, Pete had promised a signature dish for her to try, and Gendi would deliver it. Seemed it was ready now, heat arriving like dawn.

What would it be? The question fluttered like a ribbon. She stood to open the door, then thought better of it and sat back. She wrapped metal with magic, twisting the lock like ivy around iron. Gendi heard the click, a crisp bead of sound, and pushed the door open.

As the door swung, a rich aroma spilled in like sunrise, and her appetite leapt like a fish.

Gendi held a tray in both hands, a careful altar. Three bowls sat on it, steam coiling like white serpents.

"What is it?" she asked, voice bright as a bell.

"Uh... tomato clam seafood soup," Gendi said, setting the tray on the desk with care, like placing hot coals.

"Just made. Pete used the inn's kitchen, and sent me straight here," he added, words tumbling like pebbles.

He never met Lucimia's eyes, gaze skittering like a mouse. He didn't wait for her answer, and he jogged out like a breeze.

"This..." The thanks stuck like honey on her tongue.

She shook her head, a small wave, and looked at the soup. The surface was red as sunset, studded with plump clams. She dipped a ladle, stirring up onions, diced chilies, and bits of shrimp like coral.

She blew on it, breath a small cloud, and sipped. The sea's freshness rolled in, the tomato's sweet-sour sang, the chilies pricked like sparks. Something else made the broth deep, like a hidden spring.

"So good," Lucimia murmured, praise blooming like a flower.

"Of course. It's a specialty of the Bannubi Empire," Nirael said, pride warm as sunlight.

After two more sips, she smiled, the curve soft as willow. "I feel the Empire excels at all kinds of soups, huh?"

"Yep," Nirael said, certainty steady as a hearth. "It's colder here by nature. Hot soup warms the bones, so many folks love it."

"Wine works too," Lucimia said, the joke light as foam.

"You drink?" Nirael asked, interest flickering like a wick.

"No... I don't. I probably get drunk too easily," she said, popping a clam, the bite briny as tide. "Tasty."

"Right? I love it too," Nirael said, longing drifting like smoke. "I hope these good foods endure, like songs over hills." "But if Ment seizes the Empire, and the masses become puppets, no one will make them again." "Kitchens will go cold, like winter fields."

"Mm..." Lucimia hummed, the sound a low tide.

"So I have to stop Ment—no," Nirael's voice sharpened like drawn steel, "I have to kill Ment." His eyes kept burning red, twin coals in the dusk.