The well-kitted carriage made Lucimia’s heart pinch like a slashed purse.

She had no income, only a deep but finite coffer; spend nonstop, and it dries like a summer creek.

She’d meant to grab one or two plain horses, make do, maybe lose one on the road like a leaf in a gale.

She hadn’t expected so much craft hidden in leather and hooves, like knots in old wood.

For a getaway, strength and stamina had to pass muster; a timid temper spooks like a startled hare.

The horse needed a healthy layer of fat, and its hooves needed guarding, like ships needing hulls before a storm.

Add it all up, and you’re basically buying a top-grade mount, with a price that bites like frost.

There were cheaper horses, but they were plow-steadies, good for grain wagons, not running for the horizon.

So Lucimia began to cherish her first horse, holding it close in mind like a lamp in fog.

She had spent so much; she couldn’t let it die like a candle in wind. She wanted it with her when she went home.

And yes, she’d better have Desty teach her to ride, or the money was a banquet she couldn’t taste.

“Honestly, we’d be faster without a carriage,” Desty said on the way back, voice like a flicked blade. “Shame you can’t ride.”

Lucimia shot her a look, cool as moonlight on water, and said nothing.

They hauled the carriage into the inn’s back yard, shadows pooling like ink in a bowl.

Once she saw no eyes on them, Lucimia used the Disguise Power, turning the two horses into two cats, soft as dusk.

She turned the carriage into a simple plank, then tucked it into her Storage Ring like a pebble in a well.

For the umpteenth time, she sighed over Elyssus’s Authority Power, the way one sighs before an altar flame.

She had lost count; the best part of the Disguise Power was this—its disguises were real, not smoke or mirage.

After, she picked up a few branches and dressed them as a carriage, like bones covered in silk.

She posed as a merchant and led the “horses” toward a trade ship, her steps steady as a drumbeat.

If the act was exposed later, it would be smoke in wind; she’d be long gone like a swallow over eaves.

With that done, she and Desty slipped back into the basement, quiet as snow.

Nirael lay over the table with eyes like burning coals; he opened them when they came. “I think we can begin.”

“Do we?” Lucimia sat, calm as a lake at dawn. “Let’s confirm the plan one more time.”

“First, I make the fake Gene self-detonate,” she said, laying pieces like stones on a Go board.

“The fake worms and rats spill toward the woods left of the wall, like a pest tide running downhill.”

“Because the other Plague Followers we sacrificed were replaced by Fuzzy Orbs, we send those stand-ins to the grove to blow as well.”

“That way we paint a left-side assault, a shadow move on the chessboard.”

Nirael nodded, slow as a pendulum. “Meanwhile, we hit the right. While the left explodes, the right-side worms will already be gathered.”

“They’ll be ready to spew venom, like vipers in a crevice.”

“Right,” Lucimia said. “I’ll run left. When Ment sees me, he’ll chase left, like fire chasing oil.”

“I’ll leave using the Teleportation Magic we set up beforehand, a door in the dark.”

“While I draw Ment’s eye, let the Fuzzy Orb carry poison and foul the Black Cross. Nothing infiltrates better than that fluff.”

“Good. I’ll bring Gendi back. Let’s prep the battle plan,” Nirael said, voice low as a drum in fog.

Gendi returned, and Nirael briefed him, words neat as folded letters.

He left out the feint. Lucimia felt no need to share it; once she teleported, the pattern would reveal itself like dawn.

Night rolled in like spilled ink.

Nirael’s energy brimmed like a rising tide, enough to gather giant worms from the dark soil.

The pace had quickened by a full day; tonight was the strike, an arrow nocked at the string.

Desty put on her deep-blue armor again; steel gleamed like a clear sky after rain.

She buckled on a new longsword and tossed her red hair back like a lash of flame. “I’m ready.”

“Mm.” Lucimia nodded, calm as snowfall.

She changed as well. A black top with fine silver fringe, starlight sewn into night.

A hint of collarbone drew a perfect line, like a brushstroke on silk.

She paired it with a black skirt and calf-wrapping boots, the hem swaying like reeds in a breeze.

It showed just enough long leg to carry both elegance and girlish spring.

A simple touch of makeup lifted her features, a blossom outlined by dew.

She tilted her head slightly; her smooth hair spilled over her shoulder like a dark waterfall.

She wore an air of elegance and mystery, like moonlight behind thin clouds.

Desty whistled. “Why so pretty? Got a date?” Her tone teased like a cat’s paw.

Lucimia gave her a side-eye, cool as a shaded stream. “Just changing. I can’t keep wearing the old one. It’s filthy, and this is low-key.”

“Oh.” Desty nodded. “I only have this light armor. It guards better, like a shell on a turtle.”

A knock tapped the door, quick as rain on tiles. Gendi’s voice came through. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Lucimia answered. “Let’s move.”

Four people and one mouse took the stairs, their steps beating like a quiet drum.

They went down from the third floor to the first, each landing a held breath.

“Front door or back?” Desty asked, head tilted like a hawk.

“I—”

“I suggest the back,” Gendi cut in, fast as a knife. “There are lots of patrols at the front.”

Lucimia shot him a small look, a thin blade under a smile.

His thought matched hers, so she let it pass like a wave under a bridge and nodded.

“Alright. We go,” Lucimia said, taking point like a lantern on a pole.

She pushed open the back door’s small panel and stepped out, one foot like a pebble touching a pond.

The instant her right foot landed, the ground split with a sapphire Magic Array, blooming like an icy flower.

Lucimia’s pupils tightened, cold as a drawn bow.

“Guard your heads!” she shouted, voice ringing like a bell through fog.

Magic burst off her like a storm-tide, blasting the others clear of the array’s bite.

The Magic Array locked into place, lines knitting like frost on glass.

Visible Frost erupted, a white blast blooming like winter lightning.

A bone-chilling wind swept half the inn, scouring wood and air like knives.

The Frost condensed fast, bright and merciless.

Boom!

A pillar of Frost speared the sky, an ice lance from earth to cloud, entombing Lucimia in its heart.

Flung clear, Desty rolled twice across the ground like a tossed log, then sprang up, fear sharp as hail. “Lucimia!”

The pillar held, unyielding as a glacier. Desty slashed twice; two white arcs flew like gulls—

They froze midair into rime, falling uselessly like brittle leaves.

“So strong…” Desty rubbed her arms, heat fleeing her skin like steam in winter.

The column lasted an age, a frozen hourglass, before it slowly ebbed like a receding tide.

When it thinned, they finally saw Lucimia within, carved by cold into an ice statue.

She couldn’t move a finger; the cold bound her like chains.

A tap could shatter her, a flower made of glass; shattered meant dead.

“Lucimia…” Desty stared, disbelief crawling like ants under her skin. Lucimia had been caught that cleanly?

Who? Whose hand set this snare, like silk laid under leaves?

How did they know our position, like hunters reading tracks in dew?

How did they lay the trap while we noticed nothing, like a net cast in moonlight?