The village chief paused, his breath hanging like mist, and lifted his gaze to the two girls.

Lucimia knew what he meant, like reading ripples on a pond: don’t prey on his people or their animals.

She nodded, quick as a sparrow dipping to water, her agreement clean and calm.

“Don’t worry about that,” Desty said, her hand cutting the air like a willow leaf.

“That’s good,” the chief said, voice low as a drum in dusk. “But please wait a moment while I inform everyone.”

“No problem,” Lucimia replied, her words ringing like a small bell under the eaves.

The chief turned to a youth with a hoe balanced like a shoulder pole. “Wang Er, spread the word: two Bloodkin, nobles, will stay awhile. Don’t be rude.”

“Okay, okay,” the lad blurted, then jogged off, his hoe bouncing and dust rising like moths in sunlight.

“Alright, please follow me,” the chief said, setting off along a path like a brown ribbon through grass. “We’ll walk slowly.”

Lucimia and Desty shared a glance, thin as silk drawn taut, then followed the villagers toward the heart of the village.

Word of two Bloodkin girls flew through Wasan Village like wind through ripe grain, quick and breathless.

As Lucimia and Desty stepped in, heads popped from doorways like gourds over fences, eyes skittering like dragonflies across a pond.

“It’s really black hair—so pretty, and skin like porcelain under moonlight,” someone whispered, the awe bright as dew.

“Look at those little fangs—are they tiger teeth? So cute, and they’re so small; they must be young,” another said, curiosity buzzing like bees at clover.

“Hey, they’re Bloodkin nobles,” an older voice snapped, firm as a bamboo rod. “Don’t be rude, and don’t judge age by looks.”

“Bloodkin may be older than your great-grandpa,” he added, voice cool as shade. “Mind your tongue.”

“Right, right,” the young men muttered, their mouths closing like clams, their bodies still as fence posts.

Guilt pricked Lucimia like nettles in fog as the gossip swirled, the word Bloodkin beating against her ears like rain on tiles.

She feared the Bloodkin might have a way, like falcons in cloud, to see through her disguise and come for debts later.

She breathed out, letting the thought drift like a leaf, and turned her eyes to the village, searching for any hint of the Cross.

The village straddled a river like a silver ribbon, with their group on the right bank among homes cupped like hands.

Courtyards held life—chickens, ducks, cattle—moving like stitched patches on a quilt under sun.

To the left, fields rolled like a green sea, and some folk kept hoeing, iron teeth biting earth in steady rhythm.

Lucimia studied the farmland and saw scars—stalks drooping like broken reeds, rows knocked down in crooked waves, soil flipped like torn scales.

At the outer edge, men raised sharpened stakes, a bristling hedge like thorns against a dark wood.

To the far right stood a well, a stone mouth like a cool eye for those far from the river’s reach.

They walked a while, their steps ticking like beads, and stopped at the village’s edge before an empty wooden hut.

The hut was plain, a swallow’s nest of boards, yet better built than most, with a neighbor’s yard peppered with posts like ribs.

Knife marks chewed those posts, pale scars like clawed bark under morning light.

“That’s for a Swordmaster’s training,” Desty murmured, her voice thin as a reed flute.

“So the neighbor’s a Swordmaster,” Lucimia said, her thought settling like dust on a blade.

“Mm,” Desty answered, short and soft as a nodding leaf.

“This is it,” the chief said, patting the frame like a steady ox. “Our best empty house.”

“The man hunted and never returned, like a shadow swallowed by trees, and his family left like migrating swallows.”

“Thank you,” Lucimia said, her courtesy smooth as still water; she could see the joinery sat tighter than most.

She was about to step in when the chief lingered, words fluttering at his lips like moths around a lamp.

“What is it?” she asked, her tone calm, her eyes blinking like shutters against sun.

“Cough,” the chief rasped, nerves scratching like dry reeds. “Um… how should I put this…”

He looked up at Lucimia, his gaze like a wary bird testing wind.

“You can speak plainly,” Lucimia said, her patience steady as a stone.

He wiped sweat, the sheen like rain on bark, then braced himself. “We’ve been under monster attacks.”

“This house faces their route like a wound on the skin, and the other side gets some too, but most come here.”

“So… would you consider helping us hold them off?” he asked, hope trembling like a lantern in night.

Lucimia’s brow drew tight like a pulled bowstring as the request settled.

She weighed it—lodging offered, a small favor like lifting a fallen branch—and nodded in agreement.

Relief untied the chief like a loosened knot, and he thanked them before leaving, his figure bending away like a reed in wind.

As they walked off, Lucimia caught scraps of talk drifting like smoke from a cooking fire.

“Chief, can they handle monsters? They look like kids,” someone murmured, doubt small as a sparrow.

“Fool,” the chief snapped, sharp as a snapped twig. “They’re Bloodkin; don’t use common measures on them.”

“They came out of that forest like travelers from a black sea, so they’ve got skill,” he added, certainty firm as rock.

“That makes sense,” the man said, his agreement soft as moss.

Lucimia watched until the chief and his escort faded like swallows into cloud, then tugged Desty inside, closing the door like dusk swallowing light.

Most things were gone, the room bare as a winter field, leaving only a big bedboard like a waiting raft.

Even that felt good to Lucimia, comfort spreading like warm tea; at least she could lie down and stretch her legs like a cat in sun.

Sitting on the plank, Desty spoke first, her words dropping like pebbles into a well. “Lucimia, I didn’t find any likely place for the Cross.”

“Every house had people stirring like startled fish, so maybe it’s in a basement,” she said, doubt circling like mist.

“Mm…” Lucimia thought, her mind coiling like incense smoke, then said, “Maybe the chief’s basement.”

“Ment holds the empire’s voice like a scepter, so he might have placed the Cross there as a ‘blessing’ talisman and told the chief to guard it.”

“Or the villagers never knew, and Ment slipped it in like a thief in fog,” she added, caution cooling like evening.

“And one more thing,” she said, the warning rising like a storm edge.

“What?” Desty asked, her eyes bright and round as glass beads.

“We have to worry about Ment’s puppets,” Lucimia said, unease crawling like ants under skin. “Let’s treat this run as doomed and plan to reset.”

“We’re fooling outsiders as Bloodkin, but Ment, riding a puppet, will know our faces like ink on paper.”

“He might curse us, quiet as black thorns in grass, so stay wary of everyone,” she said, her voice firm as knotted rope.

“And don’t eat their food,” she finished, the rule hard as iron, bait glinting like honey in a trap.