The villagers before them hurled accusations at Lucimia and Desty, voices like thrown stones rippling a dark pond. Seeing Lucimia hold her hand, their boldness swelled like a tide.

"Why won’t you speak? Guilty, huh?" Their words pricked like thorns.

"Don’t think being nobles lets you run wild in the Empire. We’ll tell the city. They’ll send men to seize you." The threat rose like cold iron.

Weariness settled like dusk in Lucimia’s chest. She shook her head like a wind-brushed willow, drew a steady breath, and said, "We stayed inside all night. The sentries can testify. We had no time to sneak out and feed."

"Hmph. Who knows what tricks Bloodkin use to slip past our sentries?" the big man snapped, eyes like dull lanterns in fog. "We’re just ordinary folk. You even wield magic."

Calm as still water, Lucimia pressed on. "How far is Chef Maren from here?" Her question dropped like a pebble into a well.

"How far… roughly at the far side of the village." His mind hooked at something like a fish beneath ice, yet he couldn’t haul it up.

"You said Chef Maren’s at the far end," she said, guiding him like leading a horse by the reins. "Next question. Last night the sentries were young people. Many stayed home. Some were alone, right?"

"Right. So what?"

"Then why would I ignore prey right by me and choose the farthest?" Her words glinted like a hunter’s arrow.

"That could be deliberate," the man muttered, rubbing his brow. "You ran far so you can claim you wouldn’t go there. You’re making excuses."

"Fine, let’s continue." She kept her temper, voice cool as frost. "Chef Maren’s bite marks—how wide between the two punctures?" She parted her lips, showing two small fangs like white thorns. "Is that spacing the same as mine?"

Memory drifted back over him like a cold wind. He recalled the morning corpse: two holes at Maren’s neck, about a fork’s width apart. The girl’s fangs sat no wider than two pea pods. Not the same.

A hiss slid from his teeth like a cut reed. "Now you mention it, the spacing’s different."

"Different? Did any of you notice?" Voices fluttered behind him like sparrows.

"I saw it. It wasn’t the same."

"So maybe it wasn’t them. Then who?"

"Hold on. There are two of them," someone shot back, words like smoke. "What if each used one tooth? A trick to fool us."

A murmur circled thin as mist. "Right. Not impossible."

The big man felt the crowd’s tide shift; doubt ebbed, then stubbornness rose like stone. He echoed the last claim. "You two could each bite a spot. One each. You’re still lying. Think we’re fools?"

Lucimia blinked, stunned like a cat hearing thunder. She’d never imagined that. In her lore, Bloodkin fed with both fangs; one tooth wouldn’t draw a river.

A dull fog pressed at her temples; annoyance pooled like rain. Suspicion pricked—was this big man, or that nimble voice, the masked man?

She dropped the gentle tone. Her voice rang like a bright bell, edged and young. "You’re hopelessly dense!"

The villagers froze, their words falling like seeds into still soil.

"Use your heads. If I attacked and fed, why leave the body there?" Her gaze sparked like flint. "Why not erase the corpse? Why not throw him to the forest?" The woods waited like a mouth of mist. "You claim Bloodkin have special skills. Then sending him into the trees would be easy."

Lucimia bristled like an angry kitten, words spilling like beads from a snapped string.

The villagers startled, breath snagging like nets on a rock. Her points stacked like stones; now the path looked clear. A killer had no reason to leave the corpse in place.

Such a foe could even wipe out the village; they wouldn’t stand here trading words under the sun.

They realized grief had fogged their minds. They’d rushed in at the sight of two neat punctures and skipped the details.

The big man scrubbed his scalp like brushing off ash. He felt his own impulsiveness. The Bloodkin before him had been restrained from the start, hardly a murderer’s stance.

Yet another question rose like smoke. Why did Chef Maren die?

He weighed the girl’s strength—steel under silk—and her mind, a blade wrapped in velvet. He wanted her help, but shame tugged his tongue. He set down his knife, wiped sweat on his trouser leg, and scratched his head. "Sorry. Looks like we misunderstood. I apologize."

"I don’t accept." Lucimia folded her arms and turned aside, a crescent of frost.

So they listen only when scolded? Speak softly and they ignore you?

"Please… how can we earn your forgiveness?" His voice dimmed like evening. "We’d like your help to find why Maren died." He bowed, awkward as a plow in mud.

Lucimia watched his sincerity like a lantern in mist. A small ripple moved in her heart, uneasy as autumn wind. She feared the village’s fate might shift because she had walked in.

Thoughts drifted like leaves. She sighed and set her resolve like a stone. She would help. She would see this through.

"Alright. I was joking. I’m the one who should apologize. I’ll find the cause, with or without your plea."

"Thank you!" He didn’t know why she apologized, but gratitude rose like warm steam.

Lucimia nodded lightly, a willow tip touching water.

Even after scolding them, a thorn of doubt pressed on her. Why had the masked man left the body at the scene?

At first glance the question looked odd, a crab walking sideways. Study it, and gaps yawn like cracks in ice.

If the masked man meant to smear Lucimia and drive her out, this frame was childish. He could point at the corpse to accuse; she could point at the same corpse to clear her name. The effort would melt like frost.

Was the man truly that foolish, a clumsy lie that breaks on touch?

Lucimia never underestimated anyone. So she believed he had other aims, hidden like a knife up a sleeve.