Abiao died, his life draining like a red river from a cracked vessel.

News spread through the village like wind through reeds; shock struck like a thunderclap, yet his own confession settled like dust after rain.

Men who’d grown up beside him, their dislike long simmering, flared like sparks; boots thumped like drums, before hands hauled them back like nets.

Silence lowered over the village like a gray fog; stillness pooled like a cold pond at dusk.

Aili’s small voice chimed like a bell, a pebble breaking still water, waking faces from that hushed frost.

“Um… since the culprit’s caught, why don’t we hold a victory feast…?”

Aili was young, a sapling with thin shade; Abiao was just a name, a rumor like mist, and grief was a mountain she couldn’t see.

She only knew they’d won, a knot loosened like a released kite string, and victory should bloom like lanterns in the night.

Old habits clung like burrs; heads rose slowly like sunflowers, eyes flicking like startled sparrows, nobody sure where to land.

At last, the village found its voice, stammering like a cold engine. “Uh… right, a victory feast is due. The beasts are gone. And we should thank the two Bloodkin ladies.”

“…Yeah, that’s fair,” someone murmured, like a small fire catching on dry twigs.

“I’ll butcher my chicken, brew a pot of soup, warm everyone up,” another said, hands already moving like steady millstones.

“Good, good, I’ll help,” a third replied, their steps rising like grain under wind.

They shook off their tangled feelings like wet cloaks, stood up together, and set to work like ants after rain.

“Aili, please invite the two Bloodkin ladies,” the village chief said, his voice steady like a walking stick. “You’ve spoken with them—tell them we want to thank them.”

“Mm!” Aili nodded, bright as a sparrow, and darted toward Lucimia and Desty’s lodging like a quick stream.

Inside, Lucimia moved like a shadow, went straight to the table, sat, and propped her chin on one hand like a weary statue.

Her sigh slipped out like a thin wind; her gaze drifted to the window, where daylight thinned like pale silk, and she said nothing.

Desty felt the mood tilt like a boat in sudden chop; she reached for distraction like a tossed rope. “Next… should we look for the Cross?”

“Uh… right, we still need to find the Cross,” Lucimia said, the thought arriving late like a bird off schedule.

Desty knew then something was wrong; Lucimia’s mind was usually sharp as a blade, and forgetting this felt like a dulled edge.

And Desty herself walked heavy, her heart pricked like a bramble; she didn’t want to face it, so she wrapped care around Lucimia like a shawl.

Lucimia stood, duty tugging like a hidden tide, and headed for the door to search for the Cross.

Knuckles tapped the wood like light rain. “Big sisters, can I come in?” Aili’s voice hovered like a sparrow on the eaves.

Lucimia drew the wooden door open; the girl’s face lifted like a sunflower, eyes bright as glass beads.

“Big sister! The village chief sent me to invite you to tonight’s victory feast! We want to thank you, and someone can play a wooden zither.”

Lucimia’s dull eyes met Aili’s shining ones, two lakes under different skies.

One second, two, three; time hung like a held breath.

Lucimia closed her eyes like shutters, sighed like night wind, and opened them again. “I’m not going.”

“Eh—?” Aili’s surprise popped like a bubble. “Why?”

“I don’t want to,” Lucimia said, turning her face away like a cloud refusing the sun.

It wasn’t desire that stopped her; it was guilt like iron on the chest, the sense she was the storm that broke their roofs.

“That’s it.” She pushed the door, closing it like a lid on simmering thoughts.

Desty sprang forward like a cat, catching the doorframe like a root, holding the swing shut before it sealed.

“What are you doing?” Lucimia’s voice cooled like water over stone.

“Ah, I think we should go take a look,” Desty said, forcing cheer like bright paint. “Change the mood, and we can, you know, look around.”

Lucimia said nothing, her gaze steady like winter stars, and the quiet pressed like snow.

“Don’t look at me like that… it’s a little scary,” Desty laughed, thin as paper. “Anyway, it’s decided. Let’s go.”

She slipped an arm around Lucimia’s slim waist like a bold vine, tugging her closer like a playful wave.

Lucimia had never been touched there; the spot lit like a struck nerve, and she startled, pushing Desty away like a sudden gust. “I’ll go—just don’t put your hands on me!”

“…O-okay,” Desty said, wiping sweat like dew off her brow.

The villagers’ gratitude was honest, simple as bread; it came in waves like summer wind, carrying warmth that tried to thaw the night.

Each person thanked them, voices like lanterns in a row, asking if Bloodkin could eat these treats, or drink wine, or have fruit juice.

Lucimia declined softly, her words like folded letters, and she raised small flames with magic, kindling their fires like sparks under dry bark.

After that, they played and sang, their customs unfurling like river banners, trying to praise and to chase away the heavy shadow of Abiao.

Lucimia sat in silence beside Desty, the bonfire painting her face like amber, but she didn’t step into the ring of laughter.

“I’ll walk alone. Don’t follow,” she said, the words dropping like stones, and she rose without looking back.

She wandered through the lively lanes, lamps strung like stars, voices bubbling like a hot spring in winter.

People gathered at their doorsteps like clusters of grapes, eating, listening, joking, and they thanked her as she passed like a drifting cloud.

Lucimia gave no reply, wearing silence like a veil, and turned her ear to the threads of talk with a stranger’s calm.

“The monsters are gone—thank the heavens,” said a young couple, hope rising like dawn. “We won’t move now. We can set our wedding date.”

“Mm, mm,” the girl said, relief settling like warm tea. “We can go back to steady days.”

“Dad! Next year I’m old enough,” a boy burst out like a rocket. “I want to study sword at the academy, then join the army!”

“Hahaha, good!” his father boomed, pride swelling like a full sail. “You’ve got spirit, son. I’m with you!”

“My sweet girl, your birthday’s next month,” a mother asked, her voice soft as cotton. “What gift do you want?”

“I want… um… everyone safe,” the child said, her wish floating like a paper crane.

“Hahaha, good, good, everyone safe,” the mother replied, laughter bright as chimes.

Lucimia watched them all, taking the scenes in like ink soaking paper, and walked on as the feast painted futures like bright murals.

She could warn them about what was coming, a storm of claws like a dark tide, and she could stop the rat swarm before it struck.

But she didn’t, and she couldn’t; necessity bound her like a red thread, tight as fate on a loom.

She had to ensure the swarm fed Nirael with enough power, like a thundercloud filling, to face Ment and break Ment’s design.