Lucimia drifted closer, cat-soft, and swept every magic crystal off her. She turned them over one by one, moonlight on glass, and confirmed each Magic Array was carved as claimed.

Most crystals sang of Healing Magic, spring water in stone; a few bit with offense, flint and spark; none held illusion.

Maybe she had only one illusion to her name, a lone lantern in fog, but Lucimia’s doubt sat cold as iron.

And that made it stranger, a knot in wet rope.

The girl bled money, pearls on the floor—so many crystals, a Storage Ring to boot. Nobleborn, fallen house, a hunt in the dark? A coup?

She claimed she’d forgotten her name, wind blown from a slate—did she crack her head while fleeing and lose it?

Lucimia remembered Ment’s hand on the Empire’s high nobles, a net over a lake; maybe Rexi’s clan refused the leash and cast her loose.

No—what if that, too, was Ment’s bait, a hook under sweet fruit, a scripted past to make her trust Rexi?

Better to be thorny than soft. Don’t blame the armor; a guarded heart is rainproof canvas.

Lucimia stole the Healing Magic arrays with her eyes, needle and thread in memory, then handed the crystals back to Rexi.

At last, she could weave Healing Magic, a warm lamp in winter.

The arrays were knotted and encrypted, briars over runes, yet Lucimia used Devouring to tear the thorns and crack the lock.

She set her gaze back on Rexi. The girl blinked, owl-still, and muttered, “I answered. Put that thing down, okay? I won’t ask your name!”

Lucimia said nothing, winter in her eyes, and kept staring.

Rexi’s tale held together, boards on a raft, but Lucimia refused calm seas. She would Devour the girl’s memories and see if illusion saved her.

More than that, she’d try to kill Rexi, blade under silk, and use the Devouring Authority on her life. If Ment rode her, he’d flinch or flee. If nothing stirred as she killed, she’d use Reversion to pull the breath back. It wasn’t erasing existence.

With that thought, Lucimia moved, thunder before rain. While Rexi glanced away, an Ice Lance shot straight for her brow.

“Don’t kill me, don’t kill me! I’m a good person!” Rexi covered her face, a sparrow in hail. Then—Bang! A crisp crack rang through the cave.

It wasn’t Rexi casting; Lucimia’s spell had shattered like thin ice.

“??” Lucimia froze, snow-blind. She blinked at her empty hands, hesitated, and tried a Fireball Spell—then stalled. Nothing on her palms. Not a spark.

Magic didn’t answer. She couldn’t cast, a harp with snapped strings.

Her face sank like dusk. It felt like Lev’s Cross again, a cold brand that silenced her magic.

She grit her teeth and chose the Devouring Authority. Inky shadows poured from her body, night spill, and drowned the cave.

Eyes writhed in the dark like warped stars, whispering in swarms, and they wrapped Rexi from crown to heel.

Within that shroud, a hush spread like frost. The whispers called from the abyss, ancient and cold, and rang in her skull.

Fear crept onto Rexi’s face for the first time, winter finally biting skin.

“Devouring.” Lucimia’s voice fell like a reaper’s gavel into her ear.

Rexi’s consciousness snapped, a cut thread.

Lucimia killed Rexi, a candle pinched out, yet Ment didn’t surface. No resistance. No fleeing. No curse marks on the body.

It seemed unbound to Ment, a river not touching his shore.

Lucimia read her memories, pages wet with fear, and found Rexi had been hunted.

Black heavy-armored soldiers, night iron on hooves, called her a killer and moved to seize her.

In those reels, Rexi’s skill shone—she slipped every spell with footwork, a fox through briars, like a seasoned adventurer.

Then the captain charged on a lightning warhorse, storm under saddle. Rexi only turned and snapped her fingers, and the horse toppled. No magic glow. No Dark Deity taint. Nothing—like a war-steed spooked by a finger snap. Too strange.

Worse, Lucimia couldn’t read Rexi’s inner voice in that slice, a page torn out, so she didn’t know why.

The reel rolled on: she tripped Lucimia, saw the lightning lion, chose to run, then turned back to haul Lucimia up. Lucimia woke and saved her in turn.

She used an illusion crystal to fool the soldiers, bait on a line, drew them off, and dragged Lucimia into this cave.

On the face of it, nothing leaked.

Yet a seam showed. Rexi’s memory never showed the illusion taking hold, no mirror of their eyes. Still, the enemies did leave.

Fine. At a glance, that passes. You don’t need the ripple if the boat moved; you just see if they walked away.

But she had only one illusion to spend, a last arrow. Why loose it so casually? What if no one saw? The feeling sat wrong, nameless.

Maybe she was a fool blessed by luck, dice always six. Yet an adventurer that seasoned shouldn’t blunder like that.

Weird, yes, but likely not Ment. Lucimia turned to Reversion and chose to bring Rexi back.

Time rolled back like a tide, to the breath before the Ice Lance struck.

Sight settled. Lucimia pulled back the Ice Lance, let out a leaf-light sigh, and said, “Sorry. I had to learn if you were an enemy. And… thanks for saving me. My name is Lucimia. Lucimia Lancelot.”

Seconds pooled, and Rexi gave no answer, a bell with no tongue.

“Hm?” Lucimia lifted her head and looked at Rexi.

Terror flooded Rexi’s pupils, oil on water. She stared at Lucimia like a nightmare unmasked. Her pupils pinched to needles. The impish glint was gone—only cold rigidity, as if endless darkness had swallowed her.

“Hey? Rexi?” Lucimia waved a hand, a leaf in the wind.

“Ah… I’m here!” At her name, Rexi came back, color to a statue. She crossed her arms, tilted her chin, and declared, proud as a cat, “Told you. I’m a total good person. No way I’m your enemy…”

As she spoke, she cracked one eye, a fox peeking from brush, to check Lucimia’s face.

Seeing no attack in Lucimia’s stance, she let her breath go, a bow unstrung.