Seeing the leader bow his head, the crowd’s anger ebbed like a tide; the broke took mashed potatoes like pale mud, the better-off bought meat with coins clinking like rain.

Lucimia spotted the granny from before in the galley, her thoughts turning like a slow windmill; she didn’t buy meat, just carried that pale mash like a small hill.

Lucimia and Rexi stood aside like two shadows under an eave, watching the whole play unfold like a staged drama.

“Looks like cheating him out of one gold coin was too kind,” Lucimia said, her voice cool as shaded water.

“Yeah.” Rexi felt her guilt thaw like frost in sunlight, and Lucimia’s words fit like a lid on a jar.

The bearded man had a slick tongue like oiled rope; no wonder he sat in management, with tricks tucked up his sleeve like hidden knives.

He cried shortage first, then stirred guilt like silt in a river, then played the benevolent host, pulling prepared food like a rabbit from a hat, and charged for it.

He fattened both pockets and praise, like harvesting two fields with one sweep of the sickle.

If anyone still rose up, those guards would stride out like iron walls, waving “public safety” like a shield.

There were only a few ships on this route, a narrow bridge over a wide river; travelers had no path but theirs.

But one thorn pricked Lucimia’s mind like a briar: had the Kingdom of Sipan really declared war on the Bannubi Empire?

She meant to ask, and fate walked over like a cat: the bearded man came with two plates, ham like pink moons and melon like green boats.

He offered the plates to the two girls like tribute on a tray. “For you two—good work, standing guard at the back,” he said, smiling like creased water.

“Good work?” The realization dropped in Lucimia’s chest like a pebble in a well; he’d mistaken them for guards who kept quiet and held the rear.

Lucimia and Rexi traded a glance like two fireflies crossing in dusk.

Rexi didn’t hesitate; her hands flashed like sparrows, and she took both plates. “Alright then, we’ll take them,” she said, blunt as a pebble.

The bearded man smiled, a ripple that faded quickly, and turned to go like a leaf in a light wind.

“Wait,” Lucimia said, the word skipping out like a stone over water.

“This way… Bloodkin, anything else?” he asked, the title hanging like a red seal.

“Yeah… is it true the Kingdom of Sipan declared war on the Bannubi Empire?” Her voice moved like night wind under a door.

He paused, a knot tightening in the rope of his words, then spoke like distant thunder. “As far as I know, yes. No fighting yet. My merchant friend in the Kingdom says they’re mobilizing, declaring war on Bannubi. The reason given is revenge.”

“Revenge?” The word tasted like iron on Lucimia’s tongue, not the polished gloss of official speak.

“Yes. You Bloodkin might not know—this Empire used to launch wars like brushfires, especially against the Kingdom; the Kingdom even lost land, a border scar that never healed. Maybe old embers finally flared.”

“Is that so?” Her gaze flicked like a shutter, then settled again like a pond.

“That’s all I’ve got. I’ve work to do,” he said, waving off like a leaf shaken free.

After they parted, Lucimia’s thoughts deepened like a pond under cloud.

Dread rose first, a cold mist coiling; if it was true, a bad omen beat its wings like a crow.

Revenge. The word pulled Vosh’s name up like a shadow blade; it matched revenge on Lucimia, revenge on the Empire’s Nirael, like storm to thunder.

Wait—I know what Vosh plans. The idea flashed like lightning; her heart stumbled like a drum in the dark.

He’ll use war as a net, swell the dead like a black tide, and drink that power back like cold fire.

Tsk. What now? Turn back, or keep for the Lowegar Kingdom? Two paths forked like deer tracks in frost.

No—keep to the Temporal Authority, the star-key that unlocks time; with that, many knots become loose threads.

I’ll warn Nirael to spare lives if possible, a lantern hung in fog, even if the road runs dark.

While she was thinking, Rexi slid close like a cat to a brazier. “Lucimia, should we teach that guy another lesson?” she whispered, tossing the question like a pebble.

“Why?” Lucimia’s mind surfaced like a diver breaking water.

“Because he’s bad, still scamming for coin,” Rexi said, disgust shining like grease on water.

Lucimia sighed, wind through bamboo. “It’s not our business. Best not step in.”

“Why? You just taught him a lesson and helped that granny,” Rexi said, the old scene bright as wet ink.

“Different,” Lucimia said, her pause a quiet pool. “That was simple: act, toss a gold coin, and done. This is a knot of vines—messy, time-wasting.”

She’d always been like this, a heart like a still well, deep and undecorated.

“Alright…” Rexi’s shoulders drooped like wilted leaves, not brooding long; she knew she wasn’t some caped hero, just a girl under a big sky.

Seeing her deflate, Lucimia thought a moment, then spoke like a thread pulled taut. “How about this: his meat’s fifty copper coins, right? Use memory tweak. Make him drop it to thirty, even twenty. Not quite turning our backs.”

“Hey—good idea!” Rexi’s eyes lit like lanterns, and she snapped her fingers, a spark hidden under a sleeve.

—

Rexi carried two plates of meat to the granny’s door—Room 11—the brass numbers shining like a tiny sun on wood.

She wanted to do a good deed, to offer the good food like warm bread; Lucimia didn’t mind, her Storage Ring a pocket sky stuffed with runaway supplies like tucked stars.

Rexi hovered at the door, fingers fluttering like dragonflies.

“What is it?” Lucimia asked, voice soft as spring rain on tiles.

“Maybe… I try first? I haven’t tasted it yet!” Curiosity pawed like a kitten.

“…Suit yourself,” Lucimia said, her tone flat as still water in a bowl.

Rexi speared a slice of ham, rosy as a leaf at dusk, and ate. “Mm, good.” She picked a wedge of melon, sweet as a well in summer, and popped it in.

“This is good too, so sweet. You try!”

Lucimia tasted a slice and a wedge, then nodded like a reed bowing in wind. “Not bad.”

The ham was cured, a tide of savory salt; the melon ran with sun-sweet juice. At least here the bearded man hadn’t swapped quality for sawdust.

Then Rexi knocked, a small drum on wood, and the door opened like a shell; she told the granny the food was for her, that they couldn’t finish it.

The granny wasn’t fooled; the meat lay barely touched, the plate clean as snow, and she saw the kindness like a lamp in dusk.

She refused at first, a closed fan in the hand; but Rexi’s persistence fell like steady rain, and stone wore thin.

The granny didn’t take for free; she invited them in like sparrows to a warm eave, and from a basket brought two eggs, pale moons in straw, one for each.

Rexi tried to refuse, but the granny mirrored her stubbornness like twin mirrors facing, and they ended up accepting.

They said their goodbyes, drifting away like two leaves on a mild current.

“Hey—are these eggs raw or cooked?” Rexi asked, the question a pebble tossed.

“Raw,” Lucimia said, the word neat as a pin drop.

“How do you know?”

“Tap the small end lightly,” Lucimia said, calm as a lesson under a lantern. “Cooked sounds solid like wood, raw sounds hollow like a gourd. Don’t hit hard.”

“Oh, got it.” Rexi nodded, tucking the tiny trick away like a slip of paper in a book.

They were about to head back when the door of Room 9 yawned open like a mouth, and the spiky-haired man stepped out, eyes striking Lucimia’s like flint.

He froze a beat, looked at the eggs in their hands like white stones, then flicked his gaze at Room 11 like a knife.

Impatience peeled across his face; he clicked his tongue, a tsk like a stray spark.

He shoved his door shut, turned, and walked off without a backward glance, his steps drumming like hard rain.

“Does he have a problem with you?” Rexi whispered, silk-thin, remembering three such tsks like tally marks on wood.

“No idea…” Lucimia’s brows knit like dark clouds gathering over a ridge.