As soon as the bristly man spoke, every gaze swung to Lucimia, like iron filings to a magnet.
Her face stayed calm, still as pond water, arms folded against the wall.
She didn’t rush to defend herself; her silence lay flat as glass on a winter lake.
Worry rose in Rexi like a tight drum.
She had skimmed Lucimia’s memories in a flash, like lightning across cloud.
She found no hint of violence last night, not a ripple in the dark.
Even if Lucimia had killed, Rexi’s faith stood like a pine in wind.
Whatever Lucimia had discovered, Rexi would stand by her, a shadow at her side.
“Her?” The brawny man stalled, his words stumbling like loose stones.
“She’s just a little girl, no grudge with anyone.
Why kill an old granny?
Look at her clothes—she doesn’t look broke.
No need to rob eggs.”
His doubt hung like mist over a field.
“No, no, you’re missing it,” the bristly man said, finger stabbing like a spear.
“Not ‘girl,’ identity.
She’s Bloodkin.”
“Bloodkin…” The crowd wavered like reeds in a wind, unsure.
The bristly man stopped dangling bait and struck flint.
“She’s Bloodkin.
What do Bloodkin need?
Blood.”
Lucimia leaned on the wall, quiet as a shadow, watching his play like a street show.
At his first claim, the bearded man turned to her, the thought slipping in like a draft.
Bloodkin need blood.
Yesterday he’d handed her meat by reflex, a warm plate like a small hearth.
He didn’t know if they could eat it.
“Let me explain why she’d pick the old granny,” the bristly man went on, voice like a thorn.
“First, she needs blood.
That’s the motive.
Second, most on this ship are young and strong, like oaks.
Some can use magic.
Even if she could kill us, it’d be noisy, a drumline calling guards.
Not worth it.
So she chose the nearest target, the old granny.
Weak body, no strength to fight.
No noise, no alarm.”
“But we’ve never proved Bloodkin must drink blood,” a man said, his voice thin as smoke.
“Maybe they can eat human food.
Otherwise life would be dull.”
“Good question.” The bristly man smiled, like a fox at dusk.
“Yesterday, the bearded old-timer handed her a plate of meat.
She took it but didn’t eat.
She gave it to the granny.
The proof’s in the granny’s room.
The plate’s on the table, cold as a moon.
Doesn’t that suggest Bloodkin can’t eat human food?”
“Uh…” The man who asked sank into thought like a stone into deep water.
“And I saw her leave the granny’s room last night,” the bristly man added, words clicking like beads.
“She had an egg in her hand, pale as frost.
Maybe the granny was already dead, and we didn’t know.”
“What are you talking about?” Heat flared in Rexi like a spark in dry grass.
She stepped forward, voice firm as a bell.
“We gave the granny food out of kindness.
I gave her my share too!”
“See?” The bristly man twisted like a fox slipping through brush.
“The Bloodkin lady is sly, using a human as cover.
You got played.”
Rexi had thought speaking up would help, but the sting hit like nettles.
She’d made it worse.
He was even trying to sow discord like seed in spring.
She looked to Lucimia.
Lucimia only shrugged, light as a falling leaf on a still pond.
Rexi wilted and backed off, a lantern dimming.
“You make sense,” the brawny man said, voice rough as gravel.
“But it’s still guesswork.
You need proof.”
“Proof?
I’ve got it,” the bristly man said, eyes bright as flint.
“First, look at how she died.
A blood hole in her neck, clean as a bite.
What else but a Bloodkin bite?”
He grew excited and clapped, sparks snapping in dry air.
“Not only that.
After the latrine last night, I saw her in the corridor, shadow on a wall.
Coincidence?
Oh, and I have a witness for my trip.
A guard saw me.”
“Yes, I saw him,” a guard stepped out, spear-straight, lending iron to the claim.
With that witness, the bristly man’s words gained weight, a stone on the scale.
He finished and let silence spread like frost over the boards.
To them, the tale lined up like tracks in snow.
Lucimia, Bloodkin, would crave blood.
She took the bearded man’s meat and passed it to the granny, an extra plate sitting like a pale moon.
Afterward, at night—or even during delivery—she could have killed her in secret, breath snuffed like a candle.
The granny was weak, too weak to scream.
No guard would come.
He’d also seen Lucimia at night.
Her suspicion rose like a black tide.
The crowd judged his story ninety percent true, eyes turning on Lucimia like knives catching light.
The bearded man found it reasonable.
He fixed his gaze on her like a vise.
“I’ll give you a chance to explain.
If you can’t, don’t blame the guards for getting rough.”
“If I can’t explain, then what?
Kill me?” Lucimia’s tone was unhurried, calm as dusk after rain.
The slander slid off her like water off stone.
The bearded man lowered his voice, slow as a tolling bell.
“We’ll follow procedure.
We’ll tie you up and hand you to soldiers of the Lowegar Kingdom.”
“I see.
Restrain me, then hand me to Lowegar’s soldiers,” Lucimia said, nodding, eyes narrow as a cat in rain.
The corridor fell quiet, a held breath in a long hall.
The bearded man waited for her answer like a fisherman on still water.
Lucimia stayed silent, back to the wall, face smooth as ice in shade.
She watched the bristly man, waiting for his next move like a hawk on a branch.
Inside, certainty rang like iron on an anvil.
The bristly man had killed the granny and smeared her name.
But why?
Hatred of Bloodkin, so deep he’d kill an innocent and pass the blame, like throwing mud?
It felt wrong, a crooked shadow at noon.
If he wanted her hurt, there were cleaner ways, blades in velvet.
He didn’t need this theater.
She wanted his purpose, the hook under the bait, bright as moonlight in a well.
After a heartbeat, the bristly man poured oil on the fire.
“Look at her!
Even now, she leans there like nothing happened.
That kind of nerve—what else but a killer?
Don’t wait.
Grab her now!”
The bearded man wavered, a boulder shifting on a slope.
He raised his hand to the guards, fingers like a falling gavel.
Lucimia spoke first, voice cool as shade.
“You seem in a hurry, like fire under your feet?”
“In a hurry?
You’re the one sweating,” he laughed, rough as gravel rolling.
“Fine, I’m urgent—urgent to catch a killer.
Everyone, take her!”
Lucimia frowned, thought rolling like low thunder across a plain.
He was forcing the herd into a stampede, to make her kick back, like a mare in a trap.
Even bound, he’d profit, a spider with two webs.
Either way, he held the board like a go master.
What was his aim, the blade under the silk?
