This land looked well tended, streets laid like furrows after spring rain; proof Auril still had means to keep a small kingdom breathing, his strength not faint.

Lucimia searched a while, feet light as a cat over sun-warmed boards, and soon found several inns, choices blooming like lanterns at dusk.

There were three kinds of inns—simple lodgings, plain as rice and salt, where travelers and merchants slept like stones after rain.

There were tavern-inns, four floors stacked like bento trays; the lower two for food and drink and music like wind-bells, the upper two for rest like quiet pools.

Last came the lovers’ inns, doors painted like peony petals, promises hanging like silk ribbons in the breeze, the intent clear as wine.

Lucimia blinked at that sight, surprise rippling like a thrown pebble; she’d guessed the Lowegar Kingdom was thriving, but this level of fine division felt like polished jade.

She even saw two couples stepping out, cheeks flushed like sunset, clothes tugged neat like fresh leaves after rain.

“Lucimia, what’s that? Lovers’ inn? For lovers to stay?” Rexi pointed at a pink building with heart signs glowing like paper lanterns. “Is it different from a normal inn? People still sleep, right? Wow, check the prices outside—double the usual! Wow, folks actually stay.”

“I don’t know.” Lucimia’s mood cooled like tea left on the tray; she tugged Rexi’s hand and said, “Let’s try a tavern-inn. People talk there like rivers. We might catch some news.”

“Hey, hang on—aren’t you curious? What’s different inside from a normal place?” Rexi’s voice bounced like a pebble on water.

“Not curious.” Lucimia snapped like a bamboo switch, then pulled again toward the tavern, wind in her sleeves.

“Hey, hey, wait!” Rexi slipped free like a fish and said, “I’m curious what’s inside. How about we try it today, taste something new, right—ow, ow, that hurts!”

Lucimia pinched Rexi’s cheek like a crab claw and twisted a full turn, temper flaring like a struck match. “Try your head! I think you know what’s inside. Does Erwei City have something like this?”

“How could it?” Rexi protested, hands up like a shield. “I’m just curious! Curiosity, okay?”

“Kids shouldn’t be curious.” Lucimia hauled her toward the tavern, grip tight as knotted rope, not letting her slip.

“You’re a kid too,” Rexi grumbled, sparks in her eyes like flint.

“Yeah, that’s why I’m not going,” Lucimia answered, neat as folded paper.

“That… kind of makes sense…” Rexi froze, thought wobbling like a lantern in wind.

So Rexi got dragged along, heels skimming like leaves, into the tavern.

The wooden door pushed open with a clear ding-ling, the sound crisp as ice chips, and heads turned like sunflowers to the light at the doorway.

Drinkers stared, surprise bright as a struck bell; the girl stared back, baffled as a cloud at sea, the morning still pale like rice paper.

The patrons thought, How’s such a small girl in a tavern, their doubts rising like steam from hot soup.

Lucimia thought, It’s only dawn; how are there so many drinking already, mugs foaming like winter rivers.

One patron set down his cup, rings clinking like coins, and said, “Little friend, best not come here.”

Lucimia hadn’t answered when another cut in, words sharp as a knife-edge. “Don’t be foolish. You’re drunk. See that black hair? Likely Bloodkin. She might be older than your dad.”

The first patron blinked, a pause like a dropped bead, then chuckled awkwardly. “Fair.”

The rest heard that and let it drift, only stealing a few glances at the beautiful girl, eyes like moths to a lamp; Lucimia spared no extra words, trimming trouble like a gardener trims branches.

She released Rexi, crossed to the bar, and took an empty high stool, legs dangling like willow leaves; the barkeep stepped over, voice polite as a silk fan. “What would you like to drink?”

He looked refined, a scholar among barrels, unlike the beauties or rough men Lucimia had seen elsewhere, calm as still water.

“I recommend Nam wine,” he said, courteous as a temple guide. “It’s a fruit wine, bright red like blood. Maybe you’d like it? Though I don’t know if Bloodkin drink.”

He’d heard the murmurs and pegged her Bloodkin, age hidden like the moon behind thin cloud.

Lucimia shook her head, clean as a blade drawn. “No. I need a room.”

“Understood.” The man’s tone stayed smooth as polished wood. “How long? Two people?”

How long…

Her thoughts pooled like ink in a well. If the Time Stasis Bearer won’t come to me, do I go to them like rain seeking roots? Or find other ability-bearers, paths branching like bamboo shoots? Or head to Kalan Village to trace Yuna’s abduction, a trail thin as spider silk?

That could take a while, days stacking like stones; but some folks aren’t by the port, routes fanning like gull wings. We might move on soon, so we won’t stay long here.

She settled her mind like dust after wind. “Three days. Two singles.”

“Alright.” The man checked the ledger, pages fluttering like sparrow wings, then looked up, apology soft as cotton. “Sorry, only one double left. Would you…”

“Don’t mind!” Rexi chimed, words popping like firecrackers.

She leaned on the bar, grin bright as a peach blossom, and said, “We don’t mind. We’ll take it.”

She slapped a gold coin on the counter, a clean smack like a drum.

“Uh…” The man hesitated, glancing at Lucimia, seeking her nod like a sailor looks for a lighthouse.

“…Don’t mind,” Lucimia said, the answer reluctant as a winter sun.

“Alright.” The man palmed the coin, then counted change back, clinks neat as beads.

Lucimia sighed, breath like a soft flute note; she hadn’t minded anyhow. A double isn’t a single, the math simple as beans.

But why’s Rexi so excited, bouncing like a kite in sudden wind? A bad premonition pricked like a thorn.

“Lucky day,” Rexi hummed, laughter sweet as honey.

Lucimia felt she should keep some distance from this problem child, nerves tight as bowstring; the girl worried her like a sudden squall.

They finished the registry, names inked like river reeds, and the man handed them each a key, brass cool as autumn moonlight, room number carved neat: 403.

Lucimia took hers and said, “Let’s check the room,” voice steady as a path stone.

“Okay.” Rexi nodded, ponytail flicking like a sparrow’s tail.

They started up the stairs when a voice cut in—“Hold on!”—words landing like a thrown latch.

Lucimia and Rexi turned to the sound, gaze steady as a drawn line, and saw a tall man step from the crowd, features handsome by common measure, confidence tucked like a folded fan.

He walked straight to Lucimia, dipped slightly, manners posed like calligraphy strokes, then smiled, his tone soft as warm rain. “Beautiful Bloodkin lady, your presence stirs my heart like drums before battle. Your face is carved like fine jade, your skin white as snow with a faint sheen. Your hair falls smooth and glossy like black silk, carrying a light fragrance like early plum. Your lines flow like river curves, each contour placed with grace. Your bearing is elegant; every motion shows a native nobility and calm.”

“What are you actually saying?” Lucimia’s impatience flicked like a whip.

“I’m saying—would you be my wife?”

The room fell silent at once, quiet as frost on tiles.

Talk stopped; cups paused; all eyes turned, shock blooming like cold chrysanthemums.

Rexi’s eyes went wide, fists clenched like rocks, and she stepped in front of Lucimia, voice barbed like thorns. “Huh? What did you say?”

Lucimia, the one addressed, merely drew her brows together, a crease fine as a brushmark.