After Lucimia fixed her bearing, she opened the national case files, like unrolling a map of old scars.

They were called national, yet they only held ink from the Second Era; the First was blank snow.

Lower serial numbers meant older cases, like tree rings; higher numbers marked newer ones, like fresh footprints.

Tucked among the stack lay another booklet, listing towns and which serial numbers they held, a stiff spine for the archive.

The arrangement was clear as winter water, pebbles visible at the bottom.

But Lucimia didn’t know which town Kalan Village belonged to, a missing signpost in fog.

Luwens had said village reports flowed to the towns, like streams into a river.

So she’d likely have to go out to the library or a bookshop, and hunt a detailed map of the Lowegar Kingdom, a lantern for dark roads.

If that failed, she could ask Auril, though she didn’t know how to draw him from the shadows, like a fish from deep water.

There were extreme methods, a knife kept in the boot.

She could open her Dark Deity state, do something unclean, and let her Authority Power spill like smoke.

Auril would sense it and appear, like a hawk to a flutter.

Before that, skim a bit, she murmured, flipping from the back toward the front, swimming upstream through paper.

Yuna’s abduction wasn’t long ago; back to front was faster, like cutting across a current.

She narrowed the range. She hunted for reporters and for missing or kidnapped victims with pink hair, a coral thread in a gray net.

If Yuna’s parents had another child, pink hair likely ran in the blood, a dye soaked into silk.

Lucimia flipped fast, from now back to Yuna’s time, the pages ticking like a clock unwinding.

After a long while, she set a bookmark and closed the file slowly, like lowering a lid on simmering doubt.

Sorrow rose first, heavy as winter wind; her brow knit, telling how poorly the search had gone.

Not a single one, she whispered, her voice a cold reed. No reporters, and no missing or kidnapped with pink hair… that’s a knot in the thread.

Did history not correct itself? Doubt pricked like thorns; no, it should have, like a stream finding its bed.

She remembered Elyssus saying the one using Reversion was her; but where had her Reversion come from, under this sky?

Truth was, she gained it by Devouring, a wolf swallowing the moon.

From the angle of history’s correction, her Reversion should have been delivered by Olivya’s followers as a sacrifice, incense carried on wind.

That offering wasn’t Yuna; it was swapped for something else, a chess piece quietly replaced.

That something let her gain Reversion outright, a key turning in a locked gate.

Lucimia closed her eyes, memory rising like ground mist.

She recalled Yuna saying she remembered only her given name, a lone bell in a quiet valley.

She didn’t remember her surname, her parents, or where she had lived; the slate was wiped clean as rain.

Yuna had thought it was because she was too young, tender grass in spring wind.

Back then, Lucimia hadn’t thought much; now, under a closer gaze, the thread frayed like old silk.

Someone who remembers a name yet forgets a surname and their parents’ faces—wrong, like a cracked bell at dawn.

Either a blow during the abduction caused amnesia, or someone cut away part of her memory, clean as a knife through silk.

Memory… again? Lucimia frowned, a shadow rippling through her chest.

Unnoticed, her thoughts drifted to this morning, when she forgot Yuna had been Devoured, a bead lost under the bed.

Then to Rexi’s Memory Power, a river running backward.

Then to Rexi not being a memory caster yet gaining Authority Power, perhaps through a Duel, sparks struck in combat.

And to Rexi’s own amnesia, a window fogged from inside.

Huh? A thin line seems to link them, beads strung by an unseen hand.

What was going on beneath this sheet of water, where the current turned?

Tsk. I’m wandering, and it’s messy, she chided herself, a twig tapping a bowl. She drew a deep breath, set the knot aside, and replayed Yuna’s words.

Yuna also said black-robed men attacked the village and carried her away… black robes… attack… got it, she thought, a spark catching tinder.

Light struck her eyes like flint and steel, bright and sudden.

Another lead: find cases where black-robed men struck, soot staining snow.

An event that big would be reported to a town, a drumbeat heard across fields.

Such cases are rare, black swans on a gray lake; narrowing down the town will be easy, like following ripples.

She praised her own wit and thanked Yuna in her heart, lighting incense in silence.

She sprang up and slid the files into her Storage Ring, a swallow tucking straw.

She slipped out, shut the door, and hurried downstairs, movements smooth as flowing water.

Rexi sat at the downstairs bar, stirring fruit wine, her spoon circling like a lazy koi.

A plate of meat sat before her—bite then sip, bliss like noon sun on stone.

Seeing Lucimia hurry down, Rexi asked, the words fizzing like soda, Found it?

Lucimia shook her head, a small pendulum. No— but I have a new lead, a spark on dry grass.

Oh! Need me to help? Rexi chirped, her tone hopping like pebbles.

Lucimia glanced at Rexi’s half-finished meat and half-drunk wine, then shook her head, a leaf refusing wind.

No. I’m going to the enforcement station for another set of files, a fresh net for the river.

By the way, did you read Luwens’s memory? What does “the water’s too deep” mean? she asked, voice a thin line of ink.

I read it, Rexi said, her glance skittering like sparrows along a roofline.

Seeing no one watching, she leaned in and lowered her voice to Lucimia’s ear, a whisper behind a fan.

Well… It means when they chase these kidnapping and missing cases, they sometimes hit ones that are truly strange, shadows that swallow light.

If they go deeper, even enforcement squad members vanish, stones falling into a bottomless well.

That says the kidnappers have reach, a big hand in the dark, fingers like roots.

There may be a dedicated kidnapping organization in the shadows; we just don’t know why they need so many people, like nets hauling fish.

Also, except for those with rank, most squad members won’t stake their lives, candles guarding their own flame.

To them it’s a job, and there are mouths to feed, hearths to keep warm, winter pressing the door.

So they won’t touch the places where the water runs too deep, a river eddying black.

Only Luwens and the captain investigate those odd cases in secret, and with too few hands, the digging is hard, like a spade in clay.

Hearing Rexi, Lucimia nodded, a reed in wind by the riverbank.

Got it. Eat slowly, she said with a small smile, a lantern’s glow. I’ll head to the enforcement station again.

Oh, and Lucimia, be careful! Don’t get kidnapped, Rexi blurted, her worry fluttering like a moth.

Lucimia shot her a look, a steady blade. You too. If anything happens, shove a help-memory straight into my head. I’ll come.

I know. I’ll stay in the tavern and won’t go anywhere, she promised, tongue poking out, playful as a brook.

Leaving the tavern, Lucimia skipped the carriage and slipped into a dark alley, shadow cool as a cave.

She triggered Teleportation Magic, like stepping through a water mirror.

Yes, she’d quietly set a Teleportation Magic marker near the enforcement station, a nail in space.

Light flashed, and Lucimia appeared behind the station, a moth from night to lamplight.

She went around to the front door and walked in, calm as a blade in its sheath.

Luwens was still inside, steady as a post.

Seeing her return so fast, his eyes lit like lamps, and he hurried over, boots a quick drum.

Investigator, did you find a lead? he asked, hope like kindling.

Uh… For a heartbeat, Lucimia didn’t know how to answer; her tongue caught on a hook.