When Luwens said someone had died, Lucimia didn’t flinch, calm as a still pond under frost.

She had been fretting, a kite snagged in brambles, on how to find the dead; with Luwens here, she chose to ride the current.

Before the Duel, she’d had Rexi weave a memory mask, lacquer-smooth, to forge her as an Investigator; now that mask might earn its keep.

“Hold up. Wait downstairs for a bit,” she said, steady as a hand on a teacup. “I need to change.”

“No problem.”

Luwens left the guestroom; his steps drummed on the wood, the sound fading like ripples in rain.

Only when the echoes thinned did Lucimia look at Rexi, a hush settling like a veil.

“Do you remember what we did yesterday?” Her voice was a soft blade testing the edge.

“…I don’t,” Rexi said, blank as fresh paper.

“Mm.” Lucimia nodded, a reed bowing to wind. “Let’s change first.”

“Okay.”

They changed and left the guestroom. Luwens sat in a corner like a shadow cast by a lantern; seeing Lucimia, he raised a hand in greeting.

Lucimia took Rexi over and sat opposite him, their chairs like stones facing a stream.

“Do you want breakfast first?” Luwens asked, voice easy as morning smoke.

“No need. Tell me the situation, or take me to the law station,” Lucimia said, clean as a drawn line.

“Alright, then—”

“Wait… I need…” Rexi slipped in, words stumbling like pebbles.

“…”

Silence draped over the table, thin and cool as mist.

“Uh, haha, I was just saying,” Rexi laughed, awkward as a cat caught in rain.

Lucimia blinked, a sparrow’s flicker, then called the server and ordered him breakfast.

Buttered bread, a fried egg, pan-seared ham slices, and milk arrived, steam curling like morning clouds.

Rexi’s eyes lit up, bright as stars on black water; he dug in, talking around bites. “You two talk. I’ll listen.”

Luwens smiled, a small crescent, then turned his gaze to Lucimia, steady as a compass.

“Before the details, one note,” he said, tapping his stubble like counting beads. “It’s about Auril’s missing-person kidnapping case. Remember the dockworkers, the tavern staff, the regulars, and that shop owner?”

“Mm. What about them?” Lucimia nodded, eyes a calm lake.

“The deceased is that shop owner,” Luwens said, rubbing his chin, gravel in his tone. “Seller of jewelry. Dead.”

“Dead? The owner himself?” Lucimia asked, testing the ground like a toe to ice.

“Not just him,” Luwens said. “Two employees too. Three bodies in total.”

The word hit; Lucimia froze, a hawk arrested mid-glide.

Maybe she misheard. She asked again, careful as counting coins. “How many did you say?”

“Three,” Luwens answered, firm as a closed door.

Three?

Lucimia felt the jolt, a drumbeat under the ribs.

She had imagined one, maybe two, but why three, like three candles snuffed in wind?

Was there some necessity to the number, a pattern like knots on cord?

Were all three designated to die, and at the same place, like fish caught in one net?

She had expected two bodies at different sites, not three laid in one room like fallen chess pieces.

Wait.

A cold thought slid in, sharp as a pin. The rules never said that before the first death, you could only kill one designated person.

That means a serial killer could have cut down all seven yesterday afternoon, like scything a field.

But there’s a hitch. After killing one, memory gets wiped, like ink washed by rain.

And seven targets would be scattered, driftwood along distant banks, unless gathered and slain by an area-of-effect spell in one stroke.

Even then, yesterday’s afternoon was too short, a wick burning fast.

If Lucimia were the serial killer, she could use Reversion to try, rewinding like a tide; the clock would still bite, and finding and herding them might fail.

If she were the serial killer and didn’t do it, that means the spread was too far, a map stretched like spider silk; even with a Flight Spell, she couldn’t bridge it.

That’s a data point, a pebble dropped in a well.

Auril’s designated targets were scattered wide, perhaps elsewhere in the Lowegar Kingdom, scattered like seeds on wind.

Her mind snapped back to the three dead Luwens mentioned, thoughts flocking like crows.

Three dead at the same place, three candles in one room.

Usually that means one killer, one hand like a knife; Lucimia and Anliena wouldn’t both come here to butcher.

If Anliena is the Investigator and wants Lucimia to mistake her for the serial killer, then her targets lie elsewhere, distant as hills.

Which means there might be more than three bodies, a trail like frost across fields.

Who killed the shop’s three? Me?

Anliena?

Lucimia couldn’t see through the fog; the path coiled like smoke.

Maybe they were killed by the Investigator’s ally, if none were innocent, sins hidden like stains under silk.

Possibly by the Investigator herself, a lawful blade cutting rot from wood.

Or maybe the first two fell to the serial killer’s ally, and the third to the serial killer’s own hand, a staggered thunder.

Because once the serial killer takes one life, the memory wipe starts, a curtain dropping; seeing the other two, the killer would be stunned, a deer in torchlight.

Hold on.

A hot spark flared. The serial killer has a brutal way to confirm identity, a mirror edged in iron.

Find three people. Kill one. Let memory wash out.

Then look at blood on your hands, at a body cooling at your feet, and at two trembling figures like quail in grass.

Wouldn’t that prove you’re the serial killer, a stamp in red?

But it’s unclear if the memory loss is instant, or if there’s a buffer, a breath held before the plunge.

Another thread.

An Investigator can’t kill innocents, but may kill the guilty, a judge beneath low clouds.

The shop owner was implicated in Auril’s kidnapping; guilt clung like pitch.

So an Investigator could kill three who looked innocent but weren’t, sinners with faces like masks.

And the one who knew the shop’s guilt was Lucimia, a witness holding ember and ash.

Is that another way to confirm identity, a path of law lit by lanterns?

“So, did I become an Investigator again?” The thought pressed, heavy as wet cloth. “If I didn’t cut seven at once, does that mean I’m not the serial killer? But if three guilty—only I knew—are dead, does that mean I’m the Investigator?”

What was my tactic, my board laid under dusk?

On one hand, I used the Imagerecording Stone to make a first check if I’m the killer, a mirror of smoke.

On the other hand, three guilty fell, like rotten fruit dropped.

So did I pretend to be the serial killer as a feint, a fox playing dead? But the serial killer could pretend to be an Investigator too, a mask over a mask.

Too many doubts, a thicket of thorns.

Luwens watched Lucimia think, patient as stone under rain, and waited without a sound.

After a long moment, she surfaced and asked, voice level as a drawn bow, “Time of death?”

“Uncertain,” Luwens said. “Probably between eight and ten last night, a window like dusk.”

“Time of report?”

“Three a.m.”

“Three a.m.?” Lucimia felt the oddness, a chill like midnight dew. Who wanders at that hour?

Luwens stroked his stubble, bristle against palm. “The shop door was open. So after killing, the culprit did nothing to clean up. The door stayed wide, and the bodies lay like logs.”

“Usually, a killer scrubs tracks, like waves smoothing sand. This one didn’t.”

He paused, breath drawing deep, his face tightening like storm-cloud.

“Look, I’m not accusing you,” he said, eyes steady, “but witnesses say they saw you and your companion enter at eight, and leave at nine.”

“Mm… so you suspect me?” Lucimia’s brows knit, a knot pulled tight.