Boka set down the crate and sighed in relief. Finally, all the goods from the general store were moved inside.

Baird had suddenly been invited to teach short-term in a northern Albion town. For the next few days, only Cynthia and the others remained at home. Naturally, the heavy lifting fell to Boka.

Cynthia was drenched in sweat too. Strands of her hair clung damply to her skin, releasing the unique hormonal scent of a woman her age. Boka’s face flushed as he caught sight of her soaked collar.

“What’s wrong, Boka?” Cynthia seemed to notice his gaze.

“N-nothing,” he stammered, lowering his head.

“Boka.” Cynthia stepped closer. “Why’s your face red?”

“It’s… hot…”

“Could you have a fever?”

She pressed a hand to his forehead. Unsatisfied, she rose on her toes and pressed her own brow against his.

“You feel fine,” she murmured. “Are you just tired? I shouldn’t have made you do so much.”

“No, I—I’m fine,” Boka mumbled, shame burning his cheeks.

“Boka.” Cynthia’s tone turned earnest. “Think carefully about this job. Working at the Duke’s manor… don’t be careless.”

“I know.”

“Seven years ago, during the plague outbreak, Duke Clar nearly emptied his coffers protecting citizens. He aided Baird and the apothecary scholars in developing the cure. That man… he’s beloved by all of us.”

Earlier, Boka had confessed how he’d secured written employment from Duke Agnes. He’d deliberately glossed over certain details—especially his encounter with Percy. Those omissions might have made Cynthia forbid him from leaving. Boka had assumed she’d relented only out of pity for his pitiful state. Now he understood: she trusted him because he’d be working at the Duke’s estate.

“You’re my only brother,” Cynthia said, wiping his sweat. “If the work exhausts you, stay and help at the shop. We’ve more hands now. I’ve spoken with Baird—he’ll return to the academy if you wish. Just stay with me.”

Boka stared at the floor, conflicted. Cynthia and Baird had given him everything. That very kindness made him refuse to burden them further. He wanted to stand on his own in this capital city. For himself. For Aisha.

“I—I’ll go bathe.”

“Go ahead,” Cynthia smiled softly. “And… I’m sorry for hitting you earlier. It must’ve hurt.”

“It’s… fine…”

Boka fled, flustered. Being alone with Cynthia always left him restless—a feeling beyond words.

Albion’s heat had become oppressive. The season for cool baths had arrived days ago.

While Cynthia and the others bathed indoors, Boka—being male—was more casual. Behind the shop lay a well Baird had commissioned, its freshwater source pure and deep. Stripping to the waist, Boka poured icy water over his head. The chill was blissful. Aisha preferred warm baths; perhaps women disliked this biting cold.

He washed his clothes—and Aisha’s dresses too. He wouldn’t keep troubling Cynthia. Everyone needed boundaries.

*Aisha’s probably asleep*, he thought. She kept early hours, though she shared his habit of lingering in bed.

After chores, Boka headed upstairs.

Just as he reached his room, the sliding door beside him slid open.

A girl stood there, expressionless.

Boka hadn’t seen Aisha Lasseter like this—cold, hollow—in a long time. It was like that rainy night they’d first met.

“Boka.”

“Yeah.”

Their exchange held unspoken understanding.

“I had a nightmare.”

“Want to sleep together?”

She shook her head slowly. “It was… bad. Be careful.”

Boka said nothing. He just watched her. After a pause:

“Got it.”

***

The next morning, Boka helped Cynthia arrange the shop’s goods. After breakfast, he set off for Duke Agnes’s manor on Lisen Street. The letter demanded his arrival today.

Yet since dawn, Mel’s Merchant Street swarmed with knights leading patrols. More frequent. More soldiers. They questioned passersby, demanding entry permits from anyone with an outsider’s accent. Boka paid it little mind—likely just a theft report escalated by merchants.

But en route to Lisen Street, he realized the entire capital was locked down.

*What’s happening…?* Even Boka felt uneasy.

Security tightened near the palace district. He was stopped multiple times, but his residency permit eased suspicion.

At Duke Agnes’s estate, the steward greeted him warmly after the gate guards announced his arrival. The man made small talk, clearly smoothing over their prior friction. Then came the work assignment.

The manor’s gardens—from gate to mansion—were tended by an elderly gardener named Gena. Boka’s role was simple: assist the old man with odd jobs. Pruning and nurturing remained Gena’s duty. Boka was strictly forbidden from using tools like pole pruners. Growing flowers seemed easy, but making them thrive demanded tender care.

At noon, under the blazing sun, Boka watered plants one by one.

“Not too much—roots rot. Not too little—leaves yellow,” Gena instructed, treating Boka like an apprentice.

Boka felt lucky. He hadn’t encountered Aria yet. He still didn’t know how to face her. The work wasn’t grueling, and Gena was kind.

He’d hesitated taking this job. Aria’s gaze alone still chilled his heart—a glacial stare that froze his blood. But Boka refused to retreat. Less than a month in Albion, and already this? What about the future? Would he always run? He rejected that thought. He needed courage. That resolve—not money—was why he stayed.

***

Percy sneaked over that afternoon, unusually cheerful now that Aria had hired Boka. He brought two yulong wood bows, demanding lessons. Servants gaped as the prince bounced around a new gardening apprentice. Even old Gena dropped his pruner in shock.

With Gena’s permission, Boka spent the idle hours teaching properly.

Yulong bows were too heavy for Percy’s age. Luckily, the manor stocked materials. Boka carved him a smaller one on the spot—rough but functional. At least Percy could now draw a full bow and aim properly.

He was overjoyed. *This idiot would follow a candy-seller into a sack*, Boka thought.

“Slow your breath.”

“Got it!”

“Eyes on the target.”

“Yes!”

“Let the arrow seek it. Listen to the prey’s breath.”

“Understood! But it’s a target, not prey, Master.”

“No talking.”

“Right!”

“Release.”

*Whoosh!* The arrow flew—hitting the target’s edge.

“Wow! I hit it!”

Boka sighed. After a dozen failures, Percy had succeeded. His hand was red and swollen from the string. Still, his accuracy improved—finally using a proper bow. His fundamentals were terrible though. *This guy dreamed of shooting plates at the harbor?*

Their session ended abruptly. Sunset neared—Boka’s shift was over. More urgently, Percy’s escorts reappeared, dragging him away while scolding: “Your Highness, enough! This is excessive!”

Gena was elderly. Boka respected that. After work, he dutifully stored tools in the shed.

Servants mentioned Aria was staying at another Agnes property—by the Duke’s order. Boka felt less tense because of it. He didn’t dislike Aria. He feared her. Her eyes held no warmth, no readable thoughts. She kept everyone at arm’s length, sealed in her own world. Her pupils held no desire. No expectation. Just silent observation. Boka feared loneliness. After losing his memories, he’d sought connections. They were opposites. That’s why he feared her.

***

A sound caught Boka’s sharp ears.

He tiptoed to a window. Inside sat Duke Clar and a tall, thin middle-aged man. Ian stood nearby.

“They’re back. Looking for us,” the Duke’s weary voice carried.

“But after all these years…” the thin man—Buz—replied.

“Buz, it was our sin. Our hands are stained with the people’s blood.”

“Don’t say that, Your Grace… For the nation… Nellos…”

The room’s insulation muffled most words. Boka only caught fragments—like the name “Buz.” Eavesdropping was wrong. He could almost see Aisha’s disapproving glare. Besides, state affairs meant nothing to him. Like moonlight on a pond—distant, untouchable. He turned to leave.

Patrols still crowded the streets, knights leading squads. Boka no longer worried about questioning. His Albion residency was legal. His father’s fabric smuggling charges had been cleared. His papers showed impeccable origins. Today, he’d even received his manor employment permit from the steward—more useful than any document if stopped.

Yesterday, Cynthia had forced 60 neel into his hands after learning he was broke. He’d refused, but she insisted.

*I should buy Aisha fruit wine. She’s been craving it since I ran out of coin.* But guilt pricked him. *Is this betraying Cynthia?* She forbade Aisha from drinking. Last time she caught her sneaking wine, she’d scolded her loudly and smacked her head hard enough to raise a bump. Aisha Lasseter had nearly cried. Boka had barely stifled a laugh.

Lost in these thoughts under the setting sun, Boka suddenly spotted someone in the crowd.

A girl with fiery red hair stood in the square. That familiar back. That delicate profile.

*Trena!*

Boka’s heart leapt. He rushed over.

“You—you’re here… Trena.” Excitement colored his voice.

She looked startled to see him, lips parted slightly. Her soft crimson lips glowed with an alluring sheen.

“Just wandering,” she said. “But you, Boka—you found your relatives. Albert told me.”

“I’ve got a job now!” Boka swelled with pride. He wanted to impress her.

Trena frowned. They were still within the palace district’s shadow.

The street where high-ranking officials and merchants lived was an odd place for Boka to be.

"You work nearby?"

"Mhm! At Duke Agnes’s estate," he said. "I help the gardener tend the manor’s flowers and trees."

A shadow flickered across Trena’s eyes—fleeting, unnoticed by Boka.

"Agnes..." Trena murmured under her breath.

Boka’s cheerfulness made him oblivious. He didn’t catch the subtle shift on the red-haired girl’s face.

Instinctively, Trena’s hand drifted to the sword at her waist, lost in thought.

"Eh? Trena, you carry a sword?"

She snapped out of her reverie. "This?"

"Yeah."

"Every traveling merchant knows swordplay—even women." She lifted her long coat slightly, revealing a slender blade’s hilt.

"Oh. R-really?"

Even after Trena’s explanation, Boka assumed she was joking. She was tall enough, but her delicate wrists were half the size of his. He couldn’t picture her wielding a weapon. His brother Albert was skilled with a blade, but Trena? Probably just playing around.

"Is it allowed?" he asked. "Aren’t outsiders forbidden from carrying weapons?"

Trena tilted her head, then flashed a playful grin. "Boka, I’m from Albion."

"Eh?!"

Boka was stunned. Traveling merchants were always outsiders. No wonder Trena carried a sword openly by day—though she still kept it mostly hidden under her dress to avoid questions.

"I lived in the capital until I was ten," she explained. "Left with my brother seven years ago."

"I lived here as a kid too!" Boka blurted. "We might’ve crossed paths back then!"

Given their ages, it was nearly impossible. He was just grasping for common ground.

Trena smiled. "Maybe that’s why you feel familiar to me."

"Heh." Boka scratched his head, flustered.

The summer sun had sunk into the distant sea. Twilight draped the streets as they realized how long they’d talked. To Trena, Boka’s awkward chatter was oddly endearing.

"It’s getting late," she said. "They’re probably waiting."

"Oh! Albert’ll worry. You should go." Boka hesitated. "Need an escort?"

"No need." Trena winked. "I’m a swordswoman, remember? Strong one."

"Right..." Boka’s shoulders slumped.

"But as thanks for your kindness—" She pulled a small bottle from her pouch. "Perfume made from cloud grass. For you."

A red ribbon tied around the neck matched the fiery hue of her hair.

"Th-thank you!" Boka fumbled with excitement.

Trena stepped back twice, still facing him. "See you soon, Boka. I’m at the yellow inn on South District’s First Street."

She vanished into the gathering dusk. Only her silvery laughter lingered in Boka’s ears.

Boka was quiet by nature, but his heart hammered now. Because of her. Her vibrant warmth felt like everything he’d ever wanted.

Yet beneath it all, a sharp, acrid stench had nagged him since they met—metallic, thick with the reek of blood. Only after Trena left did he truly register it.

Like the scent of some bodily fluid spilled.

Ahead, a crowd huddled near an alley. Faces were pinched, hands clamped over noses. People whispered, craning to see inside.

But the men who leaned into the shadows retched violently. A woman’s scream pierced the air.

What happened? Curiosity drove Boka forward. He had to look before the guards cleared everyone away.

The stench intensified with every step, choking him near the alley’s mouth.

Fear radiated from the crowd.

Boka saw a foot first—severed, drenched in blood. His gaze crept further. His stomach churned violently. Mangled organs were splattered across the darkness within.