A lone figure walked through the mountains. Head bowed, he moved in silence.

Rain soaked through his hair, drenching him completely. It seemed he alone lived here. No human traces existed—only mist-shrouded skies and ancient trees. Time held no meaning for him. No hopes, no future. He was the world’s sole resident.

Silence was his eternal companion, an invisible force tightening around his throat until he couldn’t breathe.

Yet emptiness and loneliness were emotions he couldn’t claim. He couldn’t even find a reason to live. And who was he, this person?

Boka slowly opened his eyes. The icy chill in his chest hadn’t fully faded. He remembered now—the man in his dream was himself.

On the mountains? He had no memory of those landscapes. Perhaps before he lost his memories. His eyes felt slightly damp. Had he been crying?

*Aisha...*

Boka snapped awake, instinctively reaching beside him. He always feared that girl might vanish suddenly. Even though she’d moved to her own bed days ago.

*Where am I?* Though Aisha was nowhere near, Boka’s mind cleared. He lay in a spacious room—at least six times larger than his own. The decor clearly belonged to a woman’s chamber. A subtle fragrance lingered in the soft mattress beneath him.

*Ouch...* Just trying to sit up sent sharp pain through his back, making him grimace. He noticed his bare torso wrapped in white bandages.

*Where is this?* He strained to recall what happened before he blacked out, but only a throbbing headache answered him.

His blurred vision caught something.

Moonlight poured through tall stained glass windows, spilling across the floor.

A woman stood there. Silver hair cascaded like a waterfall over her calm face. She stood motionless, radiating an almost sacred purity.

"You’re awake," Aria said flatly.

"How did I—"

Boka cut himself off. Seeing Aria instantly flooded back the memories: following her to the harbor, a blade suddenly at his throat, then two arrows piercing his back.

"Where is this?"

"My residence," Aria replied. "I live here alone."

*Duke Clar had recently forbidden Aria from returning to the main estate, forcing her to stay elsewhere. Is this that place?*

"You brought me here?"

"Mm."

"I need to leave."

Boka tried to stand, but agony shot through him, cold sweat beading on his forehead. Bloodied bandages lay scattered on the floor—his own? The metallic scent of blood hung thick in the air. Had Aria tended to his wounds?

"You need rest."

"How long have I slept?"

Aria remained silent, standing motionless.

"When did I lose consciousness?"

"Today."

Boka glanced at the moon hanging in the northwest sky. *Deep night already.* He hadn’t told Cynthia he’d be late. She must be frantic, searching everywhere for him. There was still time.

"Thank you for helping me," he said. "I have to go."

He’d barely taken two steps when searing pain made his knees buckle. He collapsed to the floor, as if ants were gnawing at his bones, his vision swimming.

*What’s wrong...?* Two arrow wounds shouldn’t cripple him like this. He’d survived falling off a cliff once—just a few days’ bed rest then. He knew his body well.

A hand gripped his arm.

Boka looked up to see Aria’s impassive profile. She guided him back to sit on the bed’s edge.

"It’s the drug," she said. "This anesthetic disrupts your nerves."

"Anesthetic?"

"The arrows were coated with it."

*That’s why.* The moment the arrows struck, consciousness had fled. They’d been aimed at Aria. What was happening?

"Who were they?" Boka asked. "Those people are dangerous."

Aria seemed about to speak, but her expression gave nothing away. Her indifference made Boka give up trying to read her.

"I’ll rest a while longer, then leave."

The effects should fade soon. Potent drugs like this were metabolized quickly unless lethal. Baird had mentioned that once. He needed to escape this suffocating atmosphere with Aria.

"Thanks."

"Hm?" Her voice was barely audible.

"Thank you," she repeated. "You saved me."

Boka strained to hear her clearly.

"You’re thanking *me*?" He still couldn’t believe it.

*Aria Agnes, thanking Boka.*

"Mm."

"For this?" Boka gestured weakly toward his bandaged back.

"Mm." She nodded.

"It’s nothing, really," Boka said quickly. "Don’t mention it. Just instinct—I didn’t even mean to save you."

If given another chance, he’d never take two arrows again. A kidney hit could’ve killed him. He wasn’t invincible anymore. What would happen to Aisha if he died? He couldn’t just dump her on Cynthia as a burden. Regret gnawed at him; he could almost see Aisha’s scornful glare.

"I see." Her tone remained detached.

But gratitude wasn’t what filled Boka now. Doubt burned hotter. At the harbor, Aria had pressed a sword to his throat. They’d barely interacted beyond two accidental encounters. Most unsettling was how thoroughly she’d investigated his background.

Boka mimed a blade across his neck.

"What are you doing?" Aria asked.

"The sword." He kept it simple.

Her eyes flickered with understanding. He was demanding why she’d threatened him. Aria fell silent, her face as still as a mirror reflecting a calm lake. Seeing no answer coming, Boka sighed.

"Sorry."

"Huh...?" Boka blinked. "Why apologize all of a sudden?"

"For suspecting you," she said. "I was wrong."

"Then why suspect me? Did I do something bad? Suspect me of *what*?" Boka fired off questions like a child.

Aria shook her head slightly. "You’re not one of them."

"Them?" Boka hesitated.

Aria lapsed into silence again, like a statue deep in the forest.

"Those who shot me with arrows?"

It was a wild guess. But Aria gave a slow, deliberate nod. *Truth.* Someone had tried to kidnap Duke Agnes’s granddaughter with drugged arrows. In the capital city, this was unthinkable. By blood, Aria was practically royalty. This could spiral into an uncontainable political crisis.

"Who are they?"

A silver antique sword hung at Aria’s waist, etched with strange runes. It radiated coldness—even on this summer night, its chill pricked the skin. When its edge had neared Boka’s throat at the harbor, his thoughts had frozen. Combined with Aria’s presence, it exuded pure dread.

"Fugitives."

"Fugitives?" he pressed. "They wanted to capture you?"

"My grandfather," Aria said, still standing. "They want him."

Boka was getting used to her clipped speech. *They planned to use Aria to threaten Duke Agnes for some purpose.*

"They seek revenge." Unexpectedly, the usually terse Aria added more.

"Against Duke Clar?" Boka gasped. "How?"

Cynthia had praised Duke Clar endlessly—a true benefactor. He funded orphanages across the capital, sheltering war-displaced children from nations like Nellos. He championed policies aiding citizens. During the plague years, he’d poured his fortune into helping the city...

*Wait.* Boka’s mind snagged on it. *Seven years ago. The plague.* Baird had mentioned a high-ranking minister’s scheme—a plan that killed a third of the city’s population...

"Are they people who know the truth about seven years ago?" Boka murmured, head lowered.

Her expression didn’t flicker.

"Duke Clar Agnes was the minister who proposed the plague measures and led their implementation, wasn’t he?" Boka’s voice grew louder.

Aria closed her eyes briefly before opening them again, as if weighing her words. She knew of Baird; though bound by secrecy, she wasn’t surprised Boka knew too.

"Mm."

"The Blumer Clan is gone now. Only Cynthia and I remain. Do you know why?"

Aria’s lips stayed sealed. When she refused to answer, no one could guess her thoughts. But her silence felt like an insult. Unseen fury flared in Boka.

"Because they all died!" he shouted. "Seven years ago, during the plague! I never even met my family!"

"I see." Her voice remained calm.

"You suspected me because you thought I knew Percy and had his trust—you believed I’d threaten Clar!"

"Mm." Another nod.

"God, I took two arrows for you!" Boka’s voice cracked. "Clar killed so many people—he should pay!"

"He suffers. My grandfather."

"Should he feel at ease?! Is that why he deserves forgiveness?!" Boka stood, his wounds tearing open from the strain.

Aria turned away, walking toward the door. She paused only when her hand touched the handle.

"He doesn’t seek forgiveness."

Moonlight traced Aria’s profile, making her look almost ethereal.

"The one who hopes for his absolution," Aria said softly, "is me."