The wound throbbed fiercely, so Boka lingered on Aria’s bed until the pain eased. The faint fragrance seemed to numb the ache, making him feel much better.
The anesthetic matched Boka’s expectations. Soon, its effects faded. He got up, paced the room twice, and confirmed he was fine. He had to leave—any odd behavior would alert Cynthia. Though he’d bled heavily, the wound wasn’t deep. He’d be okay.
Aria hadn’t entered the room since earlier. Where had she gone? Boka opened the door to find the mansion pitch-black. Only moonlight spilled from the stairwell; no candles flickered anywhere. The emptiness felt unsettling, hard to adjust to. But at the corner, a man stood like a statue in knight’s armor. He opened his eyes, glanced at Boka, then closed them again, resting.
Boka wasn’t foolish enough to chat with a random knight. He pretended not to see him and headed downstairs. No servants were around—just that lone figure.
Outside, Boka finally spotted Aria. She stood on the roof, gazing into the distance. Her expression held a trace of sorrow.
Suddenly, Boka felt a kinship with her. Her loneliness, that icy solitude, mirrored his own life in the Aber Mountains.
What was Aria thinking? Boka wondered.
The gate was shut but unlocked, with no guards. On the street, Boka scanned the area. This wasn’t the upper city—he’d been here before. The Blumer Clan’s old estate was nearby, close to Mire Street too.
Dark clouds swallowed the moon. Without lamps or candles, the street plunged into darkness. But Boka was a hunter; his eyes adapted easily. Yet, used to Albion’s brightly lit nights, he felt a pang of sorrow now.
Lost in thought, time slipped away unnoticed. Before he knew it, Boka stood at his doorstep. Should he head straight to bed? But the oil lamp in the general store still glowed. Torn, he hesitated—then pushed open Cynthia’s door.
It was ajar. Boka slowly stepped inside.
Cynthia sat at the table, her face drawn and weary. Aisha and Dorin leaned against each other on a lounge chair, fast asleep. They’d been waiting.
“Uh, I’m back,” Boka said.
“Boka, where have you been?” Cynthia’s tired voice carried reproach.
“I, uh…”
“You said you were fishing with the teacher,” she said. “I searched the riverbank but couldn’t find you.”
“I’m sorry…”
“I was so worried,” she said. “Just give me a break, okay?”
“I’ll be more careful next time.”
“Baird’s gone. Do you know how scared I am alone?” Cynthia’s voice trembled. “You’re my only brother. I don’t want to lose you again.”
Boka kept his head down, silently accepting her scolding. He couldn’t confess he’d gone to a brothel with Gena—or that he’d seen Baird there. To Cynthia, Baird was Albion’s hero, not the plague’s architect or the Blumer Clan’s destroyer.
Cynthia stood up, emotions flaring.
Boka lowered his gaze again, unable to face her. He chose escape.
But just as he braced for more anger, a thud echoed.
Cynthia collapsed to the floor, unconscious.
“Cynthia! Wake up!” Boka rushed to lift her.
“Boka…” Her voice was faint. “I’m just… so tired…”
Her breath came fast, her chest heaving. She rambled incoherently. Boka pressed his hand to her forehead—burning hot. She had a severe fever.
“She fell into the river while searching for you,” Aisha said. Boka looked up; she’d woken and stood beside him.
“Cynthia was soaked through. She walked all that way home—her clothes dried by the time she got here.” Aisha knelt, touching Cynthia’s brow. “I noticed she was unwell earlier. I told her to rest upstairs, but she insisted on waiting down here for you.”
Guilt choked Boka. He hadn’t known any of this. If he’d left the brothel sooner, none of this would’ve happened. Cynthia wouldn’t be suffering now.
Aisha leaned closer, sniffing Boka’s clothes.
“I smell blood,” she frowned. “What did you do?”
“It’s nothing…”
“And a woman’s scent too.” Aisha’s expression turned sharp. “I won’t pry, Boka—it’s your choice. But right now, carry Cynthia upstairs. She needs rest.”
“O-okay!” Boka lifted Cynthia.
Though tall for a woman, she felt light in his arms—soft as cotton, warm with faint body heat.
After laying her on the bed, Aisha fetched a basin of hot water. She shooed Boka out, then wiped Cynthia down and changed her into clean clothes. Meanwhile, Boka carried the deeply asleep Dorin to another room; her face was peaceful.
Aisha rarely warmed to anyone besides Boka—not even during caravan travels, where she stayed aloof. Yet she clearly cared for Cynthia.
Once in bed, Cynthia’s breathing steadied. Days of exhaustion plus the nighttime plunge had triggered the fever. Luckily, Baird had left medicine. Boka gave her some.
Soon, she improved.
Dawn was breaking by then.
Aisha finished tending to Cynthia and called Boka in.
“Stay with her.”
Aisha yawned, bleary-eyed. At the door, she turned back.
“And don’t get any ideas about a married woman.”
“None of your business…”
Worried about Cynthia’s fever spiking, Boka stayed by her side. His arrow wound didn’t matter—he just wanted his family safe.
He’d miss work today. Yesterday’s early exit had only been relayed to Gena; hopefully, he wouldn’t mind.
Boka covered Cynthia with a thin blanket, then fanned her gently with cardboard. This was his first time in Cynthia and Baird’s bedroom. Barely any furniture—just a double bed and wardrobe—but the decor and windowsill trinkets still carried Cynthia’s touch.
With Cynthia sick, the store would close. What about Baird? And Aria? Headaches swirled in Boka’s mind. Unaware, he dozed off.
Boka’s dreams were always pale. Faces and names blurred into mist. He only remembered wandering mountain forests, haunted by lingering loneliness. When he strained to recall, the memories dissolved like air.
He jolted awake, forehead stinging—he’d slumped forward and bonked the bed frame.
“Boka.” A soft voice called.
“…Cynthia? You’re awake.” Relief washed over his face.
“You stayed with me?”
“Yeah, but I nodded off.” He scratched his head.
“No,” she said. “Thank you… Boka.”
“I’m sorry for coming home late.”
Cynthia pursed her lips. “I should apologize.”
“What? No!” Boka stammered. “It’s my fault—”
“Boka.” She shook her head. “Having you back in Albion, back home… I’m so glad. You’re the Blumer Clan’s last man. A mercy from the heavens.”
Boka fell silent, unsure how to respond.
“Seven years ago, during the plague… Grandfather and Father died. The disease took everyone. I was all alone.” Cynthia paused. “Just now, I dreamed of that disaster. The fear, the loneliness—it still haunts me like a nightmare.”
Tears filled her eyes, spilling over.
Words failed Boka. He simply reached out, wiping her tears away.
“Boka, you’re an adult. You deserve freedom. I shouldn’t chain you down.” Cynthia closed her eyes. “Forgive me. I’m selfish—you’re my only brother. When you’re gone, I remember seven years ago. I’m sorry for being so harsh…”
Silent tears streamed down her face. Boka’s nose stung.
“Cynthia,” he fumbled. “Don’t cry. I won’t leave. Aisha and I will stay with you. Dorin and Baird too.”
His flustered earnestness made Cynthia smile faintly.
“Thank you, Boka.”
“Uh, what do you want to eat? I’ll cook.”
It was noon.
“Huh? You cook?”
“Yeah. Pretty well.”
Boka had few hobbies. During his months in the Aber Mountains—even with amnesia—he’d experimented with ingredients, inventing new dishes to pass time.
Cynthia clasped her hands. “Fried rice. Can you make that?”
“Sure.”
For some reason, the mountain cabin’s cellar held plenty of rice. Boka often cooked it with lake water for Aisha. The next day, he’d stir-fry the cold rice with spices, cooked meat, and oil. Aisha loved it—it was his specialty.
In the kitchen, he found raw mutton, carrots, and onions. He got to work.
He melted thick butter in a pan, sizzling the onions until fragrant. Then he added mutton and carrots. When the meat was nearly done, he spread rice over it, stir-frying until even. Finally, he sprinkled on mildly spicy seasoning. The savory mutton fried rice was ready.
As Boka carried the dish upstairs, he froze.
“Who’s there?”
Someone hid behind stacked goods. His hearing never missed details.
“It’s me, Boka.”
A familiar voice. The figure stepped out slowly.
“Trena…”
