The knight’s gaze locked onto Boka.

Roch remained silent. Since their first meeting, Boka had never heard this man utter a single word.

Boka’s bow was drawn taut. In such close quarters, missing was near impossible. Yet his opponent had overpowered Trena—could Boka’s arrow even buy time?

Roch lunged!

*Whoosh!* The arrow flew, deflected by Roch’s broad blade. Knowing close combat meant death, Boka leapt through the flames, rolling to the opposite corner.

Roch was already upon him, Greatsword raised. But Boka spun mid-roll, arrow nocked and ready in an instant.

At this range—he couldn’t miss.

The arrow pierced Roch’s chest.

*What—?*

Boka had calculated it: Roch’s reflexes would shift the strike away from vital points. Yet it sank deep into his heart. Worse, Roch’s swing never faltered. Boka barely dodged before Roch’s iron grip slammed him against the wall, the sword’s edge kissing his throat. One push—and death.

Death stood a breath away. For the first time, true fear crushed Boka’s chest.

“Stop. Roch.” A familiar voice, icy as ever.

“Aria…” Boka’s eyes snapped to the woman in the doorway.

Of course she’d come. Where Roch appeared, Aria followed.

Roch withdrew his blade like a puppet obeying commands, retreating silently to Aria’s side. Her gaze flickered over Boka—a trace of something unspoken in her eyes.

*Did she know?*

That he’d drugged the guards. Helped Trena’s group infiltrate. But what could he do now? *Foolishness*, Boka thought bitterly. *Blame only yourself.*

Flames devoured furniture and tapestries, heat searing Boka’s skin. Outside, armored soldiers guarded the lower floors but dared not enter.

“Grandfather.” Aria approached Duke Clar.

“Oh, child. You came.” His voice was worn with age. “Seeing you always warms this old heart.”

“The fire’s spreading. Come with me.”

“Leave?” Clar shook his head. “Too old. Too tired.”

“Roch can carry you.”

“My dear girl…” Clar’s exhaustion bled through. “You know I’ve waited for this day. Seven years. Seven years of guilt. Their faces—those I condemned—still haunt me. To die by their children’s hands… it was my wish.”

“You loved this nation. You—”

“Perhaps.” Clar cut her off. “But some sins cannot be undone. I prolonged the war. Built orphanages, funded charities… yet the void inside remains. A chasm filled with ugly truths…”

Aria fell silent. Words had never been her strength.

“Roch.” Her command was soft.

The knight moved—but halted under Duke Clar’s sharp, hawk-like stare from the armchair. He stepped back.

“Aria… watching you grow has been my greatest joy. A gift from the gods. Strong. Beautiful. Like a flower blooming in bitter winter—pure, yet untouchable…” A faint smile touched Clar’s lips. “Since your mother’s passing, you locked your heart away. No one enters. May someone worthy open it someday. That… is my final hope.”

“Grandfather.” Aria stepped forward.

Flames erupted around Clar, a blazing wall sealing him off. From his corner, Boka saw Duke Agnes’s lips moving rapidly, chanting words in a forgotten tongue. The fire surged, roaring ceiling-high, swallowing Clar whole.

*Ancient incantations…*

Boka recalled Aisha’s lessons: magic demanded complex mental calculations woven with primordial chants.

*Duke Clar Agnes… a mage? Rarer than any Knight-Captain.*

“Boka.” Clar’s voice cut through the roar. “I grieve for Severus. Now… I go to apologize.”

The flames consumed him. Only three figures remained in the burning room.

Heat blistered Boka’s skin. Yet Aria stood frozen.

He remembered her words that night: *Clar doesn’t seek forgiveness. He wants you to forgive yourself.*

*Has he craved death since that day seven years ago?*

“We must go. The fire’s too fierce.”

Boka grabbed Aria’s arm.

She turned—those eyes again.

“Oh.” Her voice was flat.

Roch moved only when commanded. As Boka led Aria out, the knight emerged from the flames. The arrow in his chest had vanished.

The blaze spread, devouring half the manor. Ian and the unconscious servants were carried out. Aria stood apart, watching the inferno, her thoughts unreadable.

“The time has come.” Her whisper broke the silence long after.

“What?” Boka frowned.

“Roch.”

Boka looked. The knight’s form was fading, growing translucent.

“What’s happening?!”

“He died long ago.”

“Huh…?”

“His soul’s time here… is ending.”

Roch dissolved into countless tiny specks of light, vanishing like mist in dawn’s breath.

Boka couldn’t grasp it—not yet. Not until Aria later revealed the truth:

Years ago, on his deathbed, the legendary knight—master of both blade and magic—had bound his fading soul to Aria. She’d saved his wife and daughter. His final act: eternal guardianship. A debt repaid.

“Thank you.”

“Huh? For what?”

“For helping him at the end.” *When you blocked Trena’s strike with your arrow.* But did she know he’d aided the intruders?

“No. I doomed him. It’s my fault.”

Aria’s lips trembled slightly. She knelt, fingers brushing a leaf on a nearby potted plant.

“He needed forgiveness. From them… and from you. Saving him that day—that was the greatest mercy.”

Boka fell silent. She knew. Yet she thanked him. *Could he truly forgive Clar? Had he ever hated him?* His anger stemmed from Cynthia’s tales of the plague—not grief for lost kin. He had no memories of them.

Rain hammered down by afternoon, as if the sky had torn open. Wind stole breath and sight.

Boka returned home soaked to the bone—a stroke of rotten luck halfway back. Mire Street’s shops had shuttered against the storm. Cynthia and Dorin waited downstairs; Aisha merely giggled, watching him drip. Mountain rains had often caught him unprepared. Once, fever had left him delirious, kicking Aisha from his bed. For two days, the young girl kept vigil by his plank bed until his fever broke.

Dry clothes—Baird’s, slightly tight—replaced his damp ones. With time to spare, Boka played cards with Dorin. The girl adored him, clinging to his every move. He lost badly, unfamiliar with the rules. Even Aisha, buried in a thick tome nearby, stopped bothering to mock him.

By dusk, Dorin napped in an armchair. Cynthia began dinner.

The storm still raged, rattling windows. Albion’s flawless drainage and sturdy architecture held firm—even against tidal surges. Citizens here were used to summer’s tantrums.

But Boka’s mind churned. *Trena and Albert’s hideout… in the sewers…*

Duke Clar was dead. The city might not know yet—but they sensed upheaval. Patrols swarmed the flooded streets despite the hour. Two squads marched past Mire Street alone. These weren’t garrison troops. Their hardened eyes, the quiet lethality—they were veterans from the front lines.

“Something wrong, Boka?” Aisha closed her book abruptly.

“Huh? I’m…”

“You stare at the floor when troubled.”

“…Nothing.”

She saw through him. Always.

“A man terrible at lying,” she murmured, “yet always hiding.”

*Thud. Thud.*

A knock shattered the quiet.

Boka and Aisha exchanged glances. *Wind slamming debris?*

*Thud. Thud.*

Someone was at the door. In this storm.

Cynthia, washing dishes inside, heard nothing.

Boka snatched a kitchen knife, approaching the door.

“Who’s there?” he called softly.

“…It’s… me…”

A man’s voice. Familiar.

*Baird!*

Boka yanked the door open.

“Baird!”

Wind howled inside. A drenched, blood-streaked figure swayed on the threshold—hair matted, clothes filthy. He stumbled forward two steps… and collapsed onto the floor.