The sky had been overcast since morning.
A cold wind carried the breath of early winter, brushing gently against everything.
Boka had stood there for a long time when a sudden gust made him gasp. The chill stabbed his lungs, and his whole body shuddered.
Four months had passed since he arrived in Albion. Even more days had slipped by since that stormy night when Baird died.
He remembered Cynthia clinging to him at Baird’s funeral, sobbing uncontrollably. Dorin had seemed lost, hiding behind Aisha and whimpering softly whenever she saw her mother’s tears.
Beyond the shopkeepers from the street, many unfamiliar young faces filled the grassy field outside the city—mostly Baird’s former students. Mourners crowded the hillside.
Everyone stood in silent tribute or gazed from afar at the departed. No one approached Cynthia, the widow. Any words of comfort would have sounded hollow, even cruel. So young, with a child still small… widowed before her life had truly begun. Where would she go from here?
Yet one person left the deepest mark on Boka that day: Lily Litvyak. The girl from the brothel.
*Sorry.*
That was all she’d said to him then.
*Why? Why apologize?* he’d asked.
After a pause, she met his eyes firmly.
*Because I told them where to find Mr. Baird.*
Boka froze. He’d never imagined this. He recalled arguing with Baird upstairs in the brothel—Lily must have overheard everything from the hallway.
His hands clamped onto her shoulders, voice sharp with accusation.
*Tell me why.*
Lily didn’t flinch.
*My parents died in the plague seven years ago. I’ve been an orphan since.*
…
Boka’s grip loosened slowly, his strength draining away. He had no words as Litvyak walked off. Neither he nor Cynthia had the right to blame her.
Then Aria appeared unexpectedly in the crowd. Her right arm was bandaged, blood still seeping through the cloth—a stark sight. Aside from her wounds, the brutal fight from two nights ago seemed to have left no fatigue on her. Her expression remained ice-cold, though something flickered in her eyes whenever they landed on Boka.
As the Agnes Family’s young mistress, she drew immediate attention. Aria didn’t linger. After murmuring a few words before Baird’s coffin, she vanished from sight.
From that day on, Aria disappeared.
Rumors said she’d gone north again. But within the Duke’s estate, servants could only whisper guesses. Knowing her ways, she likely told no one.
The royal court assigned stewards to manage the Duke’s affairs. The staff kept their positions despite Clar’s death. Only Boka resigned—from Master Gerner’s garden apprenticeship.
With Baird gone, the shop was Cynthia’s burden alone. Though it pained him to leave, Boka stayed to help.
Gerner simply smiled and patted his shoulder. Understanding. He’d ask former disciples to tend the garden temporarily. *No need to worry*, he’d said.
As for Percy—he’d been taken by Albert, yet somehow appeared unharmed the next morning on the harbor docks. The King, furious, assumed the prince had snuck out to play again. Percy was confined to the palace for a year. Even Boka couldn’t fathom what truly happened.
That same night after the funeral, Boka did something else in secret.
He pulled Trena’s body from the sea.
He wept. He didn’t know why—but he knew he’d loved her. Loved that red-haired girl. Now, bloated from seawater, she lay cold in his arms. Only her fiery hair remained vivid.
He remembered her leaning against his shoulder that night, whispering:
*If only my fate had been different.*
She’d seen it all coming, even then.
Boka had shot two guards with anesthetic-tipped arrows, slipped out of the capital by sea, and carried Trena’s body over the hills. In a quiet slope far from town, he buried her.
No one else knew she rested there. Only him. Only he would remember her.
*Trena, I’ll visit often*, he’d promised at her grave. *I won’t let you be lonely. I’ll plant flowers here—let them keep you company. Until I’m old. Until I die. I’ll always come back. I want you to be happy. To laugh.*
*I hope… someday you can forgive me.*
***
*What are you doing?* A hand ruffled his hair. *Daydreaming again?*
Boka turned. Cynthia stood behind him.
*O-oh. Nothing.*
She looked down at him. He could feel the warmth of her breath between them.
*You’ve been spacing out a lot lately.*
*I…*
Cynthia’s cheeks had regained their color, her spirit slowly mending. Boka, though, still carried a quiet gloom.
*If something’s troubling you, tell me, Boka*, she said gently. *Pain or worries—I’ll share them with you.*
Unlike Cynthia’s ease, Boka flushed crimson at her closeness.
Dorin was with Aisha at the National Library. Twice a week, it held free classes for children under ten—a right guaranteed by Albion’s laws to all lawful residents. Aisha, a frequent visitor, was the perfect guardian. Boka only hoped she wouldn’t overload Dorin with *unnecessary* knowledge.
Alone in the shop with Cynthia, Boka felt restless. Lately, her gaze on him had grown… strange.
He shot upright.
*The delivery!* South District’s tavern keeper had ordered two boxes of nails two days ago—for fixing his leaky roof. The shipment arrived this morning.
*I-I’m going to deliver these!* He grabbed the boxes and bolted out.
*Boka!* Cynthia called after him. *Don’t forget to pick up the kids on your way home!*
*Got it!*
The tavern sat uphill in South District. The city’s hill-like layout made climbing exhausting. Boka was panting within minutes. *Stupid*, he thought, slowing his pace. The tavern keeper hadn’t set a time—just asked for delivery once the nails arrived. No need to sprint like a fool.
Lately, the capital buzzed with life. Streets teemed with outsiders—some in flamboyant, unfamiliar attire.
Boka hadn’t understood why until Cynthia explained: the Birth Festival. A grand religious celebration held every four years.
Ancient texts claimed the gods rested on this very land after bringing light and life to the world. The capital stood as a sacred symbol—a pilgrimage site crowned by the continent’s grandest cathedral.
These days were for preparation. People gathered from every corner of the land to give thanks and pray.
None of it mattered to Boka. His memories were washed clean. Unlike Cynthia, who whispered prayers over meals, he held no faith.
Delivering the nails took longer than expected. He knew the streets well, but the distance was considerable.
The tavern keeper insisted he stay for a drink. Boka wasn’t like Aisha—he didn’t crave alcohol. Besides, he still had to fetch Dorin and Aisha.
Near the sea, the evening wind carried a sharper chill. Boka hunched his shoulders as he walked.
The National Library wasn’t far. Baird had been friendly with the staff; Aisha and Dorin could wait inside with the guards after closing.
*They must be hungry… What should I buy?* he wondered.
Then he saw them.
Figures in green robes moved through the crowd, drawing sidelong glances. Among them were elders, youths, girls, even children—all cloaked in green. Strangest of all were their faces: faint, scale-like patterns shimmered on their skin.
*Dragonfolk…*
Boka remembered. He and Aisha had met their kind on the road to the capital. *An ancient race*, she’d explained. *Descendants of dragons. Masters of strange arts and old magic.*
Dragonfolk lived hidden in forests, untouched by politics or war.
Except for one thing: faith. They worshipped the gods like anyone else.
One of them slowed—a girl. She caught Boka’s eye and offered a small smile. In the dusk’s glow, the delicate scales along her neck gleamed like crystal, lending her an otherworldly grace.
