Dusk fell, yet people still streamed in and out of the National Library’s entrance.

This was Albion’s greatest repository of knowledge and one of the capital’s landmarks. Centuries of history had etched deep lines into its weathered stone facade.

Stepping inside, the rich scent of aged paper and ink washed over Boka. Towering bookshelves—several men high—lined the main hall. Mobile ladders stood ready for use. Here lay every known discipline: mathematics, tailoring, history, literature, even magic.

Many, like Boka, once wondered: if magic texts were open to all, wouldn’t the world overflow with mages? But reality wasn’t so simple. Though books clearly outlined spells from basic to advanced, true mastery demanded innate talent. Magic required complex mental calculations paired with ancient chants—a feat demanding profound wisdom. Ordinary folk might spend lifetimes failing to summon even a fingernail-sized flame.

Guarded fireplaces dotted the library’s corners, warding off dampness to preserve century-old tomes. Without them, those fragile pages would have long turned to dust.

Boka had visited often enough to know Aisha’s favorite spot. He found her standing on a ladder’s top rung, tiptoeing to shove a heavy tome back onto the highest shelf.

“Slowpoke,” the haughty girl sniffed.

“I was making deliveries,” Boka explained.

“You didn’t need to fetch us. I could’ve taken this brat home myself.”

Boka lifted Aisha down from behind.

“You’re the brat too…” he muttered under his breath.

Spotting him, Dorin darted over, eyes sparkling.

“Uncle! Uncle! Up high! Me too!”

Seeing Aisha carried down, she wanted the same game. Dorin adored Boka, always clinging to him and twirling in circles.

“Alright, alright. I know.”

Boka hoisted her onto his shoulders.

“Wooow! So high!”

Dorin hugged his head, nuzzling like a docile kitten.

On the way back, Aisha borrowed more books. Unlike the beginner magic texts from months ago, these covers alone gave Boka a headache. Baird had once called her a once-in-a-generation genius. Even the library’s old caretaker marveled how she’d devoured entire shelves in months. At this rate, she’d replace him within two years.

Boka bought them candies despite his thin wallet. With these two, he never remembered the word “thrift.” After resigning from the Duke’s manor, he’d refused all severance pay—Clarr’s death still haunted him. Now, Cynthia’s allowance was his only lifeline.

Back on Mire Street, Boka spotted a man talking to Cynthia near their shop. Not a customer. Winston, the fruit vendor from across the street.

Ever since Baird’s passing, men lingered near the store. Mire Street’s famed beauty, Cynthia Bloomer, was now a widow. By the second week after the funeral, suitors had already appeared. Even Boka had been stunned.

*“Sorry, my husband died fourteen days ago,”* Cynthia had replied then.

The man persisted—until he saw Boka nocking an arrow indoors.

Was this the same situation again?

Winston’s wife had died last year. Was he using shared grief to get close? He *was* kind—often treating Boka to watermelon juice… No. Boka shook his head. Their age gap was too wide. And Baird had entrusted him with Cynthia’s wellbeing. He wouldn’t approve lightly.

“Please consider it carefully. At your age…” Winston pressed.

“I-I… he…” Cynthia stammered, flustered.

“Trust me, I’m reliable.”

“If it’s just a meeting…”

“Let the young ones decide after they meet.”

Winston’s words cornered her.

“Fine… I’ll meet her,” Cynthia finally conceded.

Boka rushed over, heart pounding.

“W-What meeting, Cynthia? What’s happening?”

Winston clapped his shoulder with a chuckle. “Explain to the lad. My customers await.” He strode off before Boka could stop him.

“What’s wrong? Why won’t you talk?” Boka shook her shoulders. “Did you… agree to something?” His head spun.

“Ah… yes,” Cynthia said stiffly.

“No way—”

“He’s introducing you to a girl.”

“…Huh?” Boka blinked.

“Winston wants to match you with his niece.” Her smile looked painfully forced.

“What?!” Boka’s eyes widened.

*He* was the subject—not the widow before him.

“I’ve already agreed.”

“You didn’t even ask me—”

“I’ve met her. She’ll make a good wife. You’re… not young anymore.”

“But I—”

Boka choked on his words. Marriage? He had no future planned, no stability—just a freeloader living off Cynthia’s allowance.

Winston had already set the date. His niece would arrive in two weeks from her village, where girls married young. Her parents had begged their city-dwelling uncle to find her a match.

Boka frequented Winston’s stall often. Now he was the chosen candidate.

*Lucky or cursed?*

At least the wait gave him breathing room.

Cynthia had once joked about arranging his marriage. Now she’d actually started.

Dinner that night was heavy with silence.

Dorin and Aisha ate as usual, but Cynthia stared at her plate, chewing slowly without a word.

When Boka reached for chicken, she slid the dish away.

“D-Did I do something wrong, Cynthia?” he asked timidly.

“Huh? No! It’s… not your fault.” She forced a smile.

He pressed further, but she brushed him off.

He tried for chicken again—only to find Aisha had claimed it all.

Normally, Cynthia would scold her gluttony. But tonight, the mistress of the house said nothing.

After dinner, a distracted Cynthia cleared the plates.

Boka hung two kerosene lamps outside the shop. He, Aisha, and Dorin sat watching passersby. With the Birth Festival approaching, Mire Street buzzed even on this early winter night. Business had been good—warm socks and candles sold steadily.

The cluttered shop held treasures from the basement storeroom, some items even Boka had never seen. Earlier, they’d sold a small alcohol stove. Winter was coming; stew simmering in such a pot tasted divine. Boka had a similar stove in the Aber Mountains—toss in dried meat, vegetables, spices… his mouth watered at the memory.

A sharp scent cut through his thoughts. He glanced down. Aisha’s face was flushed crimson. She kept sipping from a tiny iron flask.

“Aren’t you scared Cynthia’ll spank you?”

Boka had no authority to scold her—but Cynthia did.

Aisha let out a boozy belch. “She’s got bigger worries tonight.”

Boka peeked inside at Cynthia.

“What’s wrong with her today?”

“Heh.” Aisha’s grin turned sly. “Women’s hearts are fathomless depths, kid. You’re too green.”

Boka sighed. Drunk and mocking him—but he had no comeback.

*Dragonfolk.*

His gaze snagged on green-robed figures slipping into Mire Street’s inn.

Just lodging for the night?

Aisha chuckled softly. She’d noticed too.

“Why are *they* here? Still draped in gloom. Same old robes.”

The inn drew many outsiders—cheap, central, good for job hunting.

As the Dragonfolk entered, one turned back.

The girl. The one who’d smiled at Boka before.

She hesitated, then slowly approached the shop. Passersby parted around her.

Suddenly, she stopped mid-street.

Beneath flickering lantern light, she stood alone.

Eyes closed, hand pressed to her chest, she dropped to one knee and bowed deeply toward them.

*What…?*

Boka froze. He’d never met Dragonfolk. Why this reverence?

A stateless people dwelling in forests, bound by no kingdom’s laws—yet this mysterious girl had honored him.

By the time he snapped out of his daze, she was gone.

*Clang.*

Aisha’s flask hit the ground.

Boka turned. Her drunken haze had vanished. She stood rigid, face pale with terror.