At the harbor, the shouts of men carried from afar.

Boka arrived as the fishing had already begun.

He’d been delayed helping Cynthia set up her shop—hauling cargo was mostly his duty.

Nearby cargo ships had cleared the fishing zone; traffic was strictly controlled, with personnel directing the waterways. Though Boka’s eyesight wasn’t sharp, he could still see the small boats brimming with catches. Some fishing vessels were already piling fish and crabs onto the shore.

Someone called to him from a distance. Recognizing faces from Mire Street, Boka hurried toward their boat and joined the inner-harbor fishing.

The capital’s inner harbor lay east of Mire Street. Its waters teemed with fish, but as a major shipping lane, fishing here had been legally banned since maritime trade began. Yet with the Birth Festival approaching, the capital held a Harvest Festival beforehand—a custom延续ed from a century past. Every Albion male could join the catch. Royal soldiers maintained order; even busy ships detoured.

Boka didn’t care much, but the festival symbolized peace and abundance. Since everyone from Mire Street participated, he’d come too.

Ordinarily, fishermen sailed to the open sea. But inner-harbor fish—caught only once every four years—were far plumper and sweeter.

Today’s haul was excellent. Boka started by assisting others, but after watching a few rounds, he mastered the technique. He cast nets twice with the crew, each time returning brimming full.

By noon, the harbor thronged with people. When the horn sounded, fishing ended. They rowed ashore, selected twelve sturdy fish for the altar, and a priest sprinkled soil over them—a ritual accepting the sea’s bounty. Then, beacon fires flared on both sides. The crowd erupted in thunderous cheers!

The brief, solemn ceremony concluded. Time to share the catch.

Though Boka’s group had reeled in plenty, those waiting ashore deserved their share too. They were merely representatives—Boka could join because one fishing boat belonged to the Mire Street Merchants’ Guild.

While Boka hesitated, the surging crowd rushed toward them.

Mr. Winston slapped his shoulder. “Grab fast!”

People had brought sacks, scrambling to stuff fish and crabs inside. Laughter and festive chatter filled the air.

*So this is the final ritual...*

No one had warned him. He hadn’t even brought a sack.

After a moment’s pause, Boka bent down and picked up two modest-sized fresh fish.

The frenzy lasted only minutes. Soon, the ground was nearly bare—only a few small, flopping fish remained. By tradition, these would be released back to the sea by the priest.

Boka felt glum. Others carried bulging sacks; he held only these two pitiful fish...

But it couldn’t be helped. Better than nothing. Time to head back—Cynthia would be waiting for lunch. His stomach growled after a morning’s labor.

On the way home, Mire Street neighbors noticed Boka’s meager haul. Knowing he was Cynthia’s brother and Baird’s kin, they pressed fish and crabs into his arms. One gave a fish, another a crab—soon, Boka carried the largest share of all.

He stored the catch behind the shop, keeping them alive in seawater. Then he washed with well water. The icy winter bath made him shiver and sneeze repeatedly. Stinking of fish, he dared not enter the shop directly—he feared driving customers away.

The back door opened. Cynthia recoiled at the sight of his bare torso.

“Boka! Washing with cold water?!”

“Ah—I—”

“Honestly! Are you a child? You’ll catch a cold!” Her voice sharpened with worry.

“Right... I’ll dry off upstairs.”

Boka scratched his head, heading for his room.

Cynthia tossed him two floral towels—her own.

“Dry properly,” she said. “We have guests.”

“Huh? Oh—okay.”

Boka ducked into his room, hastily rubbing himself dry. Using Cynthia’s personal towels made him uneasy. He pulled on his outer clothes while still damp.

*Guests?* Strange. Since Baird’s death, few visited. Perhaps Cynthia’s friends?

He tidied his clothes, grabbed some food from the kitchen—chicken legs and cured sausages Cynthia had prepared. The taste was especially comforting.

His hunger sated, Boka felt revitalized.

*Where’s Aisha?* She’d borrowed books yesterday; she should be home. As he stepped into the shop’s front, he spotted her in a corner.

Aisha sat rigid, face pale and stiff, staring blankly ahead.

*What could unsettle her like this?*

...

*Dragonfolk.*

Boka finally noticed them seated at the round table in the shop’s center.

Cynthia was speaking with them.

“Ah, Boka—you’re here.” Cynthia beckoned. “This is Mr. Alva and Miss Lola.”

An elderly man in a green robe sat hunched over, his face etched with unspeakable weariness. Wisdom glimmered deep in his eyes. Beside him sat a slender girl, head slightly bowed. Scales shimmered faintly along her jawline. She shifted slightly, nodded at Boka, and offered a small smile.

*Her.* The dragonfolk girl who’d knelt before them last night.

“Alva was Baird’s friend,” Cynthia explained. “He’s visiting the capital and stopped by to see us.”

“But my old friend is gone,” Alva’s voice rasped, thick with exhaustion.

At this, Cynthia’s voice trembled.

“He was kidnapped by exiles... those people killed him...”

Baird’s death was shrouded in mystery—he’d rambled strange things to Boka before dying. Cynthia, distraught, hadn’t caught the details. Boka had lied afterward, blaming Nellos exiles who’d abducted Baird; he’d escaped through sewers but succumbed to wounds. The broad strokes were true, but Boka had omitted the crucial truth: the plague’s real origin.

“Alva helped Baird develop the plague cure seven years ago,” Cynthia added.

*What?*

Boka froze. Everyone knew dragonfolk possessed miraculous healing arts—but that they’d aided Baird? He’d never heard this.

“Their condition was secrecy,” Cynthia continued. “Only a few knew—including me. We all kept silent.”

...

Silence thickened the air.

“Ah—I’ve slipped up again!” Cynthia gasped, hand flying to her mouth. “Mr. Alva, I’m so sorry! I let it slip!!!”

“Oh ho ho.” Alva chuckled softly. “Still as impulsive as ever, Cynthia... But no outsiders are here. It should be fine. And this young man seems... quite trustworthy.”

Unlike Alva, Lola sat wordless. While Aisha’s gaze pinned her down, Lola remained perfectly composed.

Suddenly—

Shouts erupted outside.

“You insult me!”

Shop Street often had squabbles; Boka ignored it. But Alva and Lola stood abruptly and strode out.

*Do dragonfolk enjoy spectacles?*

Boka and Cynthia followed.

Outside, the reason was clear: several foreign-dressed knights surrounded a young dragonfolk.

“Andrew—what happened?” Alva supported him.

“Ch-Chief...” The young dragonfolk rose from the ground. “They accuse me of stealing a gem.”

The knights were youths. The central figure stood strikingly tall and handsome, his features radiating quiet authority. Their armor bore foreign insignia—likely early arrivals for the Birth Festival.

“Sir Knight,” Alva stepped forward. “I trust my kin would never steal.”

The young knight smirked. “Then why does my late sister’s emerald rest in his hand?”

Alva shook his head, voice weary and bitter.

“I swear by Amir—dragon children do not covet others’ possessions.”

“He invoked the god’s name...” another knight muttered. “Dragonfolk truly are heretics.”

Gods had true names, but no priest or commoner ever spoke them aloud. To utter that sacred name was blasphemy; it was held only in silent reverence.

The knight’s face darkened. He seized Andrew’s shoulder. Andrew struggled, but the knight’s strength was immense—he yanked him close with a scowl.

“Albion’s law punishes thieves,” he muttered. “Come with me to the constabulary.”

The burly knight towered over Andrew, who could only hunch under his grip. But after a few steps, the knight halted. Unseen until now, green-robed dragonfolk now blocked his path. Their expressions were unnervingly calm—not indifferent, but radiating an icy, wordless chill.

“What now?” the knight sneered. “Do you think you can stop me?”

His voice held no fear—only arrogance.

“Lupin...” another knight tugged his arm. “The mood’s wrong. Don’t provoke them here.”

But Lupin ignored the warning. He stepped forward boldly.

“Stand aside.”

His steel longsword slid from its sheath.

The dragonfolk didn’t flinch.

Lupin pressed the blade against the throat of the nearest dragonfolk.

“Move.”

Fear flickered in the dragonfolk’s eyes—gone in an instant, replaced by stillness.

“You think I won’t strike?” Lupin’s face twisted with contempt. “Albion’s law protects its citizens. But are you dragonfolk even *human*? Can your kind truly be called a species?”

A deathly hush fell. Lupin’s words had crossed from theft to denying their very existence—a vile prejudice, sickening in its cruelty.

The dragonfolk clenched their jaws, fury trembling beneath restraint. Forest sages, holding back their final rage.

“You claim descent from dragons,” Lupin spat. “But to me, you’re no different from insects crawling in the dirt.”

*Crash!*

Something shattered on the cobblestones.

Andrew had hurled the emerald to the ground. His eyes burned crimson, teeth bared in rage. This began with him—but now his kin suffered humiliation. His patience had snapped.

“Knight!” he roared. “Cast down your gauntlet! Amir’s children will not endure insult!”

Lupin’s冷笑 deepened. As if expecting this, he flung his golden-trimmed gauntlet to the street.

This was the knight’s way: to challenge an opponent, one cast down a gauntlet or glove. To pick it up was acceptance. This ancient covenant bound all nations—even kings could not ethically refuse it. To accept was to risk death in duel.

Dragonfolk Andrew intended to legitimize their duel this way—to win recognition and justice through death.

But just as he reached to pick it up, another hand snatched the glove.

Boka ran his fingers over the glove. The material was an incredibly soft metal, clearly valuable at a glance.

"Don’t be like that," Boka said sheepishly. "Your stuff’s still here—someone probably just picked it up for you. I’m returning the glove, so let’s pretend nothing happened. Okay? Fighting in front of the shop’ll give Cynthia a headache. Customers won’t dare to come."

Though Boka tried to lighten the mood, the entire place fell into dead silence.

Cynthia hadn’t uttered a word before fainting. Lola, standing beside her, quickly caught her.

The gathered Dragonfolk were utterly astonished.

Aisha walked over to him, her expression sour as if she’d swallowed something bitter.

"Boka."

"Huh?"

She kicked him fiercely.

"Are you an idiot?!!!"