The air turned icy all at once, and Boka hunched his shoulders slightly against the chill.

In mere moments, biting cold had his teeth chattering.

"Aisha, I’m freezing."

The little girl beside him wasn’t shivering as violently, but her breath still fogged in the air.

"Because the other moon has risen," she said. "Don’t worry. It might ease by tomorrow."

Boka tilted his head back. That orb was no longer the full moon he knew—its surface looked stained, mottled. Like filth. Like something ominous. Its sickly glow made his skin crawl. Staring at it felt like being pulled into its world, fear seeping into his bones.

*Why would anyone pray to such a moon?* he wondered. *Why confess sins to a god under this light?*

"You know," a voice said suddenly behind him, "that’s the demon’s realm."

Boka spun around. A girl in a thin dress stood there, appearing from nowhere. The night wind whipped her slender frame, her long black hair streaming like ink.

"The demon’s realm..."

"Yes." She smiled faintly. "A purgatory. Where demons dwell."

Aisha barely glanced at the stranger before turning her gaze back to the sky.

"After the gods shaped this land, demons began coveting it. Their world is rotten. Ugly. No sun. No rivers. Only gloom and silence." She stepped in front of Boka. "They used their power to draw closer to us. But the gods wouldn’t stand idle—not when they loved us, and the world they birthed."

Boka hesitated. "And then?"

"The gods shattered themselves into dust, scattering across our world. They poured their strength into every corner. With their own flesh and bones, they built a barrier to shield us from demons."

"I see," Boka murmured, scratching his head.

"That’s why people pray today. Confess their sins. Reflect on the gods’ selflessness, their supreme grace."

"Ah."

Boka nodded slowly. He’d never heard this myth before. In Albion, so much was taboo. Even the true name of the gods—*Amir*—he’d only heard whispered twice. Spoken solely during coming-of-age rites by the eldest priest, then locked forever in the heart, never to cross lips again.

*Ah-choo!*

The girl sneezed loudly.

"Brrr! So cold!" She wiped her nose with a finger. Just like that, her mysterious aura vanished. The dignified maiden was gone.

*What a drop in presence.*

"Give me your coat."

"Huh?"

"I’m freezing to death!" She shot him a pitiful look. "A proper gentleman would take off his coat for a girl dressed like this, right? *Right?*"

"But I—"

Her eyes turned devastatingly mournful.

"...Fine." He surrendered instantly.

She yanked his coat on. It swallowed her whole, sleeves dangling past her fingertips.

"Haven’t been out in ages. Forgot how to dress for weather." She jogged in place, clutching the coat tight.

*It’s deep winter. Who wears a thin dress at night?*

"You don’t go out often?"

"Nope." She grinned. "Unlike my lively little brother, I’m sickly. They never let me out. Snuck away today!"

In Albion, parents kept children indoors after dark. The streets teemed with strangers and shadows.

Boka, now coatless, tried pulling Aisha closer for warmth. She glared and jerked away.

"Ah!!" She suddenly shrieked. "It’s so late!!"

"Not that late—"

Boka had only just finished dinner before his delivery run.

"We’re doomed! Doomed!" She paced frantically. "All your fault for being late!"

"M-me?"

"Gotta run! Gotta run!" She bolted toward the harbor’s far end—still wearing his coat.

"Hey! My coat!"

"Boka!" Her voice floated back. "Next time, show me that plate-shooting trick in the sea wind again!"

She vanished before the echo faded.

*Just as I thought...*

Boka sighed wearily. *She looks exactly like Percy.*

Though new to the capital, he’d grown familiar with its rhythms. Met more people. Made connections. He’d come down from the Aber Mountains seeking his past, his family. Despite regrets and losses, this quiet life felt like a blessing. If gods truly listened, Boka had only one wish: *Let this peace remain.*

"Are you cold?" Aisha asked.

"Ah—yes."

"Good." She tightened her wolf pelt. "Stay away from people like her. Nothing good comes of it."

"Who?"

"That girl." Her voice turned sharp. "You don’t belong in their world. That boy too—he’ll get you killed."

*The boy* meant Percy. Boka understood that much.

"But—" He tried to protest.

"You’ll drag Cynthia down with you," Aisha said calmly. "Is that the future you want?"

"No..."

"They only find you amusing. Even your clumsy archery." Her grip tightened on his wrist. "When they tire of you, *you’ll* be the one bleeding."

She stopped abruptly, staring into his eyes. "Understand?"

"...I understand."

"Good."

Her small hand radiated warmth through his skin, thawing him to the core. For a flicker, he thought he saw pale blue light in her pupils—but when he leaned closer, it was gone. Only a headbutt greeted him.

Boka had just entered Mire Street, heading for the general store, when a voice called out.

"Boka."

He turned. An elder in green robes stood there.

"Alva? What is it?"

Dragonfolk lodged at the Mire Street inn—meeting him at the night market wasn’t odd.

"I’ve been waiting for you."

"Huh?"

Boka paused. *The second person today claiming to wait for me. My head’s spinning.*

"Follow me."

"What?"

Alva was already walking ahead.

Boka glanced at Aisha. After a tense moment, she nodded. *Dragonfolk are peaceful,* he recalled her saying. *No schemes. No threats to life.*

He trailed Alva across Mire Street, into a shadowed alley.

"Alva, what’s this about—"

Before Boka could finish, the elder dropped to one knee. Such reverence from an elder left Boka frozen.

"Lord Boka," Alva rasped. "We’ve brought ruin upon you."

"Ruin? You mean today’s incident? It’s over! Forget it. Please, get up—"

Boka reached to help him, then saw the alley was packed with Dragonfolk. All bowed heads. Even the children stared at him with guilt-heavy eyes.

"Lord Boka," Alva pleaded, "flee Albion. Now."

"Why?"

"He won’t let this rest." Alva’s voice cracked. "That man... Lupin Alastor."

"What’s happening?"

Alva pulled tickets from his pocket, spreading them on Boka’s palm.

"Admission passes..."

Stamped with the National Grand Theatre’s seal.

"Yes." Alva’s hand trembled. "Delivered to our inn just now."

One ticket bore a handwritten note: *For my opponent. Boka Brumer.*

These passes were unattainable even for wealthy merchants or minor nobles. Yet here were over a dozen—enough for every Dragonfolk present.

*What game is this?* Boka’s mind reeled. *He challenged me after I picked up his glove. Ancient rules void duels delayed by force majeure. He had an honorable out. Why this?*

"He wants to kill you before our eyes," Alva whispered. "Punishment for picking up Andrew’s glove. Revenge against us."

Aisha finally snapped. "Stop beating around the bush!" she yelled. "You have a blood feud with him, don’t you?!"

The Dragonfolk exchanged uneasy glances.

Alva nodded. "Yes."

"Why didn’t you say so earlier?!" Aisha’s patience shattered. "Dragging him into this now?!"

"We had reasons..." Alva bowed lower. "Years ago, Alastor found our hidden grove. He carried his dying sister, begging for our healing."

"And?" Boka pressed.

"The child was beyond saving. Only our kin could have cured her." Alva’s voice thickened. "But we were in the midst of a sacred ritual—the ancient cycle of our ancestors. Healing outsiders was forbidden."

"Did she die?"

"...Yes." Alva’s shoulders slumped. "We refused his plea. Bound by ancestral law. He held her in the forest... until her last breath."

"You did nothing," Aisha stated coldly.

"We *could* do nothing."

"...Then what?" Boka urged.

"He left with her body. Swore vengeance on us." Alva’s eyes grew distant. "Who knew we’d cross paths again before the Birth Festival... Is this Amir’s will?"

"I don’t care about your grudges!" Aisha spat. "Live or die as you please! But why drag this fool into it?!"

"Lord Boka, we beg your forgiveness," Andrew stepped forward. "Alastor won’t spare you. Flee Albion. This feud is ours. If it’s Amir’s design, we’ll face him alone."

Boka barely grasped their history. But *fleeing*? *Abandoning everything*? The words spun in his skull. *Make Cynthia sell the shop? Run like fugitives?* No. Some things were worth dying for.

"I’ll attend the appointment," he said flatly. "I’m not leaving."