The hole Cynthia had wrecked was repaired by craftsmen the very next day, transformed into a standalone wooden door.

But it couldn’t be locked from either side—just shut symbolically. Boka thought it was utterly pointless. Might as well have left it as it was.

Worse, Cynthia had been in a foul mood these past few days. She’d glare at Boka for no reason, brush him off, radiating resentment. Even Dorin noticed something was off.

When Boka asked Aisha about it, she’d dodge with vague answers, laced with sarcasm.

*Did I upset her somehow?* Boka racked his brain but found no answers.

Thankfully, this phase didn’t last. Cynthia seemed to come to terms with reality, her usual gentle warmth returning as if a switch had flipped.

Just two or three days later, Helen left for the royal palace. Mr. Winston’s connections were formidable—even as a lowly laborer, working inside the castle was unimaginable for ordinary folk. Especially since Helen had only just arrived in the capital.

Though the palace provided dormitories, Helen still lived on Mire Street. Throwing a girl fresh to a strange city into those stern, high-walled grounds would’ve terrified her.

Labor shifts alternated between day and night. Sometimes Helen returned late. The capital was safe, but as a delicate girl, she’d be defenseless against danger. Mr. Winston, busy with his shop and too old for constant shuttling, entrusted the task to Boka.

Boka, hopeless at refusing anyone, naturally agreed. Beside him, Cynthia muttered under her breath—too low to make out.

Boka would amble toward the palace after dinner, timing his arrival with Helen’s shift end. Even if he was late, the girl would always wait patiently near the guards.

Outside the palace gates, they sometimes met Alva and the other Dragonfolk.

Having agreed to heal Princess Mia at King Gill’s pleading, they now had free access to the royal city. Every time they saw Boka—even the elderly Alva—they bowed deeply with utmost respect.

Boka found it mortifying. Their constant public bows on the streets only made "Cynthia’s brother" a louder, more famous title.

Helen, meanwhile, gazed up at Boka with pure adoration.

She had no idea why the Dragonfolk treated him this way. If she knew he’d dueled Angora’s Holy Templar, Albion’s strongest swordsman, alone at the National Grand Theatre… well, surviving that was miracle enough.

Honestly, in private, Boka would’ve dropped to his knees begging. *Go bother those Dragonfolk—it’s got nothing to do with me.* He desperately wanted to say it.

From Alva, Boka learned of Mia’s illness. A childhood condition, kept at bay only by rare medicines from the palace apothecaries. A cure? Possible, Alva thought—but it’d take years of careful treatment. He’d stay in Albion past the Birth Festival.

Boka had hidden his theatre duel from Cynthia. She’d have stopped him. But secrets rarely stayed buried. Someone from the Mire Street Merchants’ Guild had recognized him that night. Whispers spread, reaching Cynthia’s ears.

She didn’t confront him. Instead, Boka found her silently packing crates in their shop.

He naturally stepped in to help.

Cynthia stayed quiet at first. Then, abruptly:

"That person in the theatre… was you."

Boka froze. The question hit like a thunderclap.

"Y-yeah."

"Oh." Her voice was flat. No anger, no blame.

Boka exhaled. *She’s letting it go. Past is past.* He almost smiled—until regret stabbed him cold.

Cynthia was crying. Tears streamed down her face as she lifted crates, silent and shaking.

He could’ve taken her scolding, her fists. But her tears? They pierced his heart like a thousand needles—agonizing, helpless.

He reached to comfort her. She jerked her arm away.

"Don’t come near me for a week."

That was all she said.

When Cynthia was angry, Boka obeyed. This was the second time he’d made her cry. Last time, it was just coming home late. This time? He’d nearly died in that theatre. A far graver sin.

*Seven days. Then I’ll explain. Apologize.*

*Just don’t let guilt kill me first,* he thought.

One thing still gnawed at Boka: Why had the Dragonfolk agreed to heal Mia only after the king’s desperate plea? Their strange magic made sense. But seven years ago, during the plague—why had they forced Baird to keep their secret? If they held transcendent healing arts, shouldn’t they have shared them as a treasure? Even if they were performing forbidden rituals, others could’ve taken their place. Then Lupin’s tragedy might never have happened. And Boka’s duel? It wouldn’t have existed.

Deep down, he still resented them.

That changed tonight, outside the palace, when they met the Dragonfolk girl Lola.

She was substituting for Alva, treating the princess.

Boka cautiously asked why Dragonfolk rarely healed others.

"Because *we* are the medicine," Lola replied.

"What?"

"The reason we seldom heal." She smiled faintly. "We *are* the ingredients."

"I don’t understand—"

Lola suddenly seized Helen’s hand and bit down hard.

Her fangs pierced Helen’s tender skin. Blood welled.

"Ow!"

"Patience."

Lola pricked her own finger and pressed it to Helen’s lips.

"Lick it."

"Eh?!"

When Helen hesitated, Lola smeared her blood inside the girl’s mouth.

"Still hurt?"

"It… itches a little."

Astonishingly, Helen’s wound began sealing. In seconds, tender new skin replaced the gash.

"See?" Lola’s eyes glinted mysteriously. "That’s why."

"What…?" Boka’s eyes widened. "During the plague—"

"Have you ever seen an entire clan—children to elders—gather to bleed themselves dry?" Lola placed a hand over her heart. "This girl witnessed it."

Dragonfolk blood held immense healing power.

…If this truth got out? Greedy men would hunt Dragonfolk like prey, trading them in shadows. Nobles would cage them. But by offering healing under the guise of medicine, they earned respect instead.

"Seven years ago," Lola said softly, "several of my kin died from blood loss. We mixed our blood into the plague medicines. This secret has been guarded for millennia."

They’d paid a silent, sorrowful price for Albion’s people.

"And Mia’s medicine?"

Lola shook her wrist. "Today’s dose is mine."

"I’m sorry," Boka whispered. "I misunderstood you. But… is it safe telling us?"

"Don’t worry. I trust you both to keep silent."

"Thank you."

"Your princess’s condition is complex," Lola sighed. "It’ll take time."

"Will she recover?"

"Of course." A small smile. "As long as she lives, there’s hope."

The three walked downhill toward the city’s quieter districts. A chill crept into the air.

Above, the tranquil sky held two full moons of different sizes. Their intertwined light felt unnaturally cold.

Boka recalled Aisha’s explanation: when twin moons aligned, temperatures sometimes plummeted briefly. Nothing strange.

*Should I offer my coat?* He glanced at the two girls. *But who gets it?* After a mental tug-of-war, he kept it on. Better than causing offense.

Then Lola removed her green hooded robe.

Moonlight spilled over her long, silky azure hair. She gazed up at the twin moons, lost in memory.

Scales glistened at her neck. Her sapphire eyes held emotions beyond words—ethereal, untouchable, radiating a sacred beauty.

"They’re here," she murmured.

"What?"

"Behind us."

Boka spun around.

From a pitch-black alley, pairs of icy eyes glinted in the dark.

Dogs… no. That reek—*wolves!*

Why were wolves roaming the capital’s streets?

"They’ve been following us awhile," Lola said calmly.

Boka fumbled for his bow—then remembered he hadn’t brought it.

The wolves emerged. Towering builds—wolves native to highland snowfields. Bigger than beasts from the Aber Mountains! Danger screamed through Boka’s hunter instincts. No weapon meant no fight. Their killing intent was absolute: *humans were prey.*

"Run!"

Boka grabbed both girls’ hands.

But Lola didn’t move.

"Go!" he urged. "What are you doing?!"

"Unnecessary." Lola gave a light laugh. "These creatures fear me."

"Don’t be reckless, you—"

Before he finished, Lola stepped forward.

Her blue hair fluttered in the wind. With each step she took, the wolves flinched back. Until she stood before them.

All six dropped to their bellies, whimpering in terror. Most had already lost control of their bladders.

Lola’s gaze shifted—like a silent command.

Then, horrifyingly, the wolves turned on each other. Jaws locked on throats. Whimpers turned to choked gurgles as they crushed each other’s windpipes.

Lola turned back, her expression serene.

"'Dog meat?'" she offered. "Anyone hungry?"