Snowflakes began to fall from the night sky.
Centered around the grand cathedral, every resident of the capital converged toward it. From above, the streets were a dense, black mass of people.
The Birth Festival. Today had finally arrived.
The majestic cathedral stood to the left of the palace. Boka and Cynthia, delayed by shop duties, found the entire district choked with crowds. They couldn’t push through. Alva’s group had arrived early but got lost in the winding streets, ending up back at the outskirts.
Inside the cathedral, seats were filled by the king and noble envoys. Ordinary citizens could only pray in the biting wind.
Yet the crowd remained orderly. Everyone longed to stand closer to the cathedral, hoping the gods would hear their voices.
—For a god had once descended here.
Albion’s cathedral was built atop that sacred site.
Boka and Aisha stood indifferent, watching the fervent crowd with faint pity. Had Cynthia and Helen not dragged them here, this mismatched pair would’ve stayed buried under warm quilts. Back in the mountains during heavy snows, their favorite pastime was sleeping through the nights. Aisha used to snuggle close to Boka then—their shared warmth was bliss. Nothing like now, where slipping into bed felt like entering an ice cave.
Helen was on leave today. Only essential guards remained in the palace.
After nearly two weeks working there—cleaning and laundry, tasks she mastered quickly as a farm girl—Helen knew she owed this decent-paying job to Mr. Winston’s retiring friend.
Living in the capital seemed to have deepened Cynthia’s faith. For days, she’d murmured, *"I am a sinner... Grant me forgiveness..."*
This once-in-a-generation Birth Festival held profound meaning for all. Only Boka couldn’t grasp it. *Was I like this before I lost my memories?* he wondered.
The sloped streets, slick with snow, sent many tumbling. Aisha smirked at others’ falls—until she face-planted herself.
The crowd separated Boka’s group from Mr. Winston but reunited them with Lola and Andrew.
Terrified of falling again, Aisha clung tightly to Boka’s hand. He found this rare display of dependence oddly endearing. Helen, seeing this, immediately latched onto his other arm.
"What are you doing?"
"I might fall too," she insisted, eyes locked on his. "Problem?"
"Not really..."
"Good."
Cynthia, cradling Dorin alone behind them, seethed at Helen’s boldness.
With Dorin in tow and the crowd thickening, pushing forward felt unsafe. They settled on Lisen Street—a spot with a clear view of the cathedral—and waited.
Rumors said tonight’s crimson moon would hang largest and lowest. Clouds blocked Boka’s view, but faint red light bled through the overcast sky. Eyes closed, it felt almost within reach.
*Dong!*
A distant bell chimed.
Before Boka could react, the crowd extinguished their candles.
Moments ago ablaze with flickering lights, the capital plunged into darkness. Everyone—Cynthia included—knelt in prayer. Even little Dorin mirrored the pose perfectly.
"Has it begun?" he asked.
"Yes," Lola nodded.
Only three figures remained standing: Boka, Aisha, and the Dragonfolk girl.
Boka couldn’t imagine Aisha kneeling. Lola, however, watched Aisha with calm curiosity, as if studying her.
*Not kneeling would look suspicious.* Boka hastily mimicked the others.
"You’re avoiding her," Lola murmured to Aisha.
"No, I’m not."
"Lying’s unbecoming."
"None of your business."
...
"How stubborn," Lola scoffed. "Standing out will cause trouble."
With that, she dropped to one knee.
Aisha’s jaw tightened, her lips pressing into a thin line. After a long pause, she ducked behind Boka and crouched low.
Boka had his own sins to confess. Duke Clar. Trena. Even Baird. *If only I’d done more...* Guilt gnawed at him, especially over Trena. They’d ended on opposite sides—her thirsting for vengeance, him fighting to protect his newfound family. In a way, he’d killed her.
Lola had known Trena.
Boka’s turmoil defied words. *Did Albert send her?* he’d thought then.
Sleepless that night, he’d sought Lola the next morning, ready to apologize. But the Dragonfolk girl had shaken her head with a lonely smile.
*"I knew Trena would die. Long ago."*
*Why?* he’d asked.
*"When we first met, hatred had already taken root in her eyes. Her death was inevitable. I came to Albion only to see my friend one last time."*
"How cruel," Aisha whispered, head bowed.
"Hm?"
"Nothing..."
Snow dusted the kneeling faithful like a thin veil. Yet they remained motionless as statues.
Worried Dorin would freeze, Boka silently slipped off his coat and draped it over her.
The Birth Festival held no fanfare—only confession. Today, all must bare their sins to Amir, seeking eternal absolution. Not even kings were exempt.
*Dong!*
Another resonant chime echoed from the cathedral.
Eyes opened. The crowd rose. Far above, priests on high steps scattered something into the throng. Silence reigned, broken only by the whisper of falling snow.
"Boka, follow me," Cynthia urged.
Like everyone else, she and Helen placed hands over their left chests and bowed three times toward the cathedral. Boka copied them, bewildered.
Only Aisha averted her gaze from the sacred building, her expression shadowed.
Though sharing the same faith, Dragonfolk seemed to view the divine differently. Lola and Andrew stood relaxed—perhaps why they dared speak the god’s name freely.
Amir had saved the world through selfless sacrifice, shielding humanity from demons. Grateful, people confessed to her on this sacred day.
*Dong!* The third chime boomed louder than the last.
"It’s over," Cynthia sighed in relief.
"That’s it?" Boka frowned.
"Same as back home, Boka-ge," she said.
Candles and oil lamps flickered back to life, studding the dark city with starlight.
"What now?"
"Home," Cynthia hugged Dorin. "I’m freezing."
"T-too simple?"
"The Birth Festival is like this," Cynthia explained. "Confessions began when the other moon rose. Tonight was just the grand finale."
"I expected celebrations..."
"From now until the other moon vanishes, all festivities are forbidden," Helen added. "Boka-ge, you really lack common sense."
"I lived in the mountains!" Boka grumbled. (A lie—he simply refused to admit his amnesia, except to Aisha.)
Aisha still clung to Boka’s hand, her small feet unsteady on the icy path.
"Shall I carry you?" he offered.
She looked up, gave a disdainful sniff.
"No thanks."
Her words died as she stumbled. Boka caught her arm just in time.
"See?"
Aisha’s eyes welled with frustrated tears.
"I’ll let go now."
"Don’t!" She gripped his arm tighter. "J-just... like this."
Lola stifled a laugh from the side.
Helen tried to mimic Aisha, reaching for Boka’s other arm—but Cynthia yanked her back.
"More people means more falls."
"Auntie Cynthia, stop pulling me!"
"Eh?! What did you call me?!" Cynthia’s voice cracked. (Technically, Helen *should* call her "aunt"—Baird and Mr. Winston were peers. But Helen’s wide, darting eyes betrayed deliberate mischief.)
"Oops! My bad! Though you’re nine years older—"
"*Ow! Ow!* Let go!" Helen yelped as Cynthia pinched her cheek.
"How dare you be so disrespectful!"
"*You’re* disrespectful!" Helen garbled. "Think I don’t know what you do? Pacing in pajamas in front of him all winter!" She stuck out her tongue. "Shameless old woman~"
"Wearing pajamas at home is my right!"
"Hmph! Pretending to set us up while secretly hating the idea! You’re just humoring Uncle and me!"
"You—!"
Cynthia’s face flushed purple. Only Dorin’s presence stopped a full brawl.
"What’s going on back there?" Boka turned.
"Nothing, Boka-ge!" Helen beamed, instantly composed.
But Cynthia’s furious glare startled him.
"What’s wrong?" he asked warily.
"None of your business!" She turned away sharply.
"Tired of holding Dorin? I’ll take her."
Reluctantly, Cynthia handed over the child. Boka managed one hand for Aisha, the other cradling Dorin—no strain for his sturdy frame. Dorin would stay warmer this way.
As he reached for her—
His face froze.
A black shape landed on Cynthia’s back.
Wings. Blood-red pupils. Razor claws. Serrated teeth. Scaled flesh.
A dragon...
It opened its maw and shrieked—a sound that ripped through the night.
"Duck!"
