"W-W-What?! Sister Cynthia, you, you, you—"

Helen’s face flushed crimson, her words dissolving into a severe stutter.

"What’s wrong? Are you unwilling?"

"N-No, I—"

Helen stared blankly at Boka. *She’s asking for my help,* he thought.

"Cynthia," Boka said, "why bring this up again? You’re making Helen really uncomfortable."

Everyone had heard Helen reject Boka during their last matchmaking attempt. The failure had left Cynthia visibly upset for days—she’d planned this for him so carefully.

Boka frowned, confused. Why did Helen look so furious while he was explaining?

"Boka, don’t interrupt. I must settle this important matter for you."

"Why?"

"You’re twenty-three. You can’t wait any longer."

Boka hoped Aisha would speak up for him, but she and Lola had silently retreated to a corner. He felt utterly hopeless—they’d been arguing just moments ago.

"Boka, I’ll ask you three questions," Cynthia pressed closer. "Do you dislike Helen?"

"Of course not," he replied instantly.

"Do you find it troublesome to be around her?"

"She’s actually really fun."

"Good. Last question." She took a deep breath. "Do you dislike the idea of Helen as your wife?"

"T-This..."

Boka faltered. It was Cynthia’s tactic. If she’d asked if he *liked* Helen, he could’ve dodged with "I love her like a sister." But Cynthia knew him too well.

"I don’t dislike her..." Boka stammered. "But you should ask Helen too! Even if I agree, her opinion matters most!"

He burned with embarrassment. After Helen had openly refused romantic feelings, how must she see him now, flustered like this?

He remembered last night—Helen standing protectively before him. His feelings had grown so complicated. She was a good girl; how could she marry someone six years older?

"Eh? Eh?! B-B-Boka-nii, you—"

Helen’s reaction was crystal clear.

"Fine," Cynthia planted her hands on her hips. "So if Helen agrees, you’re fine with it, right?"

"I..." Boka deflated like a punctured balloon. "Y-Yeah. It’s up to her. I don’t really mind..."

His voice dwindled to a whisper.

Cynthia’s gaze snapped to Helen.

"Helen Sian!" she called her full name. "I’m handing him over to you now. Give me your answer."

Shame flooded Boka. *Handing him over?* She sounded like a mother. Deep down, Cynthia still saw him as a child—a harsh wake-up call for Boka, who sometimes fantasized about her as a woman. He couldn’t lift his head.

The heroine’s eyes welled with tears.

"I... I..." Helen was utterly flustered. "I hate it!!"

She screamed and bolted out the door.

Failure was obvious. Boka slumped, head bowed.

"I told you," he muttered despondently. "Cynthia, how am I supposed to face her now? You went too far..."

But Cynthia ignored him.

Her face cold, she strode toward the exit.

"Where are you going?" Boka called after her.

"To discuss wedding arrangements with Mr. Winston."

Helen’s refusal had been unmistakable. No matter how much Cynthia and Winston pushed, it seemed hopeless.

Before Boka could stop her, she vanished through the doorway.

Injured and unable to chase her, Boka could only sit dumbly on the bed.

Exhausted to the core.

His eyes drifted to the pair in the corner. They’d long since detached themselves.

"I’d never marry you," Aisha spat, her face twisted in disdain.

*Yeah, no thanks.*

Boka assumed the matter was closed—Helen’s refusal had been so firm. Yet that night, as he lay in bed flipping through books Aisha borrowed from the National Library, Mr. Winston burst in. He brought fruit, fussing over Boka’s injuries. After some small talk, Winston casually announced his wedding date with his niece.

"Huh? Didn’t you know? She already agreed."

It was delivered so easily.

Winston laughed heartily, slapping Boka’s back. "That child’s in your hands now. Hurt her, and I won’t forgive you."

Someone lingered at the door—Helen. She ducked away the moment Boka spotted her.

And so, Boka Brumer and Helen Sian’s marriage was bizarrely, inexplicably sealed.

The wedding was set for one month later. Helen’s parents would travel to the capital to witness it alongside Cynthia, Boka’s guardian. Cynthia had already declared the reception would be held on Mel’s Merchant Street, shutting down business for the day. The entire guild would attend.

For several nights, Boka tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Even his broken ribs faded to insignificance. *He was getting married.* To a familiar woman. Imagining Helen holding a baby... it felt almost real. *She’s only seventeen—isn’t this illegal here?*

But beneath it all, a flicker of anticipation stirred.

*With her... maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.*

A week later, Boka’s injuries healed enough for him to walk. Albion had fully surrendered to its long winter. This year’s snow arrived earlier than usual—normally, light flurries only began after the Birth Festival, when the second full moon vanished. But the crimson moon had set three days ago, and snow still swirled relentlessly. Boka had missed witnessing it.

The Black Spine incident continued to escalate. Many civilians had died or been injured that night during the Birth Festival. The backlash was fierce. While some blamed the royal family and institutions for poor oversight, leaked rumors shifted public anger toward Alva and the others. Dragonfolk walking the streets felt people actively avoiding them. Just days ago, Andrew nearly died after buying a black bread roll from a street vendor—hidden needles lined its core. Only his habit of squashing bread before eating saved him.

This wasn’t like early fanatics throwing rocks. It was attempted murder.

Gill might have been right. Temporarily relocating the Dragonfolk to the palace could protect them. Alva had promised to leave Albion once tensions eased, though he’d stay in the capital to treat Mia.

Though Cynthia warned Boka not to wander, boredom drove him to stroll the harbor after days cooped up at home.

Helen’s palace duties kept her busy. With foreign envoys departing after the festival, endless farewell banquets meant mountains of dishes to wash each night. Injured and unable to pick her up daily, Boka hadn’t seen her—she’d been staying in her dormitory.

Snowflakes carried by the sea wind nipped with cold, sharpening Boka’s thoughts.

Today, he met her again. Lily. The girl from the brothel.

He recognized her figure from afar—her posture was unmistakable.

She’d stumbled, limping through the snow. Her stubborn pride seemed to hate her twisted ankle, making her stomp harder.

"Stop that. You’ll hurt yourself worse," Boka said, stepping in front of her.

Lily froze, taking a moment to recognize him.

"Don’t care. Leave me alone."

Boka steadied her. "Come with me. I’ll get someone to take you home."

"Are you mocking me?"

"Why would I laugh at you?"

Lily kept her head down, voice barely a whisper.

"Because I got Baird killed."

She’d revealed Baird’s whereabouts to traveling merchants, leading to his death and leaving Cynthia a widow.

"Oh, I’ve no right to blame you. Or to mock you here."

"That’s your choice," Boka said.

She looked up, eyes wide with disbelief.

Then Lily lowered her gaze again.

"I’m sorry."

"Don’t apologize," he said. "It’ll only make me feel guilty."

"Mr. Baird... he was a good man."

"Is that what you believe? That’s good. But you’re not at fault. No one can blame you for that."

For some reason, seeing her stirred a storm of emotions in Boka. Memories of that summer flooded back.

"Let me get you home, okay?"

"Okay," Lily nodded.

Later, Boka found Cynthia, lying that he’d met a lost little girl on the street and needed to send her home. He gave the convent’s address—not the brothel—where several nuns lived. Kind-hearted Cynthia eagerly agreed.

Lily’s expression grew complex at the sight of her, shrinking back timidly. But when Cynthia gently took her hand, Lily’s tension seemed to melt away.

As she left, Lily turned and gave Boka a faint, fleeting smile.