Boka hated snow.

Everything was white. For someone with his poor eyesight, that wasn’t exactly helpful.

He sighed helplessly. The sky still hadn’t cleared. Below-freezing temperatures made his broken ribs throb dully. Though he’d taken herbal medicine mixed with Dragonfolk blood—a potent healer for flesh and bone—it did little for the deeper ache.

*Would this delay the wedding with Helen?*

Sitting by the杂货铺’s entrance, Boka warmed his feet by the charcoal brazier. Boredom gnawed at him.

*What would they do after marriage? Have children?*

He shook his head immediately. *Shameful thoughts. She isn’t even my wife yet.* First, he needed to win over Helen’s parents. But then again… Cynthia and Helen’s relationship felt oddly strained. And Boka was utterly dependent on Cynthia—living off her generosity. How would they manage life together?

Even the wedding costs seemed to fall on Cynthia.

She’d already begun preparations. The venue was settled easily with the Merchant Guild. But countless details remained: chefs, decorations, attire. Too complex for Boka to handle. Yet Cynthia insisted, *"Leave it to me."* She’d even pledged half her savings. The sheer generosity terrified him, but she wouldn’t relent.

*"Boka, my brother—you’re the last man of the Blumer Clan. If I fail to care for you, Grandfather’s spirit would never forgive me."*

Boka had no reply.

By the way, Aisha and Dorin would serve as flower girls. The contrast between the elder and younger would surely melt hearts.

During his convalescence, Boka had gained weight. His face had plumped up in just days. *Would middle age bring even worse?* He shuddered to imagine it.

Cynthia had stocked ready-made scarves from the guild market. Sales boomed this week thanks to the cold. Though Boka couldn’t lift heavy loads, he managed small shop tasks—though he’d given wrong change several times. His arithmetic was… unreliable.

Aisha curled like a lamb beside the brazier, swaddled in the fur coat Boka had made her, chin tucked deep into its collar against the chill.

"Refill this." She thrust her empty teacup toward him.

"I’m injured, you know."

"*Now*." Her command was crisp.

Walking was fine, but Aisha’s demands still drew a grumble from Boka.

"*Seriously*—"

Before he could rise, Cynthia plucked the cup from Aisha’s hand.

"Laziness won’t win you a husband, Aisha," she chided while pouring water. "You’ll end up alone."

Aisha shrank from Cynthia, burying her face in her scarf.

Cynthia set the steaming cup on the small table before her.

"Don’t say that, Cynthia," Boka protested. "She’s just a child."

"Only five years younger than Helen, isn’t she?"

"Well… yes, but—"

"And Boka," Cynthia added firmly, "I know you two are close. But clinging together all day—even sharing a bed? You must consider Helen’s feelings."

Boka and Aisha froze, exchanging a startled glance.

"Helen wouldn’t mind…"

But Aisha stared at her lap, cheeks flushing crimson.

"*What* wouldn’t I mind?"

A voice cut in. Helen stood at the doorway.

"Just… idle chatter," Boka stammered, trying to deflect.

"Don’t hide fun things from me," Helen said, suspicion flickering in her eyes.

"Let’s go," Boka urged, standing abruptly. "We should head out."

"Oh! Right, Boka-nii."

Today held a purpose: delivering wedding invitations. Cynthia handled the Blumer Clan’s old connections. Helen and Winston’s circle left only the shopkeepers on Merchant Street. But Boka had one crucial stop—Gerner, his former mentor at Duke Agnes’s estate. The man who’d cared for him beyond Cynthia. Boka *had* to invite him personally, injuries be damned. It was only proper.

Cynthia fetched Boka’s coat, fussing over his collar like a mother.

"Be careful," she murmured. "You could’ve skipped this. Let someone deliver a letter while you heal."

"We’re taking a cart," Boka assured her. "Not walking."

A merchant’s hay cart bound for Lisen Street had agreed to give them a ride. Conveniently, it was Helen’s day off.

"Just… take care of yourself," Cynthia sighed, resigned.

After her final warnings, they left. The cart ride dominated their journey, leaving only chatter between them.

The capital’s draft horses wore special hoof plates for icy roads. The two massive black stallions moved faster than a man could run.

"Eh? Aisha isn’t your real sister?!"

"No," Boka nodded. "I found her."

"Where?"

"In the mountains."

"No wonder you don’t look alike…"

"Not a single trait in common."

"But you seem so close."

"Do we?"

Boka was baffled. Aisha scolded him constantly—how did anyone see harmony? Yet both Cynthia and Helen insisted on it.

"Aisha’s terrible… I can’t go easy on her…"

"What’s wrong?"

"N-nothing!" Helen quickly replied. "Is that it, Boka-nii?"

Duke Agnes’s manor came into view. They’d visited Gerner here before; Helen recognized it.

The cart driver dropped them at the gates, promising a return time before clattering off with his cargo.

The guards knew Boka. Gerner, the head gardener, held status rivaling the steward. As his apprentice, Boka was familiar here. With Duke Clar gone, security had relaxed. Entry was easy.

From the courtyard, the charred ruin of the second-floor room was starkly visible—the place where fire consumed Duke Clar.

Boka’s chest tightened. Deep down, he still blamed himself for Clar’s death. He hadn’t erred. Nor had Trena. They’d simply chosen opposing paths they believed were right.

Gerner had tended the garden meticulously before the snows came—pruning branches, wrapping tender stems in cloth against the cold. Boka found him dozing in a lounge chair in the rest room.

"Master Gerner."

Boka roused him and presented the wedding invitation.

Gerner adjusted his monocle, studying the card repeatedly before breaking into delighted laughter.

"Wonderful! Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "I’ll be there without fail. My blessings to you both."

He’d always favored Helen for Boka. Now, his joy was palpable. He even slipped off his own ring, pressing it into Helen’s hand despite her protests.

After catching up on each other’s lives, Boka prepared to leave. Cynthia awaited him, and the cart’s return neared.

But in the courtyard, he saw *her*.

Aria.

Crouched before a shrub, she gently brushed snow from its branches—tender, almost reverent.

After a moment, she sensed his presence. Turned.

Her pupils widened slightly in surprise.

*What do I do now?* Boka’s first thought.

"H-Hello," he approached.

She stood, lips trembling as if words failed her. Her gaze held disbelief.

"You… what are you doing here?"

"Visiting Master Gerner."

*She saved my life once,* Boka realized. *Not inviting my savior to my wedding? Unforgivable.*

"T-that is…" he fumbled. "If you’re willing… please come."

He offered the invitation.

Aria pressed her lips together, took it, and opened it immediately. Her movements were still, sculpted.

For a fleeting moment, something like joy flickered across her face.

Then her expression shifted—a storm of anger, humiliation, and bitter resentment surging within her. A pain she couldn’t name. She stared at Helen beside Boka, then back at him.

*She couldn’t forgive this man.*

*Rip!*

She tore the card in half. Folded the pieces. Tore again.

Silent, she dropped the shreds to the ground and ground them under her boot.

"I won’t come."

She strode toward the manor without looking back.

Boka’s pride lay shattered at his feet. Humiliated before his fiancée. *Did she see him as trash?* Was that night at the theater mere amusement for a bored noble? *Of course.* She was Aria of the Agnes Family, granddaughter of Duke Clar. He was just a commoner who’d forgotten his place. Worlds apart.

But—

"That’s *enough*!" he shouted, raw. "Why do you always look down on everyone? Yes, I’m lowborn—but I invited you in good faith! Do you know how much courage that took? Can’t you reject someone *kindly*? Don’t you care how others feel?!"

Boka panted, the words ripped from his chest.

Aria halted. Turned slowly.

Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

"*Get lost*."

That single word hung in the frozen air.

...

The return cart ride was silent. Boka’s ribs screamed from his outburst.

"I’m sorry, Helen," he muttered, head bowed. "You shouldn’t have seen that. She was… cruel."

Humiliated before his fiancée—all his own doing.

But Helen stayed quiet, thoughtful.

"*You’re* the cruel one, Boka-nii," she finally said.

"Why? I shouldn’t have yelled, but—"

Helen met his eyes, then smiled softly.

"You don’t need to know why. If you did… you wouldn’t be *my* Boka-nii."

"I don’t understand," he sighed. "Are you cold?"

He noticed the low collar of her coat, the wind slicing down her neck.

"I’m fine."

Boka unwound his scarf and wrapped it around her.

"Take it. Don’t catch a chill."

Helen paused, then unwound half the scarf from her own neck and looped it around his. One scarf connected them.

"See? Perfect," she smiled.

"O-oh…" His cheeks burned.

"Boka-nii," she added gently, "I’ll be staying at the palace for about a week starting tomorrow. The royal banquet preparations will keep me busy."

"Alright," he murmured, eyes downcast. "Take care of yourself."

Soft snowflakes drifted down from the sky. Unconsciously, Helen had already leaned against his shoulder.