Oren felt worse than he’d imagined.

His head throbbed as if struck by something heavy. His stomach felt knotted—a sensation so alien, he’d rather have it cut out than endure this torment.

Then, something brushed his forehead. His muddled thoughts slowly cleared. The knot in his gut loosened, as if untied by unseen hands.

*Am I dead at last?*

Eyes shut tight, Oren sensed someone nearby. A soft sigh reached his ears. The whisper of fabric. A gentle hand stroked his bangs.

The warmth vanished as the hand withdrew. A cool breeze drifted toward him. *This feels too real for heaven,* he thought. *Not that I’d know.*

He forced his heavy eyelids open.

Sunlight glinted off silver hair. A face of flawless perfection—blessed by the heavens themselves—hovered above him. Long, slender fingers with prominent knuckles swept aside his seaweed-black hair. Her smile radiated like winter sunshine, impossible to look away from.

"Long time no see, Oren. I’m glad to see you."

"Dysaia!"

Oren tried to sit up, but Dysaia pressed him back down. She leaned close, her voice a low murmur. An intoxicating, faint fragrance—like night-blooming flowers in soft rain—washed over him. He’d missed it terribly.

"I just cured your poison. Rest a while longer."

Oren slowly propped himself up with a pillow. Dysaia handed him a glass of water from the bedside table, smiling.

"But how did you know I was in trouble? William said you left no way to contact you."

Oren took the glass, puzzled. Dysaia’s smile deepened.

"Well... you should thank someone else. Without her, I wouldn’t have known."

She called toward the door.

"Miss Yamwen, I’ve known you were there. Please come in."

Silence stretched. Finally, the door creaked open. Yamwen peeked out, face flushed, avoiding their eyes.

"Sorry... I didn’t mean to intrude."

"Nonsense. *I* should apologize. Thank you for caring for Oren while I was away. He does tend to... attract trouble."

Dysaia turned to Oren.

"After you were poisoned, Miss Yamwen used sound transmission magic on the balcony. She shaped her thoughts into special mana, amplified it into the air. I sensed it nearby and arrived just in time."

"I-I was just grasping at straws!" Yamwen stammered, waving her hands frantically. "That necklace was a last resort!"

She bowed deeply to them both. "I’ll leave you alone. You haven’t seen each other in years—you must have much to discuss." Her voice trembled. "Truly... sorry for the intrusion."

"Yamwen, wait—"

SLAM. The door shut before Oren finished. The echo faded. Dysaia burst into soft laughter, hand over her mouth.

"That girl... utterly adorable."

---

*Sigh... Why did I run?*

Yamwen slowed to a stop after sprinting down the hallway. She wandered the academy corridors aimlessly.

*I just couldn’t stay. Not with her there.*

She twirled a strand of hair like spun gold and sighed.

Legends said the gods first created humans, but dissatisfied with their flaws, crafted elves and dwarves in their image. Dragons were different. They were the land’s oldest children. Evolving from humble lizards without divine aid, they became a wise and mighty race. The first dragons were said to rival gods in power and intellect.

Silver Dragons were among the most ancient branches of that lineage. Princess Dysaia’s millennia of life had honed her wisdom and strength to near-divine levels.

To Yamwen, Dysaia’s presence made her feel shabby. Clumsy. Her freckled face, unnaturally bright golden hair—she tugged her shirt higher, hiding what shouldn’t be seen.

*How could I ever compare?*

Silver Dragons loved taking human form most of all. That sealed her fate. Yamwen sighed again, slumping against a windowsill.

*But why do I feel so defeated?*

*Oren this... Oren that...*

"Ugh! Oren doesn’t matter! Doesn’t matter AT ALL!"

She shook her head wildly like a madwoman. Her necklace slipped from her pocket, clattering to the floor.

*Oh no...*

As she bent to pick it up, a hand reached it first.

"Th-thank you—"

She looked up. Oren held out the necklace, voice lazy.

"No problem."

"Eeek!"

Yamwen stumbled back as if seeing a ghost. "W-when did you get here?!"

"Just now."

*Just now... so he didn’t hear me.*

Oren tossed her the necklace. She caught it clumsily. He scratched his cheek.

"Dysaia told me... everything."

"Huh?"

Yamwen turned. Oren’s voice dropped, awkward.

"Honestly... I never expected you’d save me. I’m deeply grateful. So... if you ever need anything... I’ll do whatever I can."

*Anything?*

Yamwen froze. The words tumbled out before she could stop them:

"Then... can you hold me?"

*...What did I just say?!*

She whirled away, hands clamped over her burning face. *This is unbearable! Unforgivable! I’ve disgraced my elven blood!*

Forcing a shaky smile, she turned back. "S-sorry! Just a joke, I—"

Warm arms pulled her close.

*Where’s my mental preparation?!*

Yamwen froze, face crimson. Her hands flailed uselessly. Words choked in her throat. Then Oren’s whisper brushed her ear:

"Well... ah... how to put this..."

His voice calmed her. She peeked up. Oren’s face was red too, eyes darting away as he mumbled:

"Anyway... thank you. Truly."

Something in his voice settled her. She rested her hands on his back, whispering:

"No... *I* should thank *you*."

She leaned her head on his shoulder, breathing in the unfamiliar comfort. Her eyes drifted shut.

*Really... it’s me who should be grateful.*

She opened her eyes.

Dysaia stood by the window, hand over her mouth, watching them with a faint, amused smile.

"W-w-wait! STOP!"

Yamwen shoved Oren away. He stumbled back, face burning like charcoal, eyes fixed anywhere but on Dysaia.

"Oh dear," Dysaia chuckled. "Don’t stop on my account. Please, continue."

Yamwen’s voice squeaked:

"P-princess... when did you...?"

"Hmm, let me think..."

Dysaia placed a hand on her chin, pretending to ponder deeply. But then, the great Princess Silver Dragon stroked her own face and chirped in a cheerful tone,

"Sorry, I think I forgot."

This person...

Watching the Princess Silver Dragon act all adorably silly right in front of her, Yamwen felt utterly unable to form a single coherent thought. Just in time, Dysaia wiped the smile from her face and locked eyes with Yamwen.

"That’s enough joking. Miss Yamwen, I need to ask a favor of you."

"Huh?"

Seeing Dysaia’s serious expression, Yamwen was inexplicably yanked back to reality. At that moment, Dysaia continued,

"I need to see that Crimson Dragon. I know you can arrange it, right?"

After speaking, Dysaia took a deep, heavy breath—as if steeling herself for a crucial decision.

"I have something very important to ask him."