By the time Oren and the others exited Duke Sidius’s palace, dusk had already fallen.

The crimson sun sank slowly through scattered clouds, casting a rose-tinted glow that flickered uncertainly over the river near the palace. Oren’s gaze drifted sideways. All shapes dissolved into a gray haze. As twilight deepened, the vibrant city faded beneath the vivid sunset, slowly dimming into shadow.

Ahead of Oren, Dysaia strolled leisurely with her hands clasped behind her back. Her silver hair swayed before his eyes like a shooting star from distant heavens. She hummed a nameless tune—unfamiliar yet warm, its melody gentle enough for anyone to appreciate.

"Is that truly wise?"

Oren’s voice was quiet as he watched her back.

"Agreeing to the duke’s request. From my perspective, your consent is certainly convenient. But..."

As Oren spoke, Dysaia slowed to a stop, staring blankly at the ground beneath her feet. He continued:

"Shouldn’t we avoid entanglement in mortal affairs? I thought hunting that Crimson Dragon was already your limit."

She’d told him this during his first visit to her castle. Yet after his words faded, Dysaia merely turned her head, smiling softly.

"Walk with me awhile, Oren."

She moved forward, a breeze lifting her silver strands. With elegant grace, she brushed aside the stray locks, leaving a trail of shimmering light in her wake. Oren fell into step beside her.

"First, I’ll answer your question: Why the Silver Dragon Legion never joined the wars of the Ancient Epoch."

Dysaia sighed heavily, her eyes lifting to the sunset-stained sky.

"Even among the Elder Dragons, Silver Dragons are the oldest lineage. Our birthrate has always been low. Long before humans rose to power, we waged endless wars with the Crimson Dragons over territory—wars that left deep scars on my kin."

She paused by a small riverside, picking up a smooth stone.

"Crimson Dragons may lack our individual strength, but they outnumbered us. I watched my brothers fall on battlefields. I tended to my parents at their deathbeds. By the time the human-nonhuman wars began... I was the last of the Silver Dragon Legion."

With a flick of her wrist, she sent the stone skipping across the water. It bounced three times before vanishing beneath a splash of silver spray.

"Once, out of curiosity, I soared invisibly above Lyporicus, observing the tides of war. Even as Dragons retreated, I did nothing. I believed—if fate decreed it, so be it."

Dysaia turned to face Oren. In her ancient eyes, buried under centuries of sorrow, a flicker of light stirred—a fleeting glimpse of childhood innocence. Her voice dropped to a whisper:

"But then I met you, Oren."

She recounted it all with a childlike lightness, as if yesterday’s memories were draped in sunset. Her aged voice held a trace of guileless wonder. Oren walked beside her, his thoughts drifting back to that first meeting—a moment that never truly faded.

"If fate exists, Oren... meeting you made me wonder if the world isn’t ruled by it alone. I left my castle seeking Elaer, ready to end the last Crimson Dragon’s bloodline myself. But after seeing you and that Elvenfolk girl, Yamwen... I realized those with power must act."

Dysaia raised her hand, her voice firm yet soft.

"I want to give non-humans a second chance. A grand autonomous territory—without spilling a single drop of non-human blood. First, we must stop the Alliance from reuniting the continent. Under the Elvis Family’s rule? There is no safety for lives like ours."

Her fist tightened slowly. In her eyes, Oren saw a passion long buried.

"This contract with Duke Sidius gives us leverage to demand that territory."

She extended her hand toward him, gaze unwavering.

"You’ll stand with me. Won’t you?"

The moment her words settled, Oren smiled faintly. He lowered himself to one knee before her, head bowed.

"If that is your wish."

Dysaia nodded, a quiet understanding dawning in her eyes—like watching a rare bloom unfold. Her lips curved into a smile too tender for words. Tree shadows danced across her face, softening her features into a dreamlike haze.

"Look up, Oren."

As he lifted his head, Dysaia leaned down. Her fingers brushed his cheek.

She murmured in a lingering whisper, her faint, alluring scent swirling like moonlight on midnight waves. Then her face drew closer—

Oren was pulled into a fierce embrace. Her unfinished words melted into a kiss brimming with longing. He drank in her scent, the world dissolving around them in that breathless instant.

It ended as suddenly as it began. Before Oren could react, Dysaia’s clear voice rang in his ear like a wind chime:

"Thank you, Oren. For always being by my side."

He saw her then—the Princess Silver Dragon’s face flushed, wearing a guileless smile only a three-year-old could muster.