Oren walked slowly behind Lia, heading back toward the academy.

The waning moon rose, its cold light spilling into every corner of the world. Loneliness hung thick over the empty streets. Beneath the tranquil sky, a quiet desolation seeped through.

Oren clicked his tongue softly, lost in thought. The bleak night had cooled the earlier fervor. Scattered stars seemed to wait, aching to voice their pain. The dim streetlights blurred Oren’s vision. He’d grown used to sleepless nights on these streets—but stray strands of Lia’s shoulder-length hair brushed his eyes. This moment felt… wrong.

Still, they reached the academy dorms without incident. When Lia opened her door, Oren finally broke the silence. He cleared his throat twice, then stepped before her.

"Lia."

His voice was low. He drew the Longsword from his waist and offered it to her.

"This is your family’s heirloom blade. You said you gave it to me—but I can’t accept it."

Honestly, this woman made no sense. Moments ago, she’d glared at him like he was prey to be slain—though, admittedly, he’d provoked her. Yet now she’d shifted so abruptly. In some ways, she was terrifyingly strong.

"No. Just take it."

Lia didn’t turn around. Her quiet reply deepened Oren’s suspicion. Before he could respond, she spun to face him.

"Oren. I need to ask you something."

"Eh? Ah—hah…"

Her eyes burned with unnatural fervor. No comfort there—only a strange tension coiling up Oren’s spine. Then she pressed forward.

"You claim you’re from Nivea. But you truly can’t recall your family name?"

She advanced swiftly. Oren stumbled back three steps, pinned by her feverish gaze. After a long pause, he whispered:

"Yeah. I really don’t remember."

No lie. He’d forgotten his surname as a child. In the Alliance, family names mattered deeply—but in Dysaia’s realm, they meant little. Forgetting felt natural. Yet Lia’s frown said otherwise.

"Fine. How were you raised, then?"

"What do you mean, ‘how’?"

Oren’s brow furrowed. This conversation was veering dangerously. Sure enough, Lia’s hand clamped onto his shoulder. Her voice turned grave.

"Let me be blunt: Did you escape from a Silver Dragon named Dysaia?"

*Dysaia?*

Oren’s face twitched violently. He forced his expression neutral.

"Dysaia? I don’t know who that is. I’m just—"

"Don’t lie to me."

Lia lunged. She shoved him onto the bed, pinning him beneath her. Her eyes blazed like live coals, locking onto his face. Escape was impossible.

"You can trust me. I know you’ve suffered for so long! But I’ll stand by you forever. Tell me—we can avenge our family together! I swear, Father and Mother will have justice!"

*This is trouble.*

Oren’s mind raced, grasping at nothing. Why speak of avenging parents? What did Dysaia have to do with it?

Then—a vision flashed: a middle-aged man, tongue severed, clutching his bleeding mouth. Images tore through Oren’s mind—ancient castle walls, a woman’s wails, the man’s muffled screams. He clutched his face, pain twisting his features.

*Could it be…? No. Impossible…*

Fragments surfaced. His mother, heavy with child. Months later—the swollen belly gone. A baby carriage in the hall.

Oren’s face tightened. He stared up at the trembling girl above him. Her slender brows quivered. Her wide, wet eyes searched his desperately—a hope she’d buried long ago. He realized he could give her that hope.

Slowly, he raised his hand. His fingers brushed Lia’s cheek.

"…Little sister."

Lia shuddered. Pure joy flooded her veins like wine, melting her daze into dizzying euphoria. Her throat went dry. Her whole body trembled. Then tears burst forth—but she smiled through them, whispering:

"…Big brother."

She collapsed against him, a low, echoing sob rising from her chest. She lay prone across him, shaking with muffled, wrenching cries—as if each sob were torn from her soul’s depths, weaving a tapestry of deep blue sorrow through the room. The lamplight dimmed.

"Brother… brother… brother…"

Hearing her feverish chants, Oren gently stroked her hair. But when she couldn’t see, his gaze drifted to the window. His expression turned bleak.

*I grew up with Dysaia.*

*But Lia hates Dysaia…*

He stared into the night, drew a heavy breath, and murmured:

"Nothing’s been resolved at all."