The next morning, at the Falkenerde Knight Order headquarters. Walking through the stone corridor, Leovild reread the orders in his hand. The letters inscribed on parchment were concise: "From this day forth, you are assigned to prisoner surveillance of Underground Detention Cell Third Grade. Target: Second Prince of the Soreas Duchy, Sorael El Soreas." (The underground dungeon.) His pace naturally slowed. Even as he walked through the headquarters corridor where morning sunlight streamed in, his destination lay elsewhere. Below. To the dark place where the royal family of the Soreas Duchy—the enemy nation to the north—was imprisoned. Leovild lifted his gaze. Beyond the window lay the landscape of the royal capital Verdia, still in the midst of reconstruction. Partially burned buildings. Streets undergoing repair. The same sight he'd seen yesterday. Yet today, no matter how he looked upon it, his heart found no peace. Deep in his chest, yesterday's pain resurfaced. That inexplicable ache. The golden eyes he'd seen immediately after. (What was that?) The stone steps leading downward emanated cold air. Touching the damp stone walls, he descended one step after another. His footsteps echoed. As artificial light diminished, the world grew darker. In the depths of the dark corridor. The smell of iron grew stronger. And then—he saw it. A cell surrounded by iron bars. Inside sat a single young man. Leovild held his breath. Silver-white hair. Its length flowed past his shoulders, cascading down to his chest. Though it should have been soiled by combat, it still bore a luminous quality. And—his eyes. Eyes that shimmered like stars, pale blue in hue. A color impossible to forget once seen. The same as what he'd glimpsed in that dream. No—different. In that dream, they'd appeared golden. Sorael noticed Leovild's presence. Those eyes turned toward him. His gaze held hostility. Yet simultaneously, there emanated a noble pride. The silver-haired youth of beautiful countenance, bound by chains, radiated an aura of oppression like that of a lion. "Another new watchdog, then." Sorael's voice was low and clear. Elegant, yet somehow cold. A tone that spoke of the high bloodline unique to royalty. Leovild attempted to respond. In that instant— —A crushing pain seized his chest. "—!" Leovild instinctively dropped to one knee. His left wrist ached. Looking down, he saw it—that magical mark, the imprint indicating the trace of inborn magical power—glowing blue. In that same moment, the young man in the cell contorted his face. "...What is this?" Sorael was experiencing the same pain. The certainty of it grazed Leovild's mind. The pain receded. He steadied his breathing. Leovild slowly raised his face. Their eyes met. In Sorael's gaze, confusion and anger intermingled. "Do you feel it as well?" Sorael murmured. His voice carried a faint undercurrent of unease. "You're one to talk." Leovild rose to his feet and answered. His tone was measured, yet emotional turbulence rippled through his voice. "What was that pain just now? Why do I hurt when you suffer?" "A blood contract." Sorael spoke coldly. Using the full length of his chains, he paced within the cell. His movements possessed an elegance that spoke of his royal upbringing—a grace that had not faded even in captivity. "A blood contract?" When Leovild repeated the words, Sorael laughed derisively. That smile held both irony and despair. "A forbidden magic. A curse that binds two souls together using blood as a catalyst—an ancient ritual now prohibited. The method to break it—" Sorael paused for a breath. His gaze pierced through Leovild. "—officially does not exist. Even in ancient texts, no method of dissolution is recorded. Which means we remain bound forever." Those words drove themselves into his heart. It doesn't exist. The method to break it. Forever. Leovild's breath caught. No—his breathing stopped entirely. His lungs ceased their motion. For a moment, his heart seemed to forget its rhythm. "What exactly are you saying?" He forced the words out desperately. "If one dies, so does the other. We are bound by a curse of shared fate—a Curse of Binding—where we must share life and death. We are bound as one destiny." Sorael walked to the corner of the cell and sat down. His chains clinked. With eyes devoid of light, he stared at the wall. "You are bound to the second prince of an enemy nation. You must share life and death with the enemy you should despise. Ironic, is it not?" Leovild was left speechless. His mind churned in confusion. A blood contract. A binding of souls. No method to break it. Such a thing couldn't be. Then footsteps echoed. Someone descended the stone steps. Soon a figure emerged—a knight with reddish-brown hair. A fellow knight of the same generation in the Falkenerde Order as Leovild. Arsh. Short-cropped chestnut hair. Sharp, dark green eyes. A small tattoo marked his right ear. Scars from battle wounds traced the contours of his face. His expression bore the weight of deep anger and despair. "Leo. What are you doing in a place like this?" As Arsh spoke, he looked at Sorael in the cell. His eyes ignited with unmistakable hostility. "Is this him? The second prince of the Soreas Duchy—that northern enemy nation. Sometimes called 'the graceful blood of the enemy nation,' but worthless nonetheless. He's the very one who slaughtered dozens of our comrades in this war." Arsh's words were concise and severe. His voice carried profound anger. "A man like this should be executed without delay." Sorael did not move. Only his eyes turned toward Arsh. His gaze held composure and, perhaps, a faint curiosity. "Your comrades. How many did I kill?" Sorael posed the question. "Dozens. In this war, everyone in my family was killed by you. My parents, my sister, my grandfather. Everyone." Arsh's voice trembled. He struggled to suppress his emotions, but the effort was not entirely successful. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms. Leovild watched the scene unfold. He understood Arsh's suffering. He too had lost many comrades on the battlefield. Yet simultaneously— (If Sorael dies, I die too.) That fact stole his words. "He should be executed, Leo. What do you think? How many comrades have died because of them? There's no reason to keep enemy royalty alive." Arsh's words were just. Sincere and filled with responsibility. Which was precisely why Leovild could not respond. The more he heard those words, the heavier the secret he would have to bear became. Sorael laughed quietly. That smile was born from perceiving his companion's confusion. "Kill me if you wish. However—" Sorael turned his face toward Leovild. "—this watchdog will accompany me to death." Arsh did not understand the meaning of those words. But Leovild did. A blood contract. A curse binding them to share life and death. If Sorael died, he would die as well. "What?" Arsh posed the question, but Leovild could not answer. "It matters not. You need not know." With those words, Arsh turned toward the stairs leading upward. His footsteps were filled with rage. The cell held only two now. Sorael leaned his back against the wall once more. His posture had lost the grace of his former royal station. Only the despair of a captive remained. "Why... why did you do such a thing?" Leovild finally forced the words out. "'You did'?" Sorael laughed. That smile no longer held irony—only resignation. "Neither you nor I know who orchestrated this. The source of this curse is a mystery. But one thing is certain." Sorael looked toward Leovild. His eyes held complex emotions. Loneliness. Abandonment. And—something else. "You and I are nothing but pieces on someone's board. We are kept alive and used according to the designs of whoever cast this curse. That is our fate." Leovild left the cell. He walked upward through the dark corridor. His mind was in turmoil. A blood contract. A curse. A fateful bond with the enemy prince. When he reached the top of the stairs, Leovild suddenly stopped. The color of those eyes. In that dream, they'd appeared golden. Yet in reality, they were pale blue. That color—it possessed the shimmer of stars. The mystical eyes unique to royalty. And simultaneously, they reflected loneliness itself. Abandonment. Despair. And an inescapable resignation to accept an unchangeable fate. Leovild continued walking through the corridor. Eventually, he returned to the headquarters where morning sunlight streamed in. The outside world remained as bright as ever. The capital's reconstruction continued. Daily life flowed on. Yet— The magical mark inscribed on Leovild's left wrist still glowed faintly. As if to show that he remained connected to the one sitting far below in the darkness by an invisible thread. Leovild clenched his fist. He must share life and death with the enemy he should despise. That contradictory fate was now his burden to bear.