The deep dungeon at the dead of night. The torchlight flickered thinly, casting wavering shadows. Leovild sat motionless in a hard chair. At his feet, a small table. Upon it, a cup of water and blackened bread—rations for Sorael. Every night, at the same hour, the same amount was brought down. The magical seal carved into his left wrist glowed faintly blue. It had been several days since then. Ever since learning of the blood contract's existence, Leovild's life had transformed entirely. Even during the daytime rubble-clearing work, chest pain had begun to strike without fail in the afternoons. Sometimes the pain vanished in an instant; sometimes it lingered for dozens of minutes. And each time that pain seized him, Sorael—imprisoned below—suffered in the same way. He could tell no one. No one but Arsh. And Arsh wasn't even speaking to him anymore. Morning training, midday meals, evening assemblies—everything was suffused with a cold distance. Ever since that night when he'd confessed the blood contract's truth, his fellow knight's expression had changed. Not understanding, but bewilderment. Then, gradually, quiet anger. *(It can't be helped.)* Leovild told himself this. As one who sheltered an enemy nation's prince, losing someone's trust was inevitable. The gazes of his comrades had grown colder by degrees. It wasn't his imagination. Something had clearly shifted. "……" A faint sound echoed through the underground corridor. Someone was descending the stairs. One set of footsteps. Leovild's body tensed, but the figure that appeared was Helge Muut. She always came shortly after his watch. At irregular times, yet every day without fail. She brought flint and a plate of warm food. "Working hard at this hour, aren't you?" Helge smiled, her ash-tinged chestnut waves moving gently. Her clear green eyes held their usual kindness. The burn scar on her left arm stood out in the torchlight. "No. It's my duty." "I appreciate you saying that, but your complexion keeps getting worse. Are you sleeping properly?" Helge set the plate on the table. Steaming vegetable soup and freshly baked bread. Both, no doubt, made in her shop. "I'm sleeping enough." "Don't lie to me." Helge laughed. That smile was both stern and gentle—motherhood itself. She had lost her husband in the war, yet continued supporting so many. When looked upon by those eyes, even the will to lie drained away. "Carrying things alone isn't good. There's something, isn't there?" "Nothing in particular." But immediately after those words, a dull ache bloomed deep in his chest. Leovild drew in a breath and endured it. Helge's eyes sharpened. "There. Just now. You hurt yourself again, didn't you? It's written all over your face." Helge placed her hands on her hips. The atmosphere was no longer one for changing the subject. This was her attitude when she was genuinely worried. "I'm fine. I'm just tired, that's all." "That's what we call pushing yourself too hard. You've been saying the same thing every single day lately. Tired, this and that. But that's not what matters. What matters is what you're carrying." Helge held the soup bowl again. Steam softly illuminated her face. "You're the one taking care of this boy, aren't you? Morning, noon, and night—calling out to him, giving him water, bringing him meals. If you're doing all that, of course you'd be tired. But you're suffering for a different reason. That much is crystal clear to these eyes of mine." Leovild was at a loss for words. Helge truly saw everything. Her insight was sometimes more accurate than the person's own understanding. "If you don't want to say anything, you don't have to. But you're not alone. Don't forget that." With those words left behind, Helge headed back up. The sound of her footsteps on the stairs faded into distance. Leovild was left alone. The soup was warm. The bread, freshly baked today, no doubt. Her kindness was woven into everything. *(What are you carrying?)* Those words resonated in his chest. Leovild closed his eyes. —— Deep night came. The knight barracks had fallen nearly silent. No footsteps, no voices. The dungeon relied only on torchlight. Leovild sat in his chair, head bowed. Not sleeping. His eyes were open. But his mind was absorbed in something. He'd noticed that Sorael's behavior was different tonight. The enemy prince always sat in the same position at night—deep in his cell, against the far wall. There, he remained lost in thought. His figure seemed less like a prisoner and more like a meditating monk. *(What is he thinking about?)* Leovild's gaze drifted toward Sorael. The silver-haired youth remained in that same position, eyes closed. Then it came. ——Thud. A violent crushing pain deep in his chest. Leovild lurched upright. But in that instant, his entire body was engulfed in agony. His heart thrashed wildly. His breathing grew shallow, his vision warped. "—Ugh——" He tumbled from the chair. Fell to his knees, hands braced against the floor. Pain. Unbearable pain. As if his insides were being torn out. At the same moment, a low groan escaped from the cell. "……Ugh" Sorael. The enemy prince was being struck by the same agony. The silver-haired youth slid down the wall, collapsed onto the floor. Chains rattled. He tried to push himself up, but the pain was too intense—his body wouldn't obey. The pain continued. Seconds. Minutes. After about five minutes had passed. Leovild lay on the floor, unable to move. Sweat beaded his forehead. His entire body trembled. This had never happened before. The previous pains had been mere discomfort. But this was different. A pain that made him think he might actually die. Gradually, the acute agony began to recede. Breath returned. Vision returned. Leovild lay dazed, slowly recognizing his situation. The cell. Sorael remained on the floor. He was trying to rise, but his legs wouldn't support him—his body wouldn't lift. The chain's length kept him bound to the wall. He couldn't get up on his own. *(Do nothing.)* He told himself that. Sorael was the enemy. An enemy nation's prince. How many comrades had he killed in this war? Leovild knew. Dozens. Hundreds. Was he really going to pay that blood debt for this man's sake? *(Don't move.)* But— "——Damn it" Leovild found himself standing. His hand went to the key ring at his belt. The ring of guard keys was there. *(This violates regulations.)* His mind screamed it. This was something he must not do. Releasing a prisoner was the ultimate betrayal. A crime worthy of execution. And yet—— He inserted the key. The iron grate swung open heavily. He rushed to Sorael. In that moment, the enemy prince's eyes opened. Star-like, pale blue eyes fixed on Leovild. In those eyes, confusion mingled with something else. "What are you doing?" Sorael's voice was faint but carried no loss of dignity. "Stay quiet." Leovild supported Sorael's body. The prince's silver hair brushed against his arm. Long, silken hair. And beneath it, breath—warm breath. The sensation of being alive. *(What are you doing?)* Reason screamed. But his body moved. He supported Sorael, carried him to the wall. In that motion, their bodies drew close. The prince's shoulder touched Leovild's chest. Because the pain had only just receded, that warmth felt all the more intense. Sorael's silver hair brushed his cheek. Breath touched his neck. His heart began to race again. But this wasn't pain—it was something else. *(No. No. What are you doing?)* Leovild hastily pulled away. He stood. He positioned Sorael against the wall. In that moment, their eyes met. The enemy prince's eyes narrowed slightly. What was reflected in those pale blue eyes—Leovild couldn't read it. "……" Silence. In that silence, both their cheeks gradually flushed. Then footsteps sounded from the stairs. Heavy footsteps. Multiple? No—one person. But anger was woven through them. A single knight descended into the dungeon. Reddish chestnut short hair. Sharp, dark green eyes. A small tattoo on the right ear. Arsh. Those eyes saw the open cell. Saw the disheveled clothing. And saw—Leovild and Sorael, still close. "Leo... what are you doing?" Arsh's voice was low. Suppressed anger filled that sound. "This is——" He searched for an explanation. But words wouldn't come. How could he explain this? Even if he spoke of the blood contract again, this would be the second time. The same words held no persuasive power anymore. "Are you showing mercy to the enemy?" Arsh approached. His gait was that of a warrior. The walk of one facing an adversary. "If this man dies, I die too." Leovild's voice was sharp. All courtesy had vanished. He was desperate. "That's not all. Since that night, pain has struck me every single day. Even now—just minutes ago." Leovild raised his left wrist. The magical seal glowed faintly. "As long as this bond exists, we're bound to the same life. If he suffers, I suffer. If he dies, I die. That's the contract that binds us." Arsh stood frozen. His expression shifted gradually. Understanding. And then—anger. "I see. So that's why you, that night, and tonight as well——" Arsh clenched his fists. Those fists trembled. Emotion was packed into them. "And yet." Arsh spoke. His voice was quiet, but it carried the most intense fury. "He's still the enemy. Enemy royalty. In this war, how many of our comrades has he killed? You know. Dozens. Hundreds. Are you going to pay that blood debt for his sake?" "That's not it. I——" Leovild searched for words. But what could he say? Arsh's anger was justified. It came from sincerity and responsibility. Before that anger, all his words seemed powerless. "I'm not protecting him. I'm protecting this bond. That's my duty now." Arsh laughed quietly. That laugh was hollow. "Duty. So you were just a victim of his all along. How pitiful." Arsh turned on his heel. Toward the stairs. His back seemed to be crumbling. "Arsh, wait." "No. I don't want to hear anymore." Arsh's voice faded quietly. Footsteps on the stairs. Then silence returned to the dungeon. Leovild stood motionless. Behind him, Sorael. The prince sat with his back against the wall, saying nothing. Moving nothing. Only those pale blue eyes watched Leovild's back. Leovild locked the cell. Beyond the bars. Sorael's expression was complex. Pain. Loneliness. And—something else. What that something was, Leovild still couldn't understand. Their secret could no longer be hidden. Arsh knew it now. Soon, others would know as well. That Leovild and Sorael—enemy and ally—were bound by an inescapable bond. The ripples would continue to spread. Leovild returned to his chair. And then, almost absently, he listened to his own heartbeat. Not pain, but trembling. From where did that trembling come—he still didn't know.