One night had passed since leaving Liebel's research cottage. Morning dew still lingered in the training grounds at dawn. The stone pavement was wet, and his boots slipped slightly with each step. Leovild held his sword at the ready while trying to push last night's memories to the back of his mind. "To break a blood contract, one must use the blood of the caster"—that single line Liebel had indicated with trembling fingers still flickered before his eyes. There was a way to break it. But that also meant they had stepped through the entrance to an even larger mystery: they had to find the sorcerer who had cursed them in the first place. (Who. For what reason.) He swung his sword. The sound of air being cut. Once more. In that instant, a sharp pain shot through his left wrist. "—!" The sword fell to the stone pavement. A metallic clang echoed across the training grounds. Leovild pressed his hand to his wrist, searching for the source of the pain. The magical rune glowed faintly blue. This was—Sorael. The pain came from below. He ran. Through the stone corridors, down the stairs two at a time. To the underground detention block—the lowest level of the Falkenarde administrative building, where Sorael was being held. When he reached the cell door, he heard the sound of chains through it. Using the key to enter, he found Sorael sitting on the floor against the wall. His silver-white long hair fell across his downturned face. A thin red line ran across his left wrist. "...What is it?" Sorael looked at Leovild and spoke. He didn't seem surprised. His voice was quiet, tinged with something like exhaustion. "I felt pain from your wrist." "I turned over in my sleep. That's all. I merely touched the edge of the chain. A trivial matter." His elegant, quiet tone remained unchanged. Yet something thin was mixed into that voice. Fatigue, perhaps. Or—something else entirely. Leovild knelt beside him. He tore a strip from the hem of his jacket, creating a thin cloth. Sorael didn't try to pull his hand away. He simply watched Leovild's movements intently with those star-like, pale blue eyes. He touched the wrist. It was so thin. It was strange to think that this man had once stood as royalty, despite being so delicate. He wrapped the cloth around it. Not too tight, not too loose. Silence fell. —Neither of them said anything after that. The torch flame flickered and swayed. The stone floor was cold, and chill crept up from his knees. Sorael opened his mouth. "[cold]...Would you grieve if I died?" Leovild stopped moving. The voice was quiet. More than a question—it sounded like a confirmation. Or perhaps—a test. Those star-like eyes looked straight at him. (I'm protecting him because his life is precious. I could say that. It's the truth. If I said that, this conversation would end.) But the words wouldn't come. They reached his throat, but they wouldn't form. And when he tried to understand why—he realized it was because he had felt Sorael's breath waver slightly in the moment he asked the question. Through the blood contract, faintly. A tremor of tension and—something like anticipation had reached all the way to Leovild's chest. Knowing that, could he say, "It's only because his life is precious to me"? Leovild kept his hand still and looked down. The silence continued. Sorael said, "If you can't answer, that's fine," and slowly turned his gaze away. Leovild looked at his profile. Long eyelashes cast shadows. His eyes, looking at the stone wall, seemed to reflect nothing—yet they appeared to be gazing at something distant. His homeland, perhaps. Or something else entirely. "...I don't know." It was a small voice. But it became words, unmistakably. Sorael turned slightly. "[cold]...You don't know?" There was no irony in it. That single phrase carried something complex within it. "That's enough for me." Leovild couldn't ask him what those words meant. Before he could, Sorael turned his gaze back to the wall. And the silence continued. But the quality of that silence had changed, just slightly. --- Deep night. The night watch fell to Leovild alone. The other members of the order were taking turns resting on the upper floors. Only the torches and the two of them remained in the underground. Sorael sat with his back against the wall. His eyes were closed. His breathing was regular. He might have been asleep. Leovild sat in a chair with his arms crossed. Drowsiness washed over him in waves. He had stayed up late at Liebel's cottage the night before. The night before that, he'd woken several times from pain. Exhaustion was accumulating. (Just for a moment, if I close my eyes—) No. He thought that, but his eyelids were heavy. He leaned back against the chair. His outer coat began to slip from his shoulders. He didn't have the energy to fix it. His consciousness grew distant. --- A little while until dawn. The room's temperature had reached its coldest point. Chill crept up slowly from the stone floor. Sorael opened his eyes. He looked at Leovild in the chair. Sleeping shallowly. His mouth slightly open. His coat had slipped halfway off his shoulders and was about to touch the floor. He traced the reach of his chains in his mind. The restraint was about one meter long. To the chair—it was nearly at the limit of his range. (…………) Sorael moved his body slowly. He placed his arm on the floor, shifting his weight carefully. He suppressed the sound of the chain as it threatened to jingle. His hand reached the edge of the coat that had fallen to the floor. The feel of fabric. He drew it closer. Bit by bit. Without making a sound. Leovild's breathing didn't change. He lifted the coat and stretched his body, draping it over the man's shoulders. The chain made a faint sound—but the sleeping man didn't stir. Sorael returned to his original position. He pressed his back against the wall and drew up his knees. He gazed at the shoulder where he had placed the coat. It rose and fell quietly, gently. Sleeping. Not deeply, but with a face that had found some small measure of peace. (What am I doing?) He thought that. But he couldn't bring himself to go retrieve the coat. Instead, he waited for dawn. --- Light began to seep in before Leovild woke. His hazy consciousness was pulled back to reality. The stone underground. The torch's flame. The hardness of the chair. —His shoulder was warm. He looked down. His coat was there. Draped properly over his shoulders. (Did I... fall asleep with my coat on?) No. That wasn't right. Before he lost consciousness, his coat had been slipping. He hadn't fixed it before his awareness faded. Yet now it was arranged so carefully— He slowly raised his head, and his eyes met Sorael's. The silver-haired prince sat with his back against the wall, watching him in silence. In those pale blue eyes was a color that seemed to reflect nothing—yet unmistakably held something within it. Something strange and indefinable. "[serious]...Did you put it on me?" His voice was hoarse. The voice of someone just waking. Sorael looked away. "[cold]It was falling. That's all." That's all, he said. But the space beneath those words—now, Leovild felt he could understand it a little. Something leaped in his chest. Not surprise. Something softer. Something more troubling. Over a single coat, why was he so shaken? He didn't understand it himself, and that confusion itself felt strange— Leovild stood, holding the coat, and returned to his watch chair. Sorael said nothing more. Silence returned to the room. But within that silence, Leovild felt the thread of the blood contract tremble faintly. There was a small wavering in Sorael's chest as well. Perhaps neither of them understood what it was. (…………What is happening to me?) --- Morning came. The time for the shift change arrived, and Leovild returned to the upper levels from the underground. The moment he stepped into the corridor, their eyes met. It was Arsh. Reddish chestnut short hair. Sharp, dark green eyes that looked at Leovild. The tattoo on his right ear caught the morning light faintly. Arsh looked at Leovild's face for a moment. Then he glanced toward the stairs leading down to the underground, and looked back. "[serious]...Were you with him again last night?" His voice was low. The kind of low that came from suppressing emotion. "It was my watch shift." "Your face is flushed." Leovild said nothing. Morning light streamed through the corridor. Distant footsteps of other order members echoed. Between Arsh and Leovild, a thin line of tension stretched taut. "[serious]Did you fall for him?" It was a low, quiet question. Not a shout. Which made it heavier. Leovild opened his mouth. He meant to say "No." But—his voice wavered. The words wouldn't come. Just like last night. They reached his throat but wouldn't form into words. Arsh saw that. For a while, he said nothing. He simply looked at Leovild with those green eyes. In their depths, Leovild could see anger mixed with something else. "[sad]I'm afraid of you changing." His voice trembled slightly. "[serious]I don't want you to disappear." It was a statement that could have been anger or a plea. With only that said, Arsh turned on his heel. He walked down the corridor. His back was rigid. Leovild stood rooted to the spot. His feet wouldn't move. Arsh's voice lingered in his ears. "I don't want you to disappear"—was he talking about the blood contract? Or—something else entirely? (I don't know. I don't understand any of it.) Sorael's profile from last night. The warmth of the coat. That quiet voice saying "I don't know" and receiving "That's enough for me" in return. And Arsh's back, looking as though something might crumble at any moment. Both of them existed side by side in his chest, and both were heavy—and he couldn't let go of either. Through the corridor's window, morning light poured in. The sounds of Verdia's streets drifted from afar. The hammer blows of reconstruction work. Merchants' voices. They were all as they always were, unchanged. But within Leovild, something was beginning to shift with certainty. And where that change would lead him, he still understood nothing at all.