Aira's hand was still there. Still gripping the fabric of Raid's coat. Kneeling on both knees in the gravel, Aira couldn't yet lift her face. She could feel Raid's body heat. Through the fabric of his coat, it transmitted to her fingertips. He was alive. Warm. He was really here. As if confirming this over and over, her fingertips subtly tightened their grip on the cloth. The air of the ruined city was silent. The aftereffects of battle lingered on the gravel, and somewhere a half-collapsed stone fell with a sound. The wind blew once, strongly. Aira's reddish-brown hair brushed across her profile, but she had no room to brush it away. A hoarse voice fell. "...What did I do?" It wasn't a voice of self-reproach or questioning. There was a resonance to it—as if Raid himself had been left behind in the blank space while the Demon Lord consumed him. Raid's deep amber eyes hadn't yet fully regained their focus. His face, bearing the weight of forty-two years, existed in the morning li