The day after training was a long one for Kestra. The mercenary she'd sent flying into the air had, fortunately, suffered no injuries. The fact that Klev's hay had become a perfect cushion was less miracle than simple accident. Still, the villagers' laughter lingered in her ears—a strange aftertaste, equal parts embarrassing and oddly comforting. At dusk, a piece of paper arrived from Eda. It was a watch rotation roster. Kestra's name was written there, clearly and deliberately. She would be paired with Darius, stationed at the watchtower on the village's north side. The shift was the second night watch—from full darkness until the deep hours before dawn. "[serious]...She decided that," The words came out small, barely a whisper. Eda said nothing in response, but her expression answered everything. --- Night fell. The north watchtower was a simple wooden structure. Five meters above the ground, it overlooked fields of early summer wheat stretching in all directions. The grain was still green, swaying gently with each breath of wind. The moon had risen. A moon nearly full, round and pale, hung suspended above the wheat like a lantern. When Kestra climbed onto the platform, Darius was already there. He sat before a small fire, cloth in hand, methodically maintaining his sword. His amber eyes flicked toward her for just a moment. He said nothing. Kestra said nothing either. She settled across from him, knees drawn up, on the far side of the fire. The flames crackled with dry, brittle sounds, swaying in their dance. Their light cast long shadows across the wooden planks—shadows large and trembling faintly. Silence stretched between them. Awkward. That was the most accurate word. The memory of yesterday's training, her unease around Darius, her doubts about her own power—all of it tangled together, choking off her voice. After a time, Kestra spoke. "[serious]Why did you put me on the roster?" Her voice was small, not accusatory—genuinely questioning. Darius kept his eyes on his sword, answering curtly. "[cold]If you can't control it, I keep you where I can see you. That's all." The words were cold. Yet Kestra sensed something seeping through them—not quite warmth enough to call concern, but something that was decidedly not indifference. She remained silent, watching the fire. --- After a while, Darius spoke again. "[serious]Were you really a Grand Mage?" Kestra stiffened slightly. She could already hear the unspoken continuation—*with how little control you have?* But the words never came. Darius had simply asked the question. Nothing more. Kestra exhaled slowly. "[serious]...I used to be." Her voice cracked slightly. "There's a standard Versahn technique called Seal Resonance Magic—a way to draw power from the earth's seal structures for precise control. With it, I could stop a fireball to the size of a fingernail. But the war...something changed." Darius set down his tools. He placed the sword across his knees and turned his gaze to the fire. "The Emerald Spire?" "Yes." The answer was brief. No more words followed. The tower always stopped her mid-sentence. Whenever she tried to speak of that day, seven faces surfaced in her memory. Her disciples' faces. The expressions they wore at the end. Each time she remembered, her throat tightened. "I had seven disciples." That much she could say. "All of them younger than me. They loved magic, wanted to study seals, and came all the way up that mountain tower because of it. And I...couldn't protect them." Her voice didn't waver—three years of practice had taught her to stop emotion before it reached her throat. Somewhere along the way, Kestra had mastered the technique of holding herself together. The fire crackled. A small sound, breaking the silence. After a moment, Darius spoke. "[serious]I lost comrades too. In the Ash Ruin Campaign." Kestra looked up. "[serious]The faces of the ones I couldn't save still come to me in dreams. Especially the youngest. Nineteen years old. He loved mimicking my swordwork, always asking questions so loudly it was annoying, and..." His words trailed away. Darius stared into the fire, silent. The silence had changed. No longer the awkward tension from before—something softer now. A shared weight drifted quietly between them. The firelight swayed. Shadows swayed with it. Kestra relaxed her knees slightly. --- "[serious]Why do you continue as a mercenary?" The question emerged more naturally than she expected. "You could have left the fighting behind." Darius kept his gaze on the flames, taking a moment before answering. "[serious]Fighting is all I know." He said only that, then fell silent again. But the words came quickly after. "[gentle]...And because there's someone I want to protect this time. Someone I couldn't save before." Something moved quietly in Kestra's chest. Not pain. Not warmth either. Something between the two. This man stood in the same place she did—carrying what he'd lost, yet still trying to face forward. Darius looked up. His gaze found her profile. The firelight caught her chestnut hair, illuminating the line of her cheek, the lashes of her downcast eyes, the faint tension at her mouth. For a moment, Darius found himself without words. Kestra noticed his stare and turned to meet it. Their eyes locked. Neither moved. The fire's heat touched their cheeks. Wind from the wheat fields passed between them. Kestra realized, without knowing when it had happened, that the distance had closed. Darius's hand rose toward her shoulder— In that instant. "WOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" The village dog let out a magnificent howl. Both of them jumped back simultaneously. "—!" "..." A long silence followed. The fire burned on, obliviously cheerful. Kestra's cheeks burned. She tried to tell herself it was the fire's heat. She knew, somehow, that it wasn't. Darius muttered low. "[sarcastic]...Damn dog." Kestra couldn't help but laugh. It was quiet laughter, but genuine. Darius's mouth twitched upward too, his expression caught between exasperation and something almost like amusement. "[serious]S-should we start our patrol?" Her voice cracked slightly as she stood. --- They descended from the watchtower and walked through the village. Keeping distance. Kestra on the right, Darius on the left. Two sets of footsteps on stone, offset and continuing. Their eyes met occasionally. Each time, they looked away quickly. The patrol was quiet. The village slept. The smithy was dark. The tavern—the Parched Sickle—had no light. When they passed Kestra's cottage, the medicinal herbs in her garden floated pale and ghostly in the moonlight. Kestra had to resist the urge to press her hand to her chest. *(What was that?)* She didn't know. But something had shifted. Darius, as a person, seemed to have gained sharper edges, more definition. When they returned to the watchtower, the fire had burned low. Darius added wood while speaking. "[serious]Training again tomorrow. Rest early." "Yes. ...Good night." It was a brief parting. Kestra descended and made her way to her cottage. She closed the door behind her and was alone. In the darkness, Kestra took a deep breath. She placed her hand over her heart. Her pulse was still slightly quickened. Through the window, the moon was visible. Round and white, nearly full. Its light fell across the stone floor, creating a thin pale rectangle. Kestra looked at the soul mark inscribed on her left wrist. In the moonlight, the lines of the pattern were faintly visible. This power remained unstable. The memory of those she couldn't save hadn't faded. But tonight, just for a moment— *(Just a little, I felt lighter.)* She couldn't quite find the words to describe what that feeling meant. Outside, the dog's voice came again. This time a short, ordinary bark. Some household's dog, perhaps, reacting to something in the night. Kestra heard it and laughed quietly once more. The night deepened. The village lay still. From beyond the wheat fields, from the direction of Moswood Forest, the wind seemed to shift. For just an instant, the faintest tremor—as though something were watching from the darkness.