The warmth of the cloak thrown to her last night was gone from everywhere. Pesca Village—less than three kilometers west of the "Old Bridge," the crossing point of the Volna River, a small fishing settlement clinging to the riverbank—had a fishing hut that looked utterly unremarkable from the outside. The wooden walls reeked of dried nets, fish blood stains remained on the earthen floor, and the ceiling was blackened with soot. Among all the places she had hidden during three days of flight, this was the darkest and most foul-smelling. Aria crouched in the corner of the earthen floor, staring at her clasped hands resting on her knees. The silver bracelet on her left wrist—the thin band her father, King Ferdinand III, had placed on her the night of his coronation—weakly reflected the moonlight streaming through a gap in the hut's wall. Three hours before dawn. The sky was still dark. Ivan had left alone to negotiate with the ferryman, and already fifteen minutes had passed. Among the fishermen of Pesca Village, there were those who supplemented their income by running illegal ferries across the Volna River under cover of darkness—or so Ivan had said before departing. "There's a checkpoint at the Old Bridge. I'll arrange it." With just that, he had gone. Without saying how many faltz it would cost, who he would meet, or when he would return. Beatrice sat beside her. The maidservant's body heat transmitted through her shoulder. (If this girl hadn't been here, what would have become of me by now?) Aria deliberately cut off that line of thought. Even if she found an answer, nothing would change. The door opened. Ivan had returned. Without sound, without footsteps, simply appearing there. His movements were always like that—vanishing without notice, arriving without warning. For his build, his presence had a thin outline. "We move before dawn," Ivan said quietly, his back against the wooden wall. In that instant, Ivan's eyes moved slightly—toward the direction of the village entrance. Aria reflexively peered through a gap in the door boards. A line of torches. One, two, three—spaced at regular intervals, advancing from the single road at the eastern end of the village. Pesca Village stretched long and narrow along the riverbank, with the single eastern road serving as its backbone, fishing huts and drying racks lined on either side. The torches advanced as if to block that road leading to the Old Bridge. Their movement was uniform, without disorder. Not the wavering gait of farmers carrying lanterns. A lower, more deliberate movement—the way of something clinging to the ground. (Military movement.) Before Aria could open her mouth, Ivan spoke. "The Ash Hunt—Papelyark's advance scouts. Less than twenty minutes before the encirclement is complete," Ivan said. The Ash Hunt—Papelyark. She had already been aware of this unit sent as pursuers since the flight began three days ago. A specially formed pursuit unit within the Selvadia Kingdom's military, an elite scout force of sixteen under the direct command of General Kozak, each carrying three carrier pigeons, moving to form an encircling net around their prey. The unit commander was a young female officer named Nadia Brenok, Ivan had briefly told her on the second night of their flight. But until this very moment, that name had been nothing more than a symbol in Aria's mind. "Corin is still outside the village," Aria said, keeping her voice low. Corin—the former palace guard who had joined them on the first day of flight, now the one with the most stamina among the three, responsible for procuring water and food—had not yet returned. He had gone to the well at the village's edge for supplies thirty minutes ago. That fact, like a thorn caught in her throat that wouldn't come free, suddenly took on substance in this moment. "Corin—" Aria began. "We go," Ivan said. That was all. No mention of Corin. Not meaning he had changed his judgment, nor that he wasn't accounting for Corin—simply that priorities were already decided, and there was no room for Aria to insert herself into that order. A quiet fact. The door opened, and Ivan went outside. Only Aria and Beatrice remained in the hut. Beatrice leaned against her shoulder. Small tremors transmitted through her body—fear, cold, or both. Aria unconsciously wrapped her arm around Beatrice's shoulder, trying to suppress her own trembling through the gesture. In the dark hut, the two held their breath. Within that tension—and Aria herself wondered why this moment came now—the sensation of last night's cloak returned. The cloak Ivan had thrown to her without turning around at the ruins, reeking of dried blood and grass. The residual warmth that had lingered in that fabric. Aria deliberately avoided giving the question a name. Not from a judgment that this was not the time to think—but from something closer to an instinct that if she named it, she would have to acknowledge what it was, and that instinct stopped her thoughts midway. The door opened again. Ivan had returned. This time carrying a slightly different atmosphere than before. A quiet certainty after finishing calculations. "We cut south through the reed fields. A detour along the riverbank. Move in single file, don't make a sound," Ivan said. As she stood, Aria peered through the door boards' gap once more. The line of torches had increased. The torches that had been advancing along the single road serving as the village's backbone now branched off, flowing into the village's side paths. Human figures were beginning to fill even the narrow passages between drying racks and huts. The movement was orderly. The way a trained group moves without orders. It was deploying in a way that would encircle from the eastern side, gradually closing the ring of encirclement around the western riverbank—the entire crossing point including the Old Bridge. Only the southern reed fields remained thin in coverage. In the center of that space—on horseback—stood one figure. In the moonlight, long dark blue hair was visible. Part of it was intricately braided and remained undisturbed even on horseback. That figure was quietly positioning left and right squad members using only hand signals. No voice. No wasted movement. Seventeen years old, as Ivan would later say—an age that seemed utterly unbelievable to Aria in this moment. "Nadia Brenok," Ivan said quietly. His voice was emotionless. However—Aria unconsciously measured the temperature of that single word. Not contempt, not caution. A factual statement made after precisely calculating the opponent's capabilities. A kind of tension Aria had never seen before seeped into Ivan's outline. Something slightly different from that quiet concentration a rational warrior shows when measuring an opponent's threat. But Aria had no time to analyze the meaning of that difference. "Move," Ivan said. The reed fields were dark, the ground invisible. The reeds growing densely along the riverbank far exceeded human height. With each step, stems brushed against their bodies, and dry leaves rustled with sound. To prevent that sound from spreading, the three moved forward in single file, bodies bent low. Ivan led, then Aria, then Beatrice last. Ivan pushed aside a low branch with his hand, moving it to the side. As Aria tried to pass through, that hand pulled her arm. A momentary contact. A certain strength. Movement that acted in the same instant as judgment, without waste. Not to guide Aria, but to clear an obstacle for her—a completely practical action. Yet that certainty—in the midnight reed field, in the cold air, within the heat of fear—reached her skin as a different kind of sensation. Aria turned her gaze forward. Ivan's back moved through the dark reeds. There was a mended seam on the shoulder of his black leather armor. She had seen it at the ruins last night. She saw it now. She didn't ask herself why she remembered it, why she was seeing it now. Not asking was the best she could do right now. The reed field ended, and they emerged onto a farm road. A trampled path about four meters wide floated white in the moonlight. A road farmers had packed down to connect the fishing hut area with the riverbank, with harvested fields stretching on both sides, more than twenty meters with nothing to obstruct the view. If they crossed this open space, the path down to the riverbank lay beyond. The problem was—they had to cross this exposed space before the outer edge of the encirclement swept through. Ivan raised his hand to stop them. Everyone froze. Ivan stepped forward first and ran. Soundlessly, like a shadow, he crossed the road and vanished into the reeds. Next, Beatrice ran. Her small form crossed through the moonlight and disappeared safely. Aria paused for one breath. She put strength into both legs and stepped forward. The instant she did— The figure on horseback turned to face her. Twenty paces away. Aria's feet continued stepping even as they nearly stopped. Running, her gaze didn't waver. In the moonlight, golden eyes were clearly visible. They were the color of ice. Those eyes precisely captured Aria's outline for just an instant. Nadia Brenok stopped her horse. She didn't move. No orders, no shouts, no motion to advance the horse. Just those golden eyes watching Aria. As the distance closed and Aria dove into the reeds, those eyes met hers directly, face to face. She didn't pursue. Aria fell into the reeds, holding her breath. Her heart pounded violently in her chest. Beatrice's hand gripped Aria's arm. Ivan silently pointed the way forward. They ran. Pushing through the reeds, feet catching in the damp soil, they ran on. Burned into her mind was that golden gaze. It wasn't hatred. Not contempt, not anger. Then what was it? Running, as reed leaves struck her cheeks, Aria searched for the answer to that question. She couldn't find words to describe it. No word she knew fit what had been in those eyes. There was no time, no opportunity for Aria now to confirm what it was. Only the thorn remained. Still embedded, continuing to pierce. The flow of the Volna River was cold and swift. The great river cutting through the eastern continent from east to west had a water level reaching the waist this season. Rather than fighting against the current, they would angle their crossing, letting the flow carry them while aiming for the opposite bank—the method Ivan had decided on from the start. The moment they entered the water, all sensation changed. Not cold air but cold water clung directly to their bodies. The ground beneath their feet changed from sand to rocks, and the current pushed against them from the side. Beatrice made a small sound. Aria confirmed her feet were moving and pressed forward. As they reached the middle of the river, her foot caught on a rock. Her center of gravity collapsed, her body tilted. The water surface approached—and her arm was seized. Ivan's hand. Standing against the current, Ivan gripped Aria's arm and supported her body. The strength was firm, without hesitation. Aria steadied herself and repositioned her feet on the rocks. She felt the palm. Even in the water, she could sense the temperature of a human hand. While that hand supported her body, Aria kept looking forward. Her gaze was directed at Ivan's back. Yet the center of her consciousness was on that hand gripping her arm. In the fear and cold water, only that temperature had a different quality. Her body stabilized. Ivan's hand released—with a slight delay. Just one beat. Without a word, facing forward, his hand released one beat late. That was all. It might have been coincidence. Merely a lag in movement. But Aria's skin recorded that one beat with certainty. They reached the opposite bank. Still covered in water, the three entered the undergrowth. No one spoke. The moon had tilted slightly. There was still some time before dawn. Ivan came to Aria's