In the kingdom of Igrein, where swords and grace decide everything, commoners are trampled by nobles, and the law refuses to protect them. Allen, once a servant in the royal castle, knew Princess Juliana's hidden affection but retreated because of their difference in status. One night, he finally brought shame upon her and vanished from the castle. Carrying that sin and humiliation, Allen reincarnates and now stands on the battlefield as a young soldier of the Liberation Front.
Meanwhile, Julia
Until I Call You My Enemy - In a gray prison camp, I hear the sound of chains.
The taste of blood lingered in his mouth the entire time.
The smell of rusted iron clung to the back of his tongue. Every time he swallowed, it rose up from the depths of his throat. Allen Weiss sat huddled in the dim cell, arms wrapped around his knees. A cold stone wall pressed against his back. Both arms stretched forward, bound by heavy iron shackles. The bite of metal into his wrists returned a dull ache with every breath.
*(...How many hours has it been?)*
He didn't know. He couldn't see the sky. In the low-ceilinged stone chamber, the smell of damp earth and mold and something else—old blood, sweat, and excrement all mingled together—had settled into the air. High on the wall, there was a single small barred window. The light filtering through it had already taken on the color of evening.
A prisoner-of-war camp.
A temporary prison the Royal Army had established behind the front lines to hold rebels. It had no official name. The soldiers simply called it "the Hole." A crude construction—just earth dug out, stones piled up, iron bars fitted in. But those who were put inside almost never saw the light of day again.
Allen slowly moved his arms against the weight of the shackles. The sound of chains scraping echoed unnaturally loud.
—Captured.
At the southwestern edge of the Brenham Plains. How much time had passed since that foggy morning? On the day of his first battle, he had volunteered for the rear guard to secure his comrades' escape route. Outnumbered, outmatched. Even so, he'd thought that if he could hold the enemy off just a little longer, Milos and Sara could get away. With that in mind, he'd swung his ash-iron sword.
But the enemy had been faster than expected—and colder.
One of the Royal Army soldiers who'd lunged in from the flank had shouted something and swung a chained shackle in his hand. That was the "Grace-Sealing Shackle" managed by the Holy Key Order—a special manacle that suppressed the wearer's Grace from activating. As a commoner, it should have had nothing to do with him. But the Royal Army treated every soldier of the Liberation Front as "a rebel who might possess false Grace."
The moment the shackle closed around his wrists, he'd felt as if all strength had drained from his body.
In truth, Allen had no Grace. The shackle's power meant nothing to him from the start. Even so, the cold weight of that iron had given him the illusion that something deep inside him was being forcibly held down.
*(...Am I going to end here?)*
He thought that.
No—he tried to think that.
But somewhere in his heart, another feeling breathed quietly.
—I want to be freed.
—No, that's wrong.
—I deserve to be punished more.
The contradictory voices inside him swirled round and round in the damp darkness. He bit his lip. The taste of blood grew stronger again.
"Hey, get up. Rebel."
A low voice. When he raised his head, a Royal Army military policeman stood beyond the iron bars. A stern-looking man clad in a black uniform. A steel sword at his hip. A short whip in his right hand. Behind him, a younger soldier stood at attention.
"You know commoner soldiers don't get prisoner's rights, right?"
The military policeman spoke in a mocking tone and kicked the iron bars with a clang.
"Normally, scum like you would get your throat slit right here and that'd be the end of it. But orders from above say to keep you alive. Be grateful."
Allen didn't answer.
He didn't avert his gaze—just stared at the military policeman's face. Deep gray eyes. A settled, sediment-like color that reflected no light. For a moment, the military policeman seemed to flinch under that gaze. But immediately, anger flared across his face, and he thrust the whip through the gap in the bars, striking Allen's shoulder.
A sharp crack.
"Those eyes. I don't like 'em. Not from a rebel."
Another strike. This time it grazed his neck. Skin split, blood slowly seeping out. Allen didn't so much as flinch. He felt the pain. But more than that, there was a sense that this situation was happening somewhere far away.
*(Hit me more.)*
Someone whispered in the depths of his heart.
*(I deserve to be hurt more.)*
The sins of his past life. The memory of that night. The night he'd placed wildflowers in the young princess's hand in the corridor of the White Castle. The irreparable mistake that followed. What he had done. What he had broken. That weight pierced far deeper into his chest than the pain of the whip.
"Hmph. Boring bastard."
The military policeman spat and returned the whip to his hip.
"Pray until tomorrow morning, if you like. Your fate'll be decided by the higher-ups."
With those parting words, the footsteps receded.
Silence again.
Allen leaned against the wall and looked up at the ceiling. Blood ran from the wound on his neck, trailing down to his collarbone. Lukewarm.
*(Fate, huh.)*
The Royal Army didn't recognize commoner soldiers as prisoners—they executed them on the spot. That was the custom. By all rights, he should already be dead. The fact that he was being kept alive meant there was a reason.
—Probably, that woman.
Something deep in Allen's chest throbbed with a dull pain.
He closed his eyes.
How long had he been like that?
Suddenly, a voice came from the neighboring cell.
"...Allen-san?"
A voice he recognized. Slightly hoarse, yet desperately trying to maintain its brightness. Allen slowly turned his head.
Beyond the iron bars. In the dim darkness, fiery red hair swayed. A freckled face with unruly curls hastily tied back with a cord. An old scar on the left cheek. Green eyes gleaming fiercely even in the gloom.
Milos Grant. A new recruit in the Liberation Front, Allen's comrade. Reckless and hot-blooded, with an extreme depth of loyalty to those close to him—nineteen years old. A man who brandished commoner pride and couldn't forgive despicable nobles.
"Milos..."
"Thank the gods, you're alive!"
Milos pressed himself against the bars of his cell, raising his voice. The same shackles were fitted on his wrists, chains jangling.
"I was sure you'd died back there...! I thought the rear guard was suicide. But damn, Allen-san! Against that many enemies, you managed to survive—"
"Shut up, rebel!"
The patrolling military policeman returned and struck Milos's cell with the whip. The whip hitting the iron bars rang out with a metallic sound.
"Don't make a racket. Raise your voice again and I'll cut out your tongue."
For a moment, Milos's face flushed red with anger. The scar on his left cheek twitched. But his eyes met Allen's in the neighboring cell, and he bit his lip hard and fell silent.
After the military policeman left, Milos lowered his voice.
"...Damn, that bastard. Trampling on commoner pride."
"It's pointless. Stay quiet."
"But still..."
"If you're alive, that's enough."
Milos was silent for a while. Then he muttered quietly.
"...You're injured, aren't you? Your neck—there's blood."
"It's nothing serious."
"Like hell it's nothing! We need to have Sara look at—"
Milos caught himself and turned to look deeper into his cell.
"That's right, Sara. Sara got captured too. She was running right behind me... she couldn't get away in time."
Allen's chest creaked faintly.
Sara Barton. A medic in the Liberation Front. A bright, honest girl of nineteen who couldn't leave the wounded alone. Her brown hair in a braid, with wooden pieces carved with the names of the war dead tied to the cord of her first-aid bag. Her heart worn thin by the horrors of the battlefield, yet still smiling bravely and trying to heal everyone—that kind of girl.
"Where is she?"
"Eh?"
"Where is Sara being held?"
"...Next to me. The cell on my other side."
Milos indicated with his chin. At the far end of the row of cells. There, a small shadow could be seen crouching.
"Sara!"
Milos called in a hushed voice. The shadow slowly raised its head.
Pale brown eyes. Friendly, easily welling with tears—now, that moisture glistened in the darkness.
"...Milos. And Allen-san too."
Her voice was hoarse, but it was unmistakably Sara's. She placed her hands on the bars of her cell and tried to lean closer.
"I'm so glad... you're both alive."
"Are you okay? Any injuries?"
"I'm fine. Just some bruises and scrapes. But Allen-san, that wound on your neck..."
Sara reached out through the gap in the bars. She couldn't reach. Between the cells, there was enough distance that even outstretched hands couldn't touch. She let her fingertips drift through the empty air, frustrated.
"...Wait. I'll find something I can use."
With that, she began tearing at the hem of her clothes. The sound of thin fabric ripping echoed through the quiet prison.
"Hey, Sara. Don't push yourself."
"Idiot. This much doesn't even count as pushing myself."
She folded the torn cloth into a long strip and reached out beyond the bars.
"Allen-san, come closer. Press this cloth against the wound on your neck."
Allen didn't move.
"...It's fine. I'll do it myself."
"But you need to stop the bleeding properly. If the wound gets dirty, it'll fester."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine."
Sara's voice grew a little firmer.
"Please. Let me do this."
Her pale brown eyes stared straight at Allen. In the dark prison, those eyes alone were strangely clear.
*(...I can't win against her.)*
Allen gave up and moved closer to the bars of his cell. Sara slipped the cloth through the gap and gently pressed it against his neck.
"...It's cold."
"Bear with it. It'll warm up soon."
Her fingertips carefully wiped around the wound. Warmth transmitted through the cloth. A gentle, human warmth. At that sensation, Allen suddenly felt as if something was caught in his throat.
*(Stop.)*
Somewhere in his heart, an alarm rang.
*(I have no right to be touched by kindness like this.)*
"...Oh?"
Sara's hand stopped.
Her gaze was fixed on Allen's chest. At the area around his left chest, visible through the gap in his torn shirt. An old burn scar. Raised skin, about the size of a palm. The memory of heat carved into his body along with the memories of his past life.
"This... it's an old wound. A burn?"
Allen didn't answer.
"It's from quite a while ago. Judging by the condition of the scar... from childhood, maybe?"
"...Who knows."
"You don't remember?"
"...No."
He turned his face away.
"I've forgotten."
It was a lie.
There was no way he could forget. What had happened that night in the corridor of the White Castle. What he had done. This burn scar was proof of that sin. A brand that would never fade for the rest of his life.
Sara was silent for a while. Then she spoke in a quiet voice.
"...I see."
She wrapped the cloth around Allen's neck and tied the ends. Her movements were practiced. Her experience as a medic was ingrained in her body.
"That should be a little better. I wish I could treat it properly tomorrow."
"Thank you."
The words slipped out of Allen's mouth naturally.
Sara's eyes widened in surprise for a moment, and then she smiled softly.
"You're welcome. ...Hey, Allen-san."
"What?"
"I need to thank you. For volunteering for the rear guard back there. For staying behind alone among the enemy so Milos and I could escape."
Her voice rang out surprisingly clearly in the darkness.
"Thank you. Because you were there, Milos and I could get away, even if only for a little while. ...Though we ended up captured anyway."
"...If you got captured, it was pointless."
"That's not true."
Sara shook her head.
"If you hadn't bought us time, we would've been caught much sooner. We might have been killed on the spot. So—thank you."
Allen couldn't say anything.
Warmth and coldness swirled simultaneously in his chest. Her words made him genuinely happy. But more than that, the feeling that he had no right to receive such gratitude welled up from the bottom of his heart.
*(No. I didn't protect you.)*
*(I was just looking for a place to die.)*
*(I failed to protect the person I should have protected, an
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