The cold of the stone steps lingered against her skin, even through her clothes. The village of Hasla at dawn was shrouded in mist. White haze drifting from the direction of the Morine Great Forest blurred the outlines of charred houses and obscured the shapes of broken fences. The morning that had been so lively until last night was quiet today—a weary, exhausted quiet. No crying. No shouting. Only people silently clearing rubble and sitting beside the injured. Elara adjusted her pack on her shoulders. The leather strap bit into her skin. The star-shaped mark on the back of her left hand held a faint warmth in the cold morning air. Even when she wasn't trying to use magic, this place often grew hot. As if something deep inside her body was constantly trying to burn. Kael stood at the eastern edge of the village. His silver-gray hair was tied back, his black cloak rippling in the wind, his gaze fixed toward the forest. The exhaustion from last night's battle showed nowhere on his face. Like a stone statue—no expression, no visible breath. Only his deep blue eyes quietly traced the forest's edge. Villagers gathered one by one. Not a formal farewell. The innkeeper of the Wheat Ear offered a bundle of dried meat. The old woman who had lived next to Elara held her hand in both of hers without speaking, then let go. That was all. It was a morning where eyes spoke before words. Elara felt the warmth of the old woman's hands for a while even after she began walking. Once they passed the forest's entrance, the village's sounds vanished. Conifer branches overlapped overhead, cutting the sky into thin lines. The ground was damp with decomposing leaves, and each footfall made a faint sound. No bird calls. The Morine Great Forest—the sea of conifers spreading east and southeast from Hasla village—was dim even in daylight. Sunlight was blocked by countless layers of branches, becoming like thin threads by the time it reached the ground. The two didn't walk side by side. Kael walked three steps ahead, and Elara followed. It seemed like the natural distance. Kael didn't look back. Elara didn't ask. They simply matched their footsteps, dodged branches, stepped over roots, and moved deeper. After walking for a while, Kael stopped. "Hold out your hand," Kael said. Elara waited a moment, then extended her right hand forward. The hand whose sensation had been slow to return since last night. Kael glanced at it once and said, "The left one." Kael said. When she held out her left hand, Kael watched its movements intently without touching it. "Try releasing magical essence," Kael said. "Right now?" Elara asked. "Small is fine," Kael said. Elara concentrated. The mark on her left hand grew hot. Magical essence—the fine particles of light drifting in the air—gathered at her fingertips. She tried to give it form. The particles gathered, glowed faintly for just a moment—then scattered. Kael spoke curtly. "Your emotions move first," Kael said. "...I know," Elara said. "Knowing isn't enough. Learn to stop it," Kael said. Then he spoke while walking. In a low voice, choosing words without waste. Magical essence uses emotion as fuel, but when the fuel burns too fiercely, control is lost. Flow it like water—not holding it in one place, but letting it pass through the body. The caster is a conduit, not a furnace, he said. Elara listened and tried again. She failed. The third attempt was the same. When frustration rose, it disturbed the flow of magical essence. Frustration at the essence being disturbed only made the disturbance worse. (I know. I know, but...) When she tried a fourth time, Kael's hand moved. Not at her fingertips, but slightly above her wrist—he pressed Elara's left arm lightly with his fingers for just an instant. Rather than changing direction, it was like drawing attention, a very brief contact. Then he let go. Elara's concentration flew in a different direction for just a moment. She couldn't put into words why that happened. The contact was brief and had no warmth. Only the hardness of his fingers transmitted through her sleeve. That was all. Yet the flow of magical essence was disturbed for a reason entirely different from frustration. Kael was already facing forward. Elara didn't question what had shaken her. When the sun began to set, the two emerged into a small clearing. The trees opened up, and dry grass spread across the ground. Wide enough for camping. Kael set down his pack, confirmed the surroundings, then began gathering dry grass and thin branches. Watching his movements, Elara thought—she would create tonight's light herself. She took out the magical essence lamp apparatus from her pack. A small glass vessel with a fragment of magical essence crystal inside—when a caster channeled magical essence through it, it would glow. Her right hand's sensation still hadn't fully returned, but with her left hand— She concentrated. The mark on her left hand grew hot. She gathered the magical essence. She flowed it— The light didn't flicker. She tried again. This time carefully, focusing her consciousness exactly as written in her mother's notes—it scattered. A third time. It scattered. In the silence, Elara gripped the magical essence lamp in her hand. The corner of the glass vessel dug into her palm. It wasn't just a problem of her right hand's diminished sensation from the advancing grayification. Even with her left hand, the magical essence wouldn't cohere tonight. The failures from daytime accumulated, her body was tired. Her emotions were wavering. She no longer knew which came first. Beside her, the sound of a flint striker rang out. Click, click. Kael knelt on the dry grass, striking flint together. With movements that required no magical essence, no magic, no intervention at all. After three strikes, sparks scattered, and the edge of the dry grass began to glow red. When he blew gently, flame was born. A small, flickering fire. That fire illuminated Elara's face. It was warm. Simply, warmly. Unlike the dark purple light of a magical essence lamp, it was an honest orange flame. This needed no magic. It didn't diminish the caster's memory or sensation. It simply burned. Elara put the magical essence lamp back in her pack. "...Thank you," Elara said. Kael didn't look up. He confirmed the fire's condition and added more branches. That was all. Elara felt that brevity pierce her chest strangely. It was neither praise nor rebuke. Just moving to the next action. That was this man's nature. The meal was simple. The portable food Kael produced—dried meat and grain pressed together—was placed beside the campfire. Elara took a bite and, after thinking for a moment, asked. "Is this actually food?" Elara asked. "It is," Kael said. "...It's hard as stone," Elara said. "It softens if you chew it," Kael said. "How much chewing?" Elara asked. "You get used to it," Kael said. It wasn't really an answer, Elara thought, but she didn't say it aloud. The flame crackled. Whether Kael's mouth corner moved, she couldn't see in the darkness. But that exchange made the heavy air feel slightly lighter. In the silence after eating, Kael began maintaining the Frostbite. Moving the cloth with the same motions as last night, he suddenly said. "You tried the magical essence lamp with your right hand," Kael said. It wasn't a question but a confirmation. "...Yes," Elara said. "Why," Kael said. Elara paused for a moment. "I think I wanted to prove it," Elara said. "Prove what," Kael said. "That I can still use it. That my right hand still works properly," Elara said. Kael continued moving the cloth. He said nothing. No affirmation or denial, no comfort or criticism. Only that silence wasn't rejection. It was like a signal that he had received it. Elara gazed at the flame. In her chest, a strange lightness and simultaneously an unsettled something existed side by side. On the second night, as they moved through the misty forest, they came upon a dilapidated shack. The boards were half-rotted, the roof tilted to one side. The door had fallen off long ago, and only tattered cloth hung in the opening. From inside came a voice. "—Wind blows. Wind blows. From the seams of lamentation. Wind blows—" The same words repeated in a monotonous rhythm. No inflection. A voice where it was impossible to tell if the speaker was asleep or awake. Kael checked inside first. Then, without turning back to Elara, he said, "Don't go in." Kael said. Elara went in. An old man was there. He sat with his back against the wall, his white hair disheveled, his face deeply lined. But what caught Elara's eye wasn't the wrinkles—it was his fingers. The fingertips of both hands were stone-colored. Not the texture of skin. A smooth, cold-looking gray surface close to rock. From the wrist onward, the texture gradually changed to that quality. Halfway up his arms, a boundary line ran between human skin and gray stone. Grayification. The final stage of the phenomenon where a caster's memory and sensation fade as the price for using magic—it was written in theory in her mother's notes. But this was the first time seeing it in reality. Remnants of belongings were scattered about. A pile of crumbled books, broken glass vessels, worn-out magical apparatus. A former mage, she understood immediately. Elara knelt beside the old man. She brought water to his lips. He drank. Whether from reflex alone or with conscious intent, she couldn't tell. His white, clouded eyes faced Elara's direction, but they had no focus. Kael stopped at the entrance. Elara felt his presence. When she turned, Kael was looking at the old man. For one or two seconds—just that long—an expression as if touching something appeared on his face. Not pain, but something deeper. The quiet tremor of an old wound being struck. The next moment, there was nothing. Kael suppressed his expression and turned toward the outside. Elara continued to look closely at the old man's grayified fingertips. The transformation progressed from the fingertips toward the wrist. Now it had reached halfway up his arm. If it continued, to the elbow, to the shoulder, eventually the entire body—this was where it led, and something in Elara's chest slowly confirmed it. Words leaked from the old man's mouth. "—The scent of shadow... ash and cinder... the teachings... they..." Elara's hand stopped. "Light... they seek light... light..." Something cold ran down her spine from her head to her neck. They seek light. The shadow-devouring beasts were drawn to her magical essence's light. The night before last and last night. The artificial magical essence traces on the large specimen's head—signs of being controlled. The old man's fragmented words began drawing a single line through the mist. Elara slowly stood and turned toward Kael at the entrance. "The Cult of Shadow's Scent—the name the old man spoke," Elara said. While speaking, she tried to connect the fragments in her mind. To scent shadow—was it a gathering of those who controlled shadow-devouring beasts? The word "ash and cinder" was mixed in too. Did it relate to grayification somehow? Everything was unclear, but one thing was certain—whether Kael knew this name. "Do you know of it?" Elara asked. Kael answered curtly. "Under investigation," Kael said. "That's all?" Elara asked. "That's all," Kael said. Nothing more was given. It was like a wall in a single word. Elara felt something other than anger first. Anger would be simpler. But this—the weight of this man carrying something alone all this time, she received it as a direct intuition. The expression on his face when he saw the old man at the entrance. It came back to her. The final line of her mother's notes overlapped with the old man's clouded eyes. Light doesn't become stronger by being lost—the meaning of those words fell in a slightly different place than before. The second night came. They found a clear