The smell of sulfur hung in the air. A faint, slightly acrid scent that tickled the back of the nose. Lira knew it was the mark of a hot spring. The geothermal heat of the Frostfang Mountains warmed the underground water veins, and the water rose to the surface carrying traces of soul veins—the pathways of life force that flowed through all living things. This was Hilde's hot spring. Lira walked slowly down the narrow stone-paved path. The village was small. One hundred sixty kilometers north-northeast of the royal capital Elzevir, nestled in a valley at the southern foot of the Frostfang Mountains. The population was barely three hundred. Wooden houses lined both sides of the path, and bundles of dried medicinal herbs hung from the eaves. The orange light of dusk stretched diagonally across the stone pavement, and smoke from someone's chimney rose straight into the air, carrying the scent of evening meals. The village lay outside the invasion route of the Ash Pilgrimage Brigade. That was why it still lived. Still had voices, still had smoke, still had scent. Lira unconsciously pressed her left arm against her body with her right hand. The pattern beneath the cloth still pulsed faintly with the aftereffects of yesterday's battle. It was fine. The soul vein was recovering slowly. *Soon now.* Something stirred in her chest. Not fear. Not tension either. She couldn't quite name it, but ever since she'd descended from the old woman's carriage on that mountain road, the sensation had persisted. The sign for "The Hermit's Refuge in Thermal Mist" appeared at the end of the stone path. A two-story wooden building. Steam drifted quietly from the side of the structure—it drew from the hot spring. When Lira pushed open the door, the heavy wood creaked, and warm, humid air enveloped her. The smell of ash from the hearth, and faintly, alcohol. A dimly lit tavern space with four tables. "Welcome," a sturdy-built woman called out from the kitchen. She looked to be in her fifties. Short, graying brown hair, sun-darkened skin. The bearing of a former mercenary emanated from her posture. Thick arms. Sharp eyes. But there was a friendliness in the set of her mouth. "Will you be staying?" the woman asked. "Yes. And I'm looking for someone named Kael," Lira replied. The innkeeper, who introduced herself as Bruna, studied Lira's face intently. Not an appraising look, but something more like measurement—a quiet gaze. "You're the fourth one this year," Bruna said flatly. Lira found herself momentarily at a loss for words. "The fourth?" "In the past year," Bruna confirmed. Bruna gestured with her chin toward the corner of the tavern. Lira turned her gaze. A man sat with his back against the wall. He seemed to be dozing, his chin slightly lowered. Short hair with silver-white and black mixed together. Deep green eyes half-closed, their sharp gaze hidden for now. His face bore deep lines and the weight of years. Late fifties—she'd heard he was fifty-eight. His body was trained, but there was a thinness to it, as if something were being worn away. A black pattern like a tattoo peeked from beneath the sleeve of his right arm. A curse mark—the proof of the curse Kael had received in exchange for the ash-field sweeping campaign twenty-five years ago. Something tightened in Lira's chest. The "Sword Saint of a Thousand"—a man who had commanded a thousand soldiers. One of only seven individuals recognized as Sword Saint, the highest rank of martial arts in Astrum. That man now sat in the dim corner of a small inn, a wine cup in his hand, half-asleep. *I've come all this way to find you.* Lira drew a fragment of obsidian from inside her robe and held it gently between her fingers. It was cold. Then it warmed slightly. A keepsake from her master, Alna. Whether Alna had imbued it with something or whether it was Lira's own projection, she still didn't know. But holding it calmed her. Lira approached Kael's table. "Are you Kael?" she asked. The man's eyes opened slowly. Deep green eyes looked at her. For just a moment. Then his gaze shifted to the wine cup on the table. "..." There was no response. His silence was the answer. Lira pulled out the chair across from him and sat down anyway. The wooden legs scraped against the stone floor. Kael didn't look up. "The kingdom is falling apart," Lira said. She'd meant to keep her words brief. But once she opened her mouth, she couldn't stop. "Darius leads the Ash Pilgrimage Brigade and takes stronghold after stronghold. Corpse-bound soldiers—the lingering souls of the dead bound by curse magic—appear everywhere. The royal capital Elzevir is under siege. I've fought those corpse-bound soldiers in abandoned villages. I've dispersed five of them with dark magic. But I alone cannot—" "It's none of my concern," Kael said. His voice was low and quiet. Drained of emotion, dry. "My soul vein is corrupted. I cannot wield a sword. I am a man already dead," he continued. Then he fell silent again. Lira did not. "Even without a sword—" she began. "That conversation is over," Kael cut her off. "Your experience—" "I said it's over." His words grew shorter. The more Lira pressed, the more terse his responses became. Like a wall—quiet, immovable. Not angry, not contemptuous. Simply closed, as if there were no door there at all. Lira stood. The chair scraped loudly. "I'll come again tomorrow," she said. Kael said nothing. As Lira turned and walked away, for just an instant, Kael's gaze followed her retreating figure. Only Bruna, who was retreating into the kitchen, noticed. She said nothing, just closed the pot lid with a bitter expression. --- The room on the second floor was simple—just a wooden floor and a small window. Lira lay on the bed but couldn't sleep. On the other side of the wall, that man existed. She had been rejected. She understood that. But her chest stirred quietly. *I came to save the kingdom,* she told herself. *Because Kael is necessary. Because his strength, his experience, his name are necessary.* *But that's not entirely true.* Lira looked up at the ceiling. The wood grain blurred in the dim darkness. That profile was stuck in her mind. The exhausted, curse-corrupted, yet somehow still bearing traces of the Sword Saint—the lonely profile of that man. Before long, consciousness faded. --- She woke to a sound. A low, muffled groan. Then the dull sound of something striking the floor. Lira bolted upright. The sound came from beyond the wall. The next room—Kael's room. She went into the hallway and pressed her ear to the door. Again, a low voice. A sound like someone enduring pain, or perhaps someone who had given up enduring. Lira opened the door. In the dark room, Kael lay on the floor. The curse marks etched across his entire body pulsed black. Patterns that normally lay quiet on his skin like tattoos now flickered irregularly like fireflies, spreading from his right arm to his chest, up his neck. A seizure. She'd heard the intense pain came every night—no, that wasn't quite right. She'd deduced it herself. That the curse mark, being alive, continued to corrode him every night. Lira didn't hesitate. She knelt beside him. *Pain-suppression technique.* She assembled the emergency treatment her master Alna had taught her in her mind. A technique that drew pain from another using dark magic as a medium. Rather than "channeling" the soul vein, it "burned" it—using the nature of dark magic in a healing direction. The cost was the depletion of her own soul vein. Using it now, with the aftereffects of yesterday's battle still lingering, was unwise. But she couldn't imagine not doing it. Lira slowly opened Kael's clothing. His chest, marked deeply with curse patterns, was exposed. Black pulses spread and contracted as if synchronized with his heartbeat. Lira removed the cloth from her left arm. The black pattern touched the open air. The temperature around them dropped sharply. Lira's shadow wavered—stretched, defying the light source. Fine crystals of frost formed silently on the stone floor. One deep breath. Lira pressed her palm directly against Kael's chest. His eyes snapped open. Deep green eyes and dark purple eyes, nearly black, met at close range. Their faces were close enough to feel each other's breath. Lira didn't look away. Couldn't look away. What she saw in Kael's eyes wasn't pain. It was the animal shock of human warmth. The turmoil of being touched by someone, of something long forgotten. Lira's left arm's pattern flared brightly. She felt something flowing into her through her palm—pain. The wave of pain emanating from Kael's curse mark flowed into Lira's soul vein through the dark magic medium. A burning sensation spread through her chest. The cost. But the curse mark's pulsing slowly, steadily quieted. Heat rose to Lira's cheeks. From the magical exhaustion, she tried to tell herself. But Kael's gaze was this close, its sharpness laid bare in this moment, and she couldn't quite claim that wasn't the reason. Something in her chest moved quickly, irregularly. *This is just magical exhaustion. Nothing more.* The excuse was fragile. The curse mark's pulsing stilled. Quieted. Lira tried to pull her hand away. In that instant, Kael's hand gripped her wrist. "Don't do unnecessary things," he said. It was a rebuke. But the way he held her— Kael's hand gripping Lira's wrist was careful not to hurt her. Strong enough to push her away, but not painful. That delicate calibration—the control of force drilled into a warrior's very bones—was being used only for Lira in this moment. Lira's throat tightened. Then it came all at once. The magical exhaustion hit her. The edges of her vision darkened. Yesterday's battle and tonight's depletion combined, and her legs wavered. She began to collapse. Kael's hand moved to her shoulder. It was a reflexive motion. Without hesitation. He laid Lira on the bed with movements that were awkward, unfamiliar. His gestures were rough. Unaccustomed to gentleness. But undeniably gentle. At the boundary of fading consciousness, Lira looked up at Kael's profile. Illuminated by moonlight from the window. The aged, curse-corrupted, lonely profile of that man—for just an instant, it overlapped with the image of the Sword Saint. *I want to be involved with this person.* That emotion, separate from her motivation to save the kingdom, was taking root, still unnamed. Lira understood it. She had no strength to deny it. Just before consciousness faded completely, feeling the warmth of the blanket, Lira exhaled softly. --- When she woke, the ceiling was bright. *A bed.* She was confused. It should be her own room's bed, but she didn't remember. Then the memories of last night rushed back—Kael's room, the curse mark seizure, pressing her palm against him, the gaze at close range—Lira covered her face with both hands. Her face was hot. Not from magical exhaustion. That excuse no longer worked. She got up and opened the door. Kael stood in the hallway. His back against the wall, arms crossed. The same posture as last night. But his eyes were open, and when Lira opened the door, those deep green eyes turned directly toward her. Silence fell. Lira tried to say something, but nothing came out. The heat in her face rose again. Kael said nothing. He simply looked at her. No emotion was visible in that gaze—but something had changed since last night. The fact that he was facing her, that alone. "Have you paid the inn fee?" Kael asked. It was a quiet, practical question. A detour, Lira thought somehow, wrapping emotion in indirection—Kael's way of taking the long route. Bruna appeared from the kitchen. "Call it even for last night. Honestly, doing something so reckless and then collapsing," she said bluntly, then withdrew. The sound of her stirring a pot followed. The air in the hallway eased slightly. Lira almost laughed but held it back. She couldn'