The sky still held a tint of indigo before the night fully broke. Wind from the Hyuuga Mountain Range descended the mountain path, caressing the stone-paved streets of Hilde. The sulfurous smell was thinner than usual, replaced instead by the scent of morning dew and withered grass tickling her nose. Lira adjusted her backpack and stole a glance at Kael's profile. Short hair mixed with silver-white and black. Deep green eyes fixed straight ahead. Last night, beneath the moonlight—that moment when their gazes met—the silence that wasn't brushed away, the weight that remained on her arm—it still clung to the inside of Lira's chest, refusing to leave. (I can't put it into words. But it's definitely there.) Something existed. Too early to name it, yet too substantial to ignore—something that tightened in the depths of her chest whenever she looked at Kael's profile. Kael said nothing. Only their footsteps echoed on the stone pavement as Hilde village slowly receded behind them. The sign for "The Steaming Hermit's Inn" disappeared into the morning mist. Lira didn't miss Bruna waving faintly from behind the doorway. The former mercenary innkeeper had said nothing. But her eyes had narrowed just slightly. After passing the fork toward Welnica on the southern road, Kael stopped. "We're taking the abandoned path," Kael said. "Why?" Lira asked. "The main road will be scouted. Given last night's traces, they've likely already picked up our trail," Kael replied. His voice was short and dry. Like emotions had been pressed down and sealed away—yet somehow different from before last night. Lira couldn't tell if only she felt this difference, or if something had genuinely shifted. The abandoned path was buried in grass. Once a stone-paved road connecting villages, it now had weeds sprouting from the joints and moss spreading across its surface. Treacherous gaps threatened to catch the ankle of anyone who mistepped. It was difficult to walk. When Lira reached one of the gaps—her toes caught on a protruding stone edge, and she stumbled forward. An arm caught her. The speed was reflexive. Kael's hand seized Lira's right arm, stopping her fall. A moment of contact. Lira's body froze in place. "..." Kael said nothing. He released her hand immediately. Lira couldn't speak either. She could only do nothing about the phantom warmth lingering in her palm. Her heartbeat had quickened slightly. (Watch your feet, myself.) Even as she told herself this, the heat inside her chest wouldn't subside. Kael continued walking forward without turning back. Following his retreating figure, Lira opened her mouth. "It's two days to Torvaarn Forest, isn't it?" Lira asked. "Three days if the weather turns," Kael replied. "I heard the Remnant Flame's encampment is west of the forest's center, but which entrance should we attack from—" Lira continued. "We'll decide when we arrive," Kael said. "...You could tell me a little more," Lira said. The words came out louder than intended. Kael half-turned back. Their gazes met for just a moment. "You're noisy," Kael said. The corner of his mouth seemed to move slightly. Lira couldn't confirm it. But that "you're noisy" felt different from before last night—just slightly, truly only slightly—carrying a different weight. Lira turned forward and continued walking, paying a bit more attention to her footing. --- The bushes rustled when the abandoned path neared the forest's edge. Kael's feet stopped. Lira stopped too. There was no wind. Yet the grass on both sides swayed—regularly, at intervals. (An ambush.) The moment Lira's hand went to the cloth on her left arm, the bushes split open all at once. Six figures emerged. Semi-transparent silhouettes that glowed faintly, humanoid shapes—corpse-bound soldiers. The lingering souls of the dead, bound anew by curse magic. Their eyes held the terror of death's moment, fixed and glowing white. Additionally, three living soldiers. Their joints were covered in excessively developed muscle, and the unnatural luminescence characteristic of those enhanced by curse magic seeped from beneath their skin. Nine against two. A perfect ambush. Kael drew his sword. The curse-mark pattern on his right arm became visible as his sleeve pulled back. The speed of his draw hadn't dulled. Neither age nor curse had reached the memory of technique carved into the sword saint's body. Lira unwound the cloth. The black pattern on her left arm glowed dully in the morning air. (Soul-vein reserves—seventy percent. Not fully recovered from the battle and exhaustion in Hilde.) To sever the soul-binding of corpse-bound soldiers, she needed to apply dark magic directly to their soul-veins. The power was sufficient. But at seventy percent against six enemies, her knees would be unreliable. Kael moved. The three living soldiers rushed at Kael simultaneously. The sword saint's blade arced, deflecting one soldier's weapon and sending it wide. The sound of the blade cutting through air echoed down the abandoned path. There was a slight delay in Kael's movement—the curse-mark pain must be running through his entire body. Yet the sword point didn't waver. When will commanded it, the body that had lived fifty-eight years knew how to seal away pain. Lira charged toward the corpse-bound soldiers. She activated dark magic—the pattern on her left arm glowed, and the surrounding temperature plummeted. Her breath became white. Shadows stretched unnaturally, and darkness seemed to seep from her feet in a visual effect. She directly interfered with the first soldier's soul-vein, severing its binding. The corpse-bound soldier dissipated into mist. Her knees trembled slightly. (I can still go.) She moved toward the second. Activated again. Dissipated. But this time the pattern's glow was clearly weaker. She was breathing heavily. Four remained. The pressure on Kael increased. One of the living soldiers was trying to circle around Kael's flank. As Lira moved toward the third—Kael's movement faltered for just an instant. It might have been when the curse-mark pain came in a wave. The living soldier didn't miss that opening and cut between Lira and Kael. Lira was isolated. Three corpse-bound soldiers now surrounded her. One of the curse-enhanced living soldiers spread his arms wide. "So you're the witch of dark bloodline! Then here—" the soldier began. A sharp crack split the abandoned path. An arrow struck the soldier's helmet from the side. The soldier tumbled onto the path. His opening statement was, quite literally, cut short. Lira felt her strength drain. The corpse-bound soldiers' movements froze for just a moment. Kael turned to face the remaining two living soldiers and subdued them swiftly. Then three more arrows—curse-tipped arrows flew from the high branches. With each shot, the corpse-bound soldiers' semi-transparent silhouettes warped, their soul-bindings severed, dissipating into mist. Three soldiers vanished without a trace. Silence fell on the abandoned path. Leaves rustled. A figure dropped from between the branches. The landing was light. The movements of a seventeen-year-old body, without waste. Short, neatly trimmed black hair with red streaks catching the morning light. Sharp, golden eyes. A small silver piercing in his right ear. Holding a bow in one hand, he brushed dust from his other with a light gesture. The man looked first at Kael. Joy and something complex flashed across his face for just an instant—an expression compressed from seven years. Then it vanished. The speed at which he suppressed his emotions was not unlike his teacher's. Then his gaze shifted to Lira. Golden eyes caught Lira, standing amid battle dust and ragged breathing. Thorne lost his words. (What is this?) Something pierced his chest. It didn't hurt. But it was definitely there. Something sharp, striking precisely against the inside of his ribs. This sensation was entirely new. In seventeen years of living to fight, laughing, and deceiving—he'd never felt anything like this. "Thorne," Kael said. Kael's voice cut through the air of that moment. A single word. But it contained seven years' worth of something. --- They moved into a rocky alcove to regroup. Lira leaned her back against a stone, catching her breath. Her left arm's pattern throbbed. The soul-vein exhaustion asserted itself from beneath her skin. Her knees were shaking. Thorne came to Lira's side. "Are you alright?" Thorne asked. He extended his hand naturally as he spoke. A supporting gesture—the reflexive movement of someone catching a falling person, without thought. He lightly grasped Lira's elbow. Lira tried to say "I'm fine," but couldn't. She knew her complexion was ashen from soul-vein exhaustion. She leaned her weight on him slightly instead. Kael caught this from the corner of his eye. His hand, which had been checking the remains of the living soldiers, stopped for just a moment. "Thank you," Lira said. "Don't mention it. Really. That would've been bad if that guy finished his speech," Thorne said. "That's not something to joke about," Lira said. "I came flying because it's not a joke. The arrow," Thorne said. His tone was casual. But his golden eyes weren't laughing. They were watching Lira—checking her condition, but with something more than that in his gaze. Lira reflexively hid her left arm with her sleeve. An automatic motion. The habit of eight years, covering the pattern with cloth. Thorne's eyes didn't miss that gesture. "You don't have to hide it," Thorne said. Lira's hand stopped. "I don't care about dark bloodline or whatever. You just helped us with that arm, didn't you? That's enough," Thorne said. There was no calculation, no prejudice—just straightforward honesty, because that's what he thought. The words fell into the depths of Lira's chest. Slowly. Deeply. She had lived under the dark bloodline surveillance order, as a monitored target. Even after being taken in by her teacher Alna, she'd hidden herself in cloth outside, erased her presence, and walked in fear. That was normal. No one had ever told her "you don't have to hide" so directly. Kael had accepted her differently. But this direct statement carried a warmth entirely different from Kael's. (This is troubling.) Lira couldn't speak. She was searching for words. Kael left the rocky alcove and came to stand beside them. He looked at Thorne. Deep green eyes fixed on his former student's face. "Are you unharmed?" Kael asked. "You're the one who looked like you were in pain from the curse-mark, teacher," Thorne replied. "It's not a problem," Kael said. "You always say that," Thorne said. The exchange was brief. But Lira quietly felt something flowing between those two. Seven years of absence, and the time that must have existed before that absence. Something that couldn't be explained by just "teacher and student"—a long connection. --- Under Thorne's guidance, they entered a depression near the entrance to Torvaarn Forest. A natural hollow by a stream that blocked the wind. Eyes trained to select ideal encampment sites for the Remnant Flame chose the location swiftly. Thorne gathered dry firewood. His efficiency was impressive. His movements were like the environment he'd lived in had become his actions. The fire was lit as the sky turned to evening orange. Three figures surrounded the flames. Wood crackled and popped, sparks rising and fading. The evergreen broadleaf trees of Torvaarn Forest swayed in the night wind, their rustling heard near and far. The soul-vein mist peculiar to this forest—the residual life force that drifted in gaseous form—crawled faintly at their feet. Thorne turned to face Kael. "Seven years," Thorne said. "Yes," Kael replied. "...I heard you'd gone into seclusion half a year after I joined the Remnant Flame. I thought about visiting many times. But—" Thorne said. He searched for words. Golden eyes fixed on the