The dawn of Torvaan Forest begins in gray. The evergreen broadleaf trees block out nearly all of the sky, so rather than sunlight streaming in, the darkness simply grows thinner and thinner. A phenomenon unique to this forest—wisps of residual life force drifting like mist, the thin fog of soul veins—crawls across the ground, circling slowly around the embers of last night's fire. Lira watched the mist with a blanket draped over her shoulders. The silence of three people gathered around last night's fire still lingered deep in her chest. The whiteness of Kael's hands gripping the tea bowl with both palms. Thorne's movement faster than thought as he brushed away sparks near Lira's knees. These things remained, unprocessed, still there. (I don't need to process it. Not now.) Even though she thought that, the unprocessed things continued to insist quietly within her chest. The Remnant Flame—the largest faction among the rebels resisting Darius, numbering around six hundred—broke camp early. The tents pitched in a natural depression along the river looked like dull brown in the morning haze. The sound of cooks stirring pots, the distant sound of sword practice, someone speaking in low tones—these mixed together, and the characteristic clamor of a camp gradually rose into the air. The commander stood before the central tent around the time breakfast was ending. A sharp-eyed woman in her mid-forties. White streaked through her brown hair that fell to her shoulders, and an old sword scar marked her right cheek. She commanded this section within the Remnant Flame's cellular command structure, and Thorne had told Lira she was a former soldier. There was no waste in her voice. Everyone naturally wanted to listen. "Scouting mission toward Hilde. Volunteers requested. Solo assignment. Danger level is high. Return is not guaranteed." Silence fell. Or rather, movement stopped. Someone set down a rice bowl, and that was all. No one stood up. Not because they couldn't, but a momentary stillness as they tried to process the situation. It was Thorne who broke that stillness. "I'll go." His hand went up before the stillness even lasted two seconds. Lira looked in that direction. Thorne stood there. The red mesh in his neatly trimmed black hair sank into the pale morning light. His golden eyes were fixed on the commander. The small silver piercing in his right ear swayed faintly with the movement of his head. Before departure, Thorne turned toward Lira just once while preparing his equipment. There were no words. Just for a moment. Golden eyes captured Lira. It was the expression of someone who tried to say something and then stopped. Lira received that gaze. She received it, but didn't know how to return it. There was a sensation of something tightening in her chest, but before she could name it, Thorne turned on his heel and disappeared into the forest depths. Kael watched his back disappear. Lira glanced at Kael sideways. His deep green eyes remained fixed on the forest depths, unmoving. His expression didn't change. Only his gaze slowly—just slightly delayed—drifted away from the direction Thorne had vanished. --- The camp during the day was surprisingly quiet. Most of the soldiers were out on assignments, leaving only the wounded, the cooks, and those on watch duty. Lira sat with her back against a tree root outside the tent, examining the pattern on her left arm. She kept it hidden with cloth because of the Dark Bloodline Surveillance Decree, but she had a habit of checking its condition beforehand on days she might need to use it. How much had she depleted in last night's battle? The spread of the pattern was the clearest indicator for sensing the remaining soul veins. "...About seventy percent, then." She realized after speaking aloud that Kael was sitting very close by. About ten paces away, his back against a tree trunk, maintaining his sword. His eyes seemed to be looking without really looking, cloth pressed against the blade. Lira rewrapped the cloth. A curse mark pattern showed on Kael's right arm from beneath his sleeve. Carved at the end of the Ash Wasteland Purge twenty-five years ago, a pattern of curse. It ached every night, gradually eroding his soul veins. What was his condition this morning—she wanted to check, but stopped herself from reaching out. (I could just ask. I don't need to reach out.) She couldn't ask. She remembered the night at the Moon Hot Spring when Kael first spoke of the Ash Wasteland of his own accord. The weight of an arm that wasn't brushed away. The gaze exchanged under moonlight. Since then, something felt like it had changed, but she couldn't put into words what had changed. The desire to draw closer was coming before the calculations of duty—and if she admitted that, it felt like there would be no turning back. So Lira always stopped one step before. Beyond the ashes of the fire, Kael folded the cloth. A soldier from the camp passed by and threw a casual greeting to Lira. When she returned it, he asked with rare curiosity, "Are you a dark magic user?" His eyes weren't probing whether she knew about the Dark Bloodline Surveillance Decree—just simple curiosity. The Remnant Flame had many fugitives and deserters, so perhaps their immunity to unusual things was different. "That's right," Lira answered, and he simply said, "Seems useful," before leaving. It was somehow a little funny, and Lira laughed softly. Kael looked this way—or so it seemed. Before she could confirm, his gaze returned to the blade. --- At dusk, Thorne returned. Cloth was wrapped around his left arm. It was seeping through. Yet his gait showed no disturbance, and his golden eyes looked firmly ahead. He stood before the commander and began speaking in a low, rapid voice as he spread out a map. Lira watched from a slight distance. The commander's expression grew stern. Lira could feel tension spreading through the camp in the air itself. The outline of what she heard later was this—a separate unit of the Ash Brigade was attempting to encircle Torvaan Forest by detouring from the Hilde direction. The route was specifically determined, and there wasn't much time to spare. The commander immediately began moving, voices flew within the tent, and soon the entire camp was preparing for the next movement. By the time fires were lit in the night camp, the entire camp had entered preparations for departure. --- Thorne sat down beside Lira after that commotion had settled somewhat. Beside the fire, to Lira's left. The bandaged arm made no attempt to hide itself, resting on his knee. His face bore the color of exhaustion, but he made no gesture to conceal it. Golden eyes watched the flames. "Report is finished," Thorne said. "Yeah. Thank you," Lira replied. "The route from Hilde to here—I confirmed three paths. To block the one they can move fastest on, we'd need to get ahead and..." Thorne began, starting to spread out a map. But his hand stopped midway. Thorne's finger remained on the map, unmoving. "...That's not it," Thorne said. "Huh?" Lira asked. "That's not what I wanted to talk about," Thorne said. The flame flickered slightly. There was no wind. Thorne turned toward Lira. Directly, straight on. Golden eyes with firelight falling into them. The carefree air from daytime had faded. In its place was something pure, as if carved away, in those eyes. "I want to protect the world you're in. That's why I'm going on scouting missions. To be precise, that's the reason I took risks today," Thorne said. Lira searched for a response. Words couldn't be found. Thorne's words were direct. No exaggeration, no performance. Simply placed there as fact. Because of that, she didn't know how to receive them. It was dazzling. And then—it resonated in her chest as a warmth close to fear. (This person is telling the truth.) She understood. That seventeen-year-old Thorne hid loneliness and a desire for family behind laughter and strength. That today's wound came from a certain resolve. Lira understood all of it. Which was exactly why she couldn't respond. If she did, it wouldn't be sincerity toward this person—it would be a betrayal of something else that occupied a larger place in her chest, something toward Kael. She couldn't step toward either. That sensation of being torn apart was choking her throat. "...Thorne," Lira said. "You don't need to say anything," Thorne said. His voice was quiet. Not blaming. Just a voice that said he understood. "You have the face of someone who can't say it. You've had that face the whole time. I'm here watching that face," Thorne said. --- Kael was at the edge of the camp. In the shadow of a large oak tree, where the firelight didn't reach. He wasn't facing toward the fire. He was simply standing there when the voice reached him. Thorne's voice. Then Lira's name. He should have left. Kael made that judgment, but his feet wouldn't move. He didn't find that strange. He simply stood with his back against the tree trunk, waiting for what he'd heard to be processed. The content of Thorne's words was within his expectations. That his disciple, appearing after seven years, looked at Lira with those eyes—he'd seen it from the first night. So the content wasn't the problem. The problem was Lira's silence. The fact that she was shaken enough not to respond. That silence fell into Kael's chest cavity like a cold mass. He had given nothing. He couldn't give anything. If the curse mark progressed, he would die first. He carried the blood of the Ash Wasteland. He couldn't give any of the things Thorne could give. That thought lined up neatly. It was logically precise. But. Something remained beneath it that refused neat processing. He tried to refuse to call it emotion. He had long refused to give it that name. There were rational reasons—if he named it, it would influence his actions. That wasn't permitted. But. Kael looked at his own hand. Somehow, his right hand was lightly clenched. Not a fist. Just fingers folded inward. He hadn't been conscious of it. When he noticed, it was already like that. That physical fact quietly told him everything he'd refused to put into words. In the next moment, the curse mark on his right arm burned. Not as a metaphor for burning, but as an actual sensation of being seared. A heat like charcoal pressed from beneath the skin ran through his arm, crossed his shoulder, invaded his chest cavity. It was a different magnitude from the usual night attacks. Deeper, wider, faster. The remote curse technique of Darius—rumors said the tyrant commanding the curse brigade could manipulate curses from hundreds of kilometers away in occupied territory. He hadn't expected it to reach this far. Kael's knees touched the ground. Just keeping from falling consumed all his mental capacity. He placed his hand on a tree root, but there was no way to suppress the curse mark's pattern spreading like light. He didn't cry out. There was no reason to. Just before his forehead touched the ground—he heard footsteps running toward him. --- "Kael!" Lira's voice called out. The moment she found Kael collapsed in the shadow of a tree at the edge of camp, away from the fire, Lira's body moved before judgment could catch up. She knelt and placed both hands on Kael's chest. The curse mark pattern transmitted through her palms. It was pulsing. Different from the night in the second story when she'd first touched it—that had been a natural attack. This was different. It was being accelerated from outside. The heat of curse technique forced intervention was eating into the depths of Kael's soul veins. (This is—Darius's hand reaching here.) There was no time to hesitate. She unwrapped the cloth from her left arm. The black pattern that naturally surfaced as a dark bloodline user glowed dully in the night. Forbidden magic that burned soul veins themselves to activate—while normal magic "passed th