Shuna's touch still lingered on Setsuna's right hand. To be precise, it was strange that she felt it lingering at all. Yesterday at noon, across the table at Kaede's establishment, Shuna had placed her hand over Setsuna's—that was all. There had been no special words. Just a warm hand, present in that moment. Setsuna passed through the South Gate in the morning, trying to shake off that sensation. She looked down at her right hand. An ordinary hand, as always. Scarred and weathered, traces of mud clinging to the edges of her nails—the hand of a relic collector. (Don't think about unnecessary things.) She approached the entrance to the scorched zone. Today's sky hung pale and overcast, blurring the boundary between the ashen earth and the heavens above. A dry wind blew, lifting particles of blackened soil into the air. The familiar smell reached deep into her nostrils. Char and earth on the verge of decay. Three months had passed, yet this place alone remained unchanged. Setsuna drew her mantle closer and began her work. ＊ Two hours had elapsed. Behind her, footsteps crunched on gravel. Setsuna did not turn around. A colleague from the Memorial Management Bureau, perhaps, or a patrolling goblin guard—she was about to conclude as much when she noticed the weight of the footfalls was different. Not the light steps of goblin-kind. Something heavier. The gait of a large body pressing firmly into the earth. A shadow fell beside her. Black hair with crimson streaks. Short locks, slightly tousled. Eyes burning with deep scarlet gazed downward. A frame of 185 centimeters stood against the gray sky of the scorched zone, broad-shouldered and solid. Enyu Raika. A young oni warrior, she'd heard—Benimaru's younger brother in spirit. Yesterday, she'd glimpsed him from a distance at the outer edge of the scorched zone, felling a monster with a single stroke. That was all she knew of him. Why he was here now, Setsuna could not fathom. "[cold]...What is it?" "[serious]I'll help." The words were sparse. No explanation for his presence. No apology. Just "I'll help," and Raika was already moving toward the heavy wooden boxes filled with catalogued relics. He grasped one with a single arm—a weight that would have taxed two ordinary humans. Raika lifted it as though it were nothing and placed it on the transport cart. "[cold]May I ask your reason?" "[serious]Don't ask." That was all. Setsuna had meant to refuse. She opened her mouth. But before words could form, Raika was already reaching for the next box. Three paces ahead. The words of protest hung suspended on her tongue, finding no path forward. (There's no helping it.) That was the only conclusion to be drawn. Setsuna turned back to her work. The two walked through the scorched zone in near-total silence. That silence—oddly enough—was not awkward. It was the kind of air shared by those who had faced death together on a battlefield, needing no words. The spacing of their footfalls, the rhythm of their breathing, the timing of shifting loads. These things alone mingled quietly in the space between them. Setsuna found that quietness strangely comfortable—and then, noticing that comfort, felt a small flutter of confusion. Raika glanced at Setsuna several times during their work. The way she lifted relics, the grace with which she crouched beneath fallen timber, the small breath she released—each time, Raika's gaze was drawn for just an instant. He himself did not realize it. Since yesterday, the sight of Setsuna's back heading toward the scorched zone had not left his mind, and before he knew it, his feet had carried him here—that was all, he thought. A resonance between survivors of the battlefield. The tightness in his chest had no name yet. ＊ As the hour approached midday, a figure appeared at the edge of the scorched zone. It was Shuna. Her pale violet hair was gathered at the back of her head, and her white kosode gleamed against the pale overcast sky of early autumn. She had cut short a reconstruction planning meeting at the administrative office, Setsuna would learn later. Her steps were light, a gentle smile playing at her lips—until she reached the edge of the scorched zone and looked out across it. In the direction of Shuna's gaze, two shadows moved. Small Setsuna, and beside her the tall frame of Raika. No words passed between them. Only the fact of moving together. Setsuna lifted something from the ground; Raika carried a heavy box. Their movements did not interfere with one another. Yet they stood unmistakably in the same place. Shuna's feet stopped. Something pricked deep within her chest. It was not sympathy, nor concern. Something more primal, something she found slightly troublesome to acknowledge—yesterday, she had held Setsuna's hand. She had felt its warmth. Setsuna had not pulled away. That had seemed sufficient. But now, witnessing this scene, that sufficiency wavered. Her own action from yesterday felt relativized by the presence of that awkward back. A sensation as though her gesture had been placed in perspective by another's existence. Shuna kept her expression still, reconstructed her smile, and turned toward Kaede's establishment. She ordered lunch for three. ＊ The afternoon smell of Kaede's was always fish soup. White-fleshed fish from Jura Lake, simmered whole with root vegetables. In the dining hall Shuna had opened, the steam from today's set meal rose as it always did. Half the seats were occupied, goblin workers speaking in loud voices. Through the window, Tempest's streets rang with the sounds of reconstruction. The city continued its work. The three sat at a table in the back. Shuna positioned herself between Setsuna and Raika with an exquisite distance—though she herself may not have noticed. "[gentle]Thank you for your hard work this morning. You were in the southern district again today, weren't you?" Setsuna nodded, her gaze falling to her soup. "[gentle]And Enyu-san was helping as well?" "[serious]...It was coincidence." Raika's reply was brief. He answered Shuna's gentle inquiry in one or two words, then focused quietly on his meal. His chopstick technique was rough-hewn, and he paid little attention to the arrangement of dishes. Yet once during the meal, Raika noticed Setsuna's bowl had emptied, and without a word, he reached toward the serving pot for more broth. "..." He ladled soup into her bowl. That was all. He did not meet her eyes, simply returning to his own meal. Shuna watched this action from the corner of her eye. (That clumsiness—) A hypothesis took root in Shuna's mind. Perhaps Setsuna had not rejected her because she sensed something within that clumsiness. The directness of action preceding words, that very roughness— Shuna sipped her soup, her smile unchanged. The thorn in her chest remained hidden from all eyes. ＊ After finishing that day's work, Setsuna, having stored the relics in the Memorial Management Bureau's storage room, half-knew where her feet would carry her. To the western side of Tempest, a ten-minute walk from the city proper. On the western shore of Jura Lake, there was a flat rock. A place where the lake spread out before one's eyes, a place she had never told anyone about. She had simply found herself there one day. For three months since the great war, whenever she needed solitude, she came here. Setsuna sat on the rock and gazed at the lake. The pale overcast sky dissolved into the water's surface. The water's color was a grayish blue, and reeds on the far shore swayed in the breeze. In the distance, a single lizardman fishing boat moved slowly across the expanse. The lake's smell was distinctive—earth and water and a faint chill mingled together—and each time Setsuna breathed it in, her lungs seemed to ease just slightly. Her hand touched the sealed letter in her breast. It had been there since last night. She could neither open it nor discard it. She did not want to acknowledge that handwriting. If she acknowledged it, something would crumble. (Whose hand wrote this?) The question sought no answer. It could only continue asking. Behind the rock, footsteps crunched on gravel. The second time today—that sensation of perceiving another's presence. But these footsteps were not Raika's. They were lighter. Yet the center of gravity was firm, the gait unhesitating. "[serious]...I will withdraw if I am intruding." She did not turn around. But she heard the voice. It was courteous. Not an apology, not deference, but simply the necessary minimum of words to confirm the other's will. "[cold]It's fine." Setsuna replied. After a brief pause, a presence established itself beside the rock, three paces distant. He seemed to be looking at the lake. In the corner of Setsuna's vision, lustrous silver hair caught the light. The diplomat she had glimpsed yesterday, walking the inspection route beyond the South Gate. From the Foreign Ministry of the Ingrassia Kingdom, the goblin guide had said—Tooyama Kei, she believed his name was. Between them lay three minutes of silence. The lake remained motionless, unmarred by ripples. In the distance, reeds whispered. The sound of the fishing boat cutting through water reached them faintly. Kei said nothing. He simply stood, watching the lake. Setsuna measured the quality of that silence. He was not attempting to add anything superfluous. He was not being considerate, nor searching for the next words to speak. He was simply—there. "[cold]Why did you come from Ingrassia?" She was somewhat surprised at having asked the question herself. She could not have explained why such a thing had occurred to her. Kei paused before answering. "[serious]I wanted to see the actual site. Documents cannot convey everything." That was all. No elaboration of his reasons, no diplomatic flourish. "I wanted to see the actual site"—merely that. For the first time, Setsuna turned her gaze from the lake to look at Kei. The silver-haired diplomat still watched the water. His odd eyes—gold and silver—reflected the gray of the surface. The faint smile that usually creased his mouth was absent now. He simply looked straight ahead at the lake. (This person does not speak unnecessarily.) That recognition distinguished Kei from other diplomats and administrative officials in Setsuna's mind. The outsiders who came to Tempest typically fell into two categories: those who gazed at the monster nation with curiosity, or those who maintained excessive formality to preserve distance. Kei was neither. In Kei's presence—the weight in the eyes of someone who alone dug this nation's wounds from the earth was unmistakably present. That back she had glimpsed yesterday beyond the South Gate. That solitary figure sitting on the rocks today. Within his taciturnity dwelt something. Something more direct than diplomatic language could capture. The two stood together, watching the lake for some time. Few words passed between them. Yet that scarcity did not feel like deprivation. ＊ The following afternoon, Kei came to the rocks again. Between official duties, or rather—after completing his official duties, his feet had carried him here. Setsuna sat on the same rock as before. Kei stood at the same distance as yesterday. The lake stretched before them. Between them lay sparse words and long silences once more. It was only that, yet that "only" was beginning to create a unique atmosphere between them. Days passed. ＊ Setsuna left the Memorial Management Bureau's offices at dusk. Having finished recording in the ledgers, she was walking down the corridor when she found Shuna standing before the entrance. She had stopped by on her way home from today's duties, she said. The two walked out together. Evening Tempest burned orange, and the scaffolding of the memorial monument under construction in the central plaza cast long shadows. The black obsidian monument, to be erected for the 1,200 who had died