“Little Olivia, time to get up.”
Silver-white hair spread over the pillow, the ends brushing the carpet’s edge.
A hand reached out, five long fingers threading through her hair, slowly combing from crown to tips, then gently hooking at the ends.
The hand was slightly cool, but it felt pleasant against her scalp.
Olivia opened her eyes.
A face that looked strikingly like her own, but more mature.
Same silver-white hair, same silver pupils.
Astrid sat on the edge of the bed, wearing a silver-white silk robe, the lapels loosely overlapping.
Her lips curled up, fingers still slowly combing through Olivia’s hair, stroke after stroke, like petting a cat.
“Time to get up. Can’t be late for today’s etiquette lesson.”
“… Mmm.”
Silver-white hair in a tangled mess, the collar of her robe skewed to one side.
Olivia pushed herself up from under the covers.
She looked down at herself—still the same, no change.
She reached for the bedpost, but her arm fell short, still a stretch away.
Then she was lifted up completely.
Astrid slid one arm under her armpits, the other cradling the back of her head, scooping her out from the blankets and holding her close.
Silver-white hair tangled together, impossible to tell whose was whose.
Astrid rested her chin on top of Olivia’s head, her fingers tracing down her spine, feeling each vertebra carefully.
Olivia’s face was buried against Astrid’s chest, her voice muffled.
“I… I…”
“You must have kicked off the blanket last night. Your back feels a bit cold.”
She remembered just now.
Gray mist.
Demon.
Ice pouring in through the veins.
Gray-white crept up from the hair ends.
Countless maddening images were forced into her brain.
Then a blade of light cut down.
Then—how was she now in the Silver Dragon King’s Palace?
Wasn’t she in Wolfgang?
Hadn’t she just finished the semifinals?
“How are you feeling? Awake yet?”
A mature, deep voice came.
Then Olivia burrowed closer into Astrid’s arms—after experiencing so many terrifying things, a cub would seek comfort from elders when in danger.
Astrid’s fingers were still stroking her back.
Wait, no—that voice didn’t come from Astrid.
Olivia snapped her eyes open.
Wooden beams, a gray-white ceiling.
An oil lamp hung on the wall, the wick turned low, the flame motionless.
She was lying on a narrow wooden bed, covered with an old blanket, the edges frayed and fuzzy.
Enrique sat on a wooden chair beside the bed, his dark coat removed and draped over the chair back.
He wore a gray shirt underneath, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing a forearm that was still damp from the rain but not completely dry.
He held a newspaper in his hands, but he wasn’t reading it.
Deep brown eyes looked at Olivia over the top of the paper, his blonde horse ears twitched forward.
Olivia stared at the ceiling for a while.
Not the Silver Dragon King’s Palace.
But the way Enrique held his newspaper—she’d seen it before.
Under the streetlamp in the Outer City District, on a bench, newspaper spread out, not looking up.
“One silver coin for a hundred vouchers.”
“Alright, leave me alone. Don’t bother me.”
Fragments of memory pieced themselves together piece by piece.
Demon.
Alley.
Enrique’s sword cutting through the gray mist.
Then he picked her up and left.
So that just now—the Silver Dragon King’s Palace, Astrid’s embrace, combing her hair—was a dream.
She felt an indescribable surge of emotion.
This uncle, why did he have to speak right when she—
Right when she was getting close with her mother—
Her entire body froze.
Her silver pupils were wide as she stared at Enrique, then looked away.
‘Why did she feel this way?’
‘How did she come to call Astrid “Mother”?’
‘Why did being held and combed by Astrid in the dream feel so comforting?’
‘Why did she feel disappointed when she woke up and found it wasn’t real?’
She pulled the blanket up over her head.
“Alright, I think I understand roughly what’s going on.”
Enrique’s voice came from outside the blanket.
He folded the newspaper and placed it on his knee.
“Huh? What? That can’t be possible.”
She poked half her face out from under the blanket’s edge, silver-white hair messily spread over the pillow and blanket.
“You were talking in your sleep. Astrid, the current Silver Dragon Queen. You’re her daughter, right.”
Enrique picked up a coarse clay cup from the bedside table and took a sip.
Steam rose from the rim, a faint herbal tea scent.
His tone was exactly the same as when he said “One silver coin for a hundred vouchers.”
Olivia pulled the blanket down a little.
She was blushing.
Not from sleep—red seeped from under her skin, spreading from her cheeks to her ears, from her ears to her neck.
She opened her mouth to say something—to say no, to say Astrid wasn’t her mother, to say she was originally a human man in his twenties—but the words wouldn’t come out.
Talking in her sleep.
How much had she said?
Had she said Orlando’s name?
Had she said she flew out of Skyreach City to escape?
Had she said the Sacred…
Had she said Nuolina…
“You… you…”
She pulled the blanket back up and curled up inside it.
“I need to consider whether I should hand you over to the Knight Order and send you back to the dragon territory.”
A rustling sound came from under the blanket.
Olivia poked her head out from the blanket.
“No, no, no.”
The moment she thought about having finally escaped, only to have to live that kind of life again—being held and combed by Astrid every day, changed into dresses, coaxed by maids with desserts into etiquette lessons, blocked on the terrace by the Blue Dragon Prince who called her “half-breed,” tickled until she laughed helplessly and collapsed in Astrid’s arms—she didn’t want to go back at all.
The blanket slipped off her shoulder.
Her silver-white hair was as messy as a bird’s nest ravaged by wind, the ends sticking up everywhere.
She looked at Enrique, silver pupils filled with refusal.
Enrique looked at her.
He looked for a while.
Then he spread the newspaper open again.
“So, where is this?”
“A small town outside the city. About half a day’s walk from Genitswa.”
He took another sip from the coarse clay cup.
Birds were chirping outside the window—not city sparrows, but a kind of bird with a longer call.
The air smelled different too—no dust or sweat, but the scent of soil and hay.
She tentatively sniffed—none of that urban smoky atmosphere.
Olivia threw off the blanket and tried to get out of bed.
She was still wearing that cat-ear hoodie, its frayed cuffs re-stitched with something.
The stitches were crooked—clearly not done by a professional tailor.
The white skirt was still there, but stained with dried mud.
She also looked down at those stitches.
Enrique watched the little silver dragon’s reaction.
‘So she really is a dragon, even examining her clothes so carefully?’
“The clothes had a tear, so I had someone mend a few stitches. Her craftsmanship isn’t great, but it’ll do for now.”
Enrique turned a page of the newspaper without looking up.