Chapter 53: Mr. Gorky

Midnight.

This time, Prunier was mindful of her injury and didn’t use her as a body pillow to sleep.

Olivia turned over.

Her silver hair slipped off the white pillow, spreading across the sheets like a puddle of melted moonlight that someone had tugged sideways, spilling over.

Her body followed her hair as she shifted.

First her arm—

Her right hand slid out from under the blanket and rested on Prunier’s pillow.

Then her shoulder—

Her left shoulder slipped out from the edge of the blanket.

The collar of her white nightgown twisted to one side, revealing half a collarbone.

Then her entire left leg—

It emerged from under the blanket, the hem of her nightgown hiked up to her thigh, her smooth calf draped over Prunier’s blanket.

Prunier woke up.

Her red pupils glowed faintly in the darkness.

She turned her head and saw Olivia’s right hand on her pillow, fingers slightly curled, as if grasping for something.

Silver strands of hair brushed against her cheek.

Then Olivia rolled over completely.

Her upper body pressed against Prunier’s chest, her chin resting in the hollow of Prunier’s shoulder.

Silver hair spilled like a basin of overturned water, cascading over Prunier’s shoulder and spreading across the pink sheets.

The collar of her white nightgown had slipped entirely, hanging around the crook of her elbow.

Her breathing was steady.

Silver lashes drooped.

She murmured something indistinct in her sleep.

“…Don’t run…”

‘Hey, this one keeps saying she doesn’t want to, but her body sure is honest…’

Prunier didn’t move.

She looked down at the silver crown of Olivia’s head pressed against her chest.

The silver cowlick, a few stray hairs sticking up, rising and falling gently with each breath.

She tried to lift Olivia’s arm off her neck.

Olivia’s arm tightened a little, pulling her closer.

The next morning.

Olivia opened her eyes.

Silver pupils met a face. Prunier’s face.

The distance was too close—

Close enough that she could see her own barely-awake face reflected in Prunier’s red pupils.

Her right arm was wrapped around Prunier’s neck, her right leg hooked over Prunier’s waist.

The hem of her white nightgown was bunched up to her waist, her entire right leg exposed from thigh to ankle.

Prunier’s red spaghetti-strap nightgown had been pulled askew, one strap dangling to her elbow, revealing most of her shoulder.

Prunier was watching her.

Her red pupils curved into crescent moons.

“Morning.”

Olivia bounced off Prunier.

The movement was as fast as when she dodged the Beast-Eater’s Mist Blade back at the church.

Silver hair whipped through the air in an arc, the ends brushing Prunier’s face.

The collar of her white nightgown slid back into place from the crook of her elbow, covering her collarbone.

She knelt on the edge of the bed, both hands clutching her nightgown collar, silver pupils wide as saucers.

“I—you—we—”

“You climbed over yourself.”

Prunier pulled the skewed strap back onto her shoulder.

“In the middle of the night. You turned over. Then you climbed on top of me.”

“I—”

“You’re pretty proactive, huh. Did you have a nightmare? Couldn’t be away from big sister?”

Olivia’s mouth hung open.

Her silver pupils shifted away from Prunier’s face, staring at the wrinkles she had left on the pink sheets from sleeping.

She didn’t remember any of it.

One hour later.

The smell of oatmeal porridge drifted through the cafeteria.

Olivia carried her tray back from the serving counter.

She had taken four plates this morning—

One less than usual, because of the blood loss from yesterday.

The dragon bloodline had burned through too much stamina, but her stomach wasn’t fully awake yet and couldn’t handle more.

She walked with her head down, silver hair falling from her shoulders and hanging on either side of her tray.

She was thinking.

Victoria said she was her descendant.

Her silver blood had seeped into the stone pillar’s etchings, and the entire ruin had lit up.

That gunstaff that grew from her palm—

Golden body, white—

While lost in thought, she suddenly collided with someone.

The tray slipped from her hands.

The gravy from the potato stew arced through the air.

The dark bread rolled far away.

The oatmeal porridge splattered on the floor like a puddle of white paint.

She stumbled backward.

But a large hand caught her firmly.

That hand was big.

Its five fingers could wrap around her entire shoulder.

The palm was rough, covered in calluses, pressing against the freshly bandaged wound on the back of her head.

But the force was as light as if it were holding a fallen leaf from a tree.

She looked up.

A middle-aged man.

Dark brown hair mixed with a few silver strands, messily combed back.

He was tall, standing there like a wall.

But his whole demeanor was loose, like an oversized old coat hanging on a rack.

On his head were the ears of bear-kin.

“You okay?”

His voice was low, rising slowly from deep in his chest.

He steadied her, then moved his big hand from the back of her head.

Olivia stood upright, silver hair swinging forward over her chest.

“I—I’m fine.”

She crouched to pick up her tray.

He crouched too.

Both their hands reached for the dark bread that had rolled into the corner.

She got it first.

He withdrew his hand.

Then a piece of paper fell from his chest.

Folded twice, the edges worn and fuzzy.

As it hit the floor, one corner unfolded.

Olivia’s gaze swept over it.

Not on purpose—

The paper landed right next to her knee.

The handwriting was dense, the strokes pressed heavily, as if deliberately written.

“Teacher Gorki,”

The words after that were blocked by the fold.

She didn’t intend to read further, but the characters at the fold were directly in her line of sight.

“Don’t worry about the Worker’s Party. After the last meeting, everyone’s emotions have calmed down. The strike at the Vishkov Factory was suppressed, but…”

Her gaze jumped.

Vishkov Factory.

Ursk.

That noble killed by Wei at the Winter Night Church—

The second son of the Vishkov family.

“But no one gave up your name. They asked many times. Everyone said they didn’t know. Sonya was taken away three days ago, still no news. Her mother goes to the gendarmerie gate every day to wait. The gendarmes say there’s no such person.”

“Don’t come back. Stay in Eldron. We can handle things here. You said words live longer than bullets. So keep writing out there—that’s you living for us. No need to reply to this letter. Sonya.”

Olivia picked up the paper, aligned the folds, and refolded it exactly as before.

She stood up and handed it to him.

Gorki took the paper and tucked it into his chest.

His movements were slow, as if the paper had weight.

“Thanks.”