The more intense the light, the deeper the shadow.
In a daze, Annan seemed to return to the nightmare of the "Great Hunt," the moment when he first met Kafney at the age of eight.
Sitting in a sea of silver-purple flowers like an abandoned dog.
Unnoticed and unremembered. Although a princess, on her own birthday, the only company she had was her sketchpad.
Annan still remembered the touch of Kafney's hand.
That girl, expressionless like a doll, her little hands soft and cold as a corpse, lacking warmth... just held by Annan, but not holding back.
But the second time they met, she didn't hesitate to grab Annan's sleeve.
And when she was about to return to the Royal Capital, Kafney became more determined—she grasped Annan's hand as if arm-wrestling, absolutely unwilling to let go.
Firmer each time.
Harder each time.
"Please feel free to use me, sir."
Kafney softly repeated, "I will never fall before you."
"...I see."
