"Some people think water is the answer to everything," Abigail said as she walked ahead of him toward the park entrance. "But that's not always the case."
For their third lesson, she had chosen to take him to the beech and oak forest not far from the base. At its center, wooden tables and backless benches were arranged in neat rows, surrounded by intricately carved tree sculptures in the shapes of people and animals. On sunny days and weekends, the place was usually bustling with visitors, but today, they were alone.
Rory let her take a seat first before settling across from her, setting a leather case on the table—the same one her escort had been carrying moments earlier. Apparently, she had insisted on carrying her own things, but the man had refused.
They never let her forget she was a future princess.
And he couldn't forget it, either.
The distance between them was appropriate—just that of a tutor and student—but the weight of extra scrutiny pressed heavily on his mind. The fear of an unforeseen incident leading to his expulsion was ever-present, even when he was assured his concerns were ridiculous.
Leskhen valued effort and skill, he had been told. That was why they had assigned him their best student.
Because that was who she was.
Right now, she was the top scholar in the Academy—not the prince's fiancée.
That had been the first thing she said when they were paired.
But the engagement ring on her finger seemed to mock those words.
"In open spaces like this," she continued, "fire squads handle emergencies. But in enclosed areas, anyone can save the day. And as I mentioned before, if electricity is involved, water can cause a short circuit and make things worse."
He watched as she retrieved a small notebook and pen from her pocket, sketching as she spoke.
"Fire starts and is extinguished through chemistry," she explained without looking up. "Combustion occurs when the molecules in wood react with oxygen and release carbon dioxide—" she jotted down CO₂ in her notebook. "Are you familiar with this?"
He nodded. He had heard of it.
Didn't mean he had ever paid attention.
Now, he understood why they required theoretical lessons.
"There are different types of fires, but the one that concerns us most is the kind fueled by carbon-based materials—like wood," she said, setting her notebook aside. "Let me give you another example. When gunpowder is combined with certain chemicals, it creates fireworks—like the ones being prepared for the parade right now."
She unlatched the leather case and laid out several items on the table: a candle, a box of matches, a piece of cloth, a glass, and a small fire extinguisher.
Lighting the candle, she watched the flame flicker.
"For a fire to exist, oxygen is essential," she said, placing the glass over the candle. As the flame dimmed and finally died out, she added, "As you can see, once the oxygen is depleted, all that remains is carbon dioxide, which doesn't react to much of anything."
"Interesting," Rory muttered, though his tone suggested otherwise. "But I doubt covering a fire with a glass is a practical way to put it out. I could just snuff the flame with my fingers."
"I'm just illustrating the concept. If water isn't available, the priority is to prevent the burning object from coming into contact with oxygen. But, as you know, that's not exactly easy. Fortunately, we have tools for dealing with small-scale fires."
She picked up the fire extinguisher, rolling it between her hands.
"Extinguishers are commonly used, but they're actually more complex than people realize," she remarked. "That's why, as part of their community service, official CH Division members teach civilians how to use them."
"Is that why you're telling me all this?"
She ignored his question.
"There are different classes of fire extinguishers," she continued. "Class A extinguishers contain pressurized water or foam and are used on fires involving solid organic materials that produce embers—wood, paper, fabrics, and other household items. However, these extinguishers are dangerous when dealing with fires caused by energized electrical equipment."
She drew an A in her notebook and then crossed it out.
"Some extinguishers don't use water at all. In the past, the Prevention and Restoration Unit had older models that expelled chemical compounds to displace oxygen and smother flames. But the mixture was highly corrosive and posed serious risks."
Rory nodded absently. His peripheral vision was filled with the eyes of those wooden sculptures.
He wondered if his family might enjoy having lunch here next Sunday.
They hadn't left the house in days.
"Fortunately, we've adopted newer models that use Carbon Snow, also known as Dry Ice—solid CO₂," Abigail continued. "The duke overseeing the Guard introduced it, and we've been implementing it ever since."
Rory picked up the white cloth.
"What's this for?" he asked.
"It's a sample of a fire-resistant blanket. Most are made of chemically treated wool. We learned to make them in the Academy's lab. They're fairly good electrical insulators, useful in case of fires caused by short circuits. But you have to cut the power first to avoid electrocution."
"Ah. Got it," he muttered.
"You don't seem particularly interested," she observed.
He rested his arms on the table and sighed.
"It's not that," he said, careful to keep any frustration out of his voice. He didn't want her to take it as disrespect.
"Then what is it?"
"I don't need to understand the science behind it to know I'll do whatever it takes to help. If a house is on fire, I won't be thinking about chemical reactions—I'll be thinking about getting people out. I just want to make sure I won't freeze if I ever find myself facing someone trapped in the flames—if I realize, in that moment, that I can't save them."
"Same concept as the candle in the glass. If a person is burning, cover them completely—eliminate the oxygen."
"Cover them?" he murmured, then nodded. "I see."
"You need practical solutions more than theoretical explanations," she noted.
He shook his head.
"I apologize if I seem unmotivated. I promise to pay closer attention in the next lesson. Actually, of everything you've explained, this last part is the most reassuring. My goal is always to know what to do to help. And if I don't know, I'll figure it out."
She gave him a skeptical look.
"Figure it out? Why would you take that risk? Is there someone you're particularly worried about?"
He hesitated, unsure whether to speak.
He didn't know her.
"My sister is... a bit clumsy," he admitted, looking past her, toward the trees. "I worry she might cause an accident at home and not know what to do."
Abigail exhaled through her nose, closing her notebook.
"If that's the case, then it's good you know what to do now. But if you want some free advice, the best way to avoid fires is to keep a safe distance from anything that can burn. Unless your sister is a moth drawn to flames, she should be fine."
She stood, as she always did first.
After a few steps, she stopped.
"Rory, right?"
"That's me, miss."
"Why did you apply to the Guard?"
He stood as well, dusting off his pants.
"Because I have people I want to protect."
She kicked an acorn across the ground.
"And do you plan to protect the rest of us, too?"
"If it's within my power," he nodded.
"Would you give your life?"
"I would."
She clicked her tongue.
"Everyone says that. At first."
Then she walked away.
No one had been more thrilled about the small treehouse in their backyard than Ashling.
Ever since they arrived, she had spent most of her time there.
But, as she was quickly learning, that old saying about practice making perfect did not apply to her.
She confirmed this for the third time when she tripped—again—over the same raised root near her hideout.
Lying flat on her back, she sighed. The horizontal position was comfortable… except for the part where her face was pressed against the dirt.
The back door swung open.
"Well, would you look at that," her mother said, arms crossed. "You won't try my stews, but here you are, eating dirt."
Ash propped herself up on her elbows, brushing soil from her sleeves.
"Don't judge me."
"What happened this time?" Margaret asked. "You tripped again?"
"No..." Ash lied unconvincingly.
Margaret shook her head.
"Good Lord. If I'd known you were going to be this clumsy, I would've given you up for adoption," she teased, though there was a trace of exasperation in her voice.
Ash dusted herself off and let out a small chuckle.
"True. You could've spared yourself a huge burden," she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "By the way, Mom—have you ever heard the phrase better luck next time? Well, in your case, it worked. My brother turned out much better than I did."
Margaret's smile faltered.
"That's not what I meant..." she started, then sighed. "Let's not do this again, Ashling."
Ash leaned back against the tree.
"I'm not blaming you. And it doesn't bother me. All of Rory's achievements make me just as proud, because he's the best thing I have. And because I know that at least one of us makes you happy."
"You both make me happy!" Margaret protested. "Stop pitying yourself. Just because you don't live like other people your age doesn't mean there's anything wrong with you."
She was trying—truly trying—not to let her frustration show.
She had always hoped Ashling would grow out of her dependence, but it hadn't happened. When her daughter first showed signs of her phobia, she had been relieved that Rory was there to protect her.
But as time passed, she realized—
Ash wasn't overcoming her fear.
And Margaret didn't know how to make her.
How could a mother stand by and watch her child suffer, even if it was for her own good?
What would people say if she forced her to face the world when she was terrified of it?
Not everyone was kind.
And yet, whenever Margaret tried to talk to her, Ash would simply smile—that same bright-eyed smile that softened her dimples.
It was the same way Vitaly deflected questions he didn't want to answer.
"Rory should be home soon from training," Margaret said, changing the subject. "We should start preparing dinner. Can you help me?"
"I'll be right behind you."
As the door closed behind her mother, Ash glanced toward the rooftop.
"Owl!" she called. "Stop smoking up there and come down!"
Immediately, Vitaly's blond head peeked over the chimney.
Hands still in his pockets, he jumped down.
"One day, your luck will run out, and you'll break an ankle," she remarked flatly.
He sat on the porch steps, cigarette between his lips.
"Are you worried?"
She bit her lip before answering.
"I think we all are. We're still immigrants on probation, and everything depends on Rory. We try to make things easier for him at home, but it's too much pressure. And I..."
"You feel useless," Vitaly finished for her. "Like a potted plant just sitting around, waiting to be watered."
She let out an unladylike snort.
"Thanks for putting my suffering into words, Owl." She paused, scratching her forehead. "And I think that analogy is a bit off."
"So?" he pressed, crossing his arms. "What are you going to do about it?"
"About what?"
"About you. You need to get over this fear—it makes no sense. And I worry that Rory will throw his entire life away just to be your guard dog."
She smiled faintly.
"I wouldn't let him."
"You're his greatest weakness. You know that as well as I do."
"It's not like I want to be."
"I know. But that's how he sees it. And, honestly? I get it. From an outsider's perspective, you're so cute despite your age that some people probably want to squeeze you."
"Squeeze me?" she repeated, confused.
"Sorry. I was away too long," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "Anyway, do you have a plan?"
"Actually, I've thought about it. When the time comes and I've become a complete burden, I'll take my vows. There must be a convent or monastery somewhere in this country, even if it's far from the city."
"That's outdated. You're not suited for a religious life, and neither your family nor I would let you waste your life like that... even more than you already do."
"Don't worry about me," she said, closing her eyes with a soft smile. "I'll be fine."
Vitaly's expression darkened.
"Don't say that to me," he muttered. "You're not fooling me."
"Huh?"
He was about to reply when something hanging from the cabin's eaves caught his attention.
A dreamcatcher.
A black cloth-wrapped ring with an intricate web woven inside it, forming the shape of a crescent moon. Delicate feathers and flower petals dangled from the bottom, and at the center of the ring hung a tiny clock.
But instead of numbers from one to twelve, it counted up to eighteen.
"What's that?" he asked.
Ash followed his gaze.
"Oh, that? It was a gift when we moved in. I forgot it was still there." She let out a small laugh. "I'm so absentminded."
"Are you happy here?" he asked, turning back to her.
She hesitated, then nodded.
"I think so," she said. "We found our real home. And it's all thanks to you."
Real home.
He had never heard words so cruel.