Gray clouds hung low over the tower spires, the air thick with moisture, as though the entire sky had been wrung out like a wet cloth.
That oppressive, pre-rain heat gave the scent of freshly turned earth on the rear hills a heavier, almost fermented quality.
The moment Delilah stepped out of the main palace hall, the silver glint off her armor cut through the dreary morning light like a shard of ice.
She cast one last glance back at the tightly shut window of Sophia's study, her fingertips grazing the ruby-hilted longsword at her hip. The sharpness born of a soldier's instinct crystallized swiftly in her pupils.
"Fall in!"
At Delilah's barked command, a compact, well-drilled detachment of Royal Guards assembled in the square with crisp efficiency.
They carried no heavy siege weapons, yet every man bore a meticulously maintained black musket and longsword. That air of killing intent felt jarringly out of place in the humid, sweltering morning.
Delilah swung up into the saddle. Her horse's hooves struck the cobblestones with a steady, muffled rhythm.
She made no attempt to move covertly. Instead, she led her squad in a manner that was almost ostentatiously theatrical — practically a parade — crashing into a residential district that had not yet fully woken from sleep.
His Majesty said to go and take a look. This is absolutely not a simple house call.
In this early stage of rebuilding order, we need iron armor and sharp blades to tell every subject that the grace Her Majesty has bestowed carries the weight of something sacred.
Once that grace has been brought through the door, it is no longer ordinary livestock — it is a piece of Mason's national fortune.
I march my soldiers through these streets to use this killing aura to intimidate those who are still sitting on the fence, or worse, those who have already started scheming.
In this city, behind every clucking little chicken, there stands the muzzle of a Royal Guard's musket.
As the squad passed through the streets, windows flew open on both sides. Countless bloodshot eyes fixed upon those households that had received chicks the day before.
"That's General Delilah! It's not even dawn and she's personally leading soldiers to those people's homes?"
"Look at Hans's neighbor — the envy in their eyes could burn a hole through that front door.
This isn't a chicken-coop inspection. This is a tour of Her Majesty's treasure vault!"
"I want that kind of treatment too — having the Royal Guards come watch over you. That feeling of being remembered by Her Majesty... it's just so impressive."
"They got their chickens yesterday, and today the Royal Guards are at their door for guidance.
Her Majesty hasn't forgotten us muddy commoners for even a single moment."
"Look at Lilith — her back is as straight as a noble's daughter.
Sure enough, once you've got Her Majesty's living creatures in your hands, you even speak with more confidence."
"I'm so jealous. Even if it meant standing guard at Lilith's door like a sentry for those four geese, I'd do it."
The first stop was Hans's home.
Thanks to Hailey's relentless coaching the day before, Hans and his entire family had barely slept a wink.
When Delilah's towering silhouette appeared at the gate of his simple but immaculately swept courtyard, Hans felt no fear. Instead, a feverish, almost holy sense of being recognized surged through him.
He shoved the gate open hard, his body coiled like a bowstring pulled to its limit, and bellowed at Delilah:
"Reporting, General! The Hans family is doing everything in our power to protect Her Majesty's gift!
The pen is well-dried, the feed is chopped to the required fineness — it is absolutely up to standard! Please inspect!"
Delilah dismounted. The thud of her heavy boots in the dirt made Hans's heart skip a beat.
She walked in, expression blank, and entered the small animal pen — built to a larger scale than most, but strictly following the sloped drainage and sandwich-wall construction specifications.
The feed in the trough had been chopped extremely fine, with other ingredients mixed in at the correct proportions.
The water trough nearby was clean. The clear river water held no floating debris or dust.
By now, Hans's once-dilapidated little courtyard was packed wall to wall. Hundreds of subjects craned their necks over the low wooden fence, watching as if they were witnessing some ancient and sacred ritual.
Delilah stood expressionless before the newly completed pen.
Her silver light armor gleamed coldly in the overcast sky, right hand resting on the hilt of her greatsword. Simply by standing there, she radiated a pressure that seemed to freeze the very air.
"Per General Hailey's instructions: the foundation must be raised, the walls must be insulated, and the floor must slope."
Delilah's voice was cold and mechanical. She began to pace, each heavy iron boot striking the ground with a thud that landed squarely on the hearts of Hans's entire family.
Delilah extended her metal-gauntleted left hand and pressed it hard against the main support beam of the pen, then shoved.
That monstrous strength — enough to flip a heavy crossbow — made the entire wooden frame let out a faint creak, yet it held solid as a rock.
She then drew a simple spirit level — one of Irene's designs — from her coat and laid it flat on the sloped floor.
Watching the red indicator liquid settle precisely between the calibration marks, Delilah's eye corner relaxed by the smallest fraction.
She even leaned down to sniff along the edge of the "sandwich" wall.
The scent of fresh clay mixed with dried moss confirmed that Hans had not cut a single corner in his materials.
Hans stood in the center of the yard with his wife and two children, planted there like wooden posts.
"Gulp..."
Hans swallowed with great difficulty, his throat so dry it felt like it might catch fire. He wiped his sweaty palms on the seam of his trouser legs again and again, his back straighter than when he hauled rocks on the rear hills.
I swear, I used three layers of burlap sewn together for that north-side ventilation flap.
If I fail this inspection — if these four little lives catch cold in my pen — I won't just have disgraced myself as a subject. I will have betrayed the future Her Majesty gave me.
Beside him, his wife had gone pale with anxiety, fingers wringing the corner of her apron to shreds, her eyes darting frantically between Delilah's armor and the wicker basket in the corner, too scared to breathe a word.
Outside the fence, a dense press of heads huddled together, and hushed voices hummed through the thick, humid air.
"Look! General Delilah is personally touching that foundation stone.
That Hans fellow — his ancestors must be burning bright in heaven. He actually got the general appointed by Her Majesty herself to come inspect his chicken coop."
"What do you know? This is called an auspicious inspection.
I heard that everyone around Her Majesty can tell at a glance whether you're truly loyal to the Black Rose. If Hans had slacked off, those chicks would probably be taken back on the spot."
"No wonder he's standing so stiff! He must be scared half to death by that soldier's killing aura.
My, what a grand spectacle — to have the Royal Guards come for an inspection like this!"
Delilah stowed the spirit level and turned around, her sharp gaze drilling straight into Hans's eyes.
In that instant, Hans felt as though he had been locked in the sights of a great wolf crawling out of a frozen tundra. His body trembled slightly from the sheer tension, sweat dripping from his brow directly into his eyes — and he did not dare move a single muscle.
"Structure: sound. Ventilation: standard. Drainage angle: within half a finger's deviation."
Delilah's voice finally carried a trace of warmth. She gave Hans a slight nod.
"Hans, you have not betrayed Her Majesty's trust.
Remember this — if these little ones grow fatter than the ones in the palace, I will personally petition Her Majesty to commend you."
"Yes!! Sworn loyalty to Her Majesty, unto death!!!"
Hans, released at last from that taut bowstring, let out a roar that echoed the length of the entire street.
Delilah pocketed the spirit level and did not linger in the face of Hans's near-delirious relief.
She swung cleanly back into the saddle, the war horse snorted, and iron hooves once again shattered the quiet of the street as she rode toward the next name on the list — one Her Majesty had personally highlighted: Lilith.
Compared to the rough-and-ready energy of Hans's pen, Lilith's small courtyard was noticeably more cramped — but it drew the eye with an almost striking cleanliness.
When Delilah halted her Royal Guards at the gate of the little yard, the watching crowd once again broke into a wave of murmurs.
"Look, it's Lilith's house.
That girl got geese — those are precious things."
"Shh, General Delilah still looks as terrifying as ever. Lilith's such a skinny little thing — let's just hope she doesn't get scared stiff."
Delilah strode into the back courtyard.
The moment her gaze landed on the pen, it paused for a full second.
Absolute precision.
The foundation was solidly raised as required, the walls thick and uniform.
Unlike the rough wooden latches at Hans's place, Lilith had used scraps of lumber to build a simple sliding door for the pen — one that could be pushed and pulled with ease.
The edges of the door frame had been sanded smooth, and she had even woven a layer of fine willow strips into a mesh screen to keep out mosquitoes and insects.
That kind of delicacy — preserved even while surviving on the razor's edge — struck Delilah, a woman accustomed to trenches and fortifications, with an unexpectedly jarring sense of wonder.
Delilah extended a metal-gauntleted finger and gently flicked the little wooden latch.
This kind of precision...
In an age when most people can barely keep themselves fed, the majority only care that something can hold.
Yet this Lilith had been sanding timber for a few goslings.
This reverence and care for the things she made — it looked remarkably like the expression Her Majesty wore when she tinkered with Alchemy components in the laboratory.
Her Majesty said she performed exceptionally well on the rear hills. Indeed — only someone who smooths out every grain of the wood could be worthy of being among Mason's first sparks of prosperity.
Lilith stood bolt upright beside the pen, her sixteen-year-old frame as slight as a stalk of wheat swaying in the wind.
Her face was pale with nerves, but those doe-like eyes held an unyielding resilience.
"Reporting, General... all indicators have been carried out per General Hailey's instructions.
The goose pen is cleaned three times daily, and the water temperature is maintained at... maintained at lukewarm."
Lilith's voice trembled. She tried to mimic the others and shout it out, but the excessive tension made her voice come out thin and small instead.
Delilah carefully inspected the feed bowl.
The alfalfa inside had been chopped as fine as paste, mixed with woodash at a perfectly measured ratio.
This wasn't a livestock pen — this was a proper little refuge she had built for those four small creatures.
"Well done."
Delilah straightened up, her armor letting out a crisp scrape in the dim light.
"That door in particular — you thought it through carefully.
Goslings are timid. That door will spare them from disturbances they shouldn't have to face at night."
Delilah swept her gaze around the courtyard, which was quiet almost to an unusual degree.
Under the eaves, a white-haired old woman with slightly clouded eyes was clutching the door frame, trembling as she peered over, her expression filled with anxiety and the kind of prayer one offers to a divine presence.
In Delilah's memory, Her Majesty Sophia had mentioned it offhandedly while browsing the register in the study.
"Lilith — the girl who wiped every last piece of rubble clean while clearing the rear hills. She deserves a better future."
To be remembered by that cool, reserved sovereign was itself an immeasurable honor.
"Lilith."
Delilah set aside her killing aura, and a probing quality crept into her tone — one she herself hadn't quite noticed.
"Her Majesty once praised your diligence.
But I checked the register just now — it appears your household consists only of you and your grandmother?"
The question came out of nowhere, yet it made Lilith's eyes instantly redden at the corners.
General Delilah... is actually asking about my family?
Does Her Majesty truly know my name? I am so deeply honored.
Gods above, all I did was work myself to exhaustion on that wasteland — just so Grandmother could have a bowl of hot soup come spring.
So Her Majesty really has been watching over us. Beneath the Black Rose banner, even specks of dust as small as us — even we are remembered by that great sovereign.
Lilith pressed her lips together tightly, fidgeting with her coarse linen skirt, and answered in a low voice:
"R-Reporting, General... my father didn't come back during the famine a few years ago.
My mother, last year... during that epidemic, she gave the last wheat cake to me, and she... she didn't make it through.
Now there's just me and Grandmother, depending on each other."
The subjects outside the courtyard wall heard this exchange, and the noise that had filled the air a moment ago dropped away, replaced by a heavy silence.
"Poor child. Without Her Majesty, the two of them — old and young — would have been buried in the snow last winter.
"Look — General Delilah is showing concern for her.
And what does that tell us? It tells us Her Majesty cares for every single one of us. Even a family this desperate — as long as you're willing to work hard, Her Majesty will reach out and catch you."
"I'd bet anything that after General Delilah asked that question, Lilith's family is about to have their whole life turned around.
Her Majesty's mercy is always hidden in the most unexpected places."
Delilah looked at the girl before her — one who had endured the full weight of a cruel life, yet had still built that goose pen with such painstaking care — and recalled Her Majesty's assessment of her.
She turned to the adjutant behind her and said in a cool, clipped tone:
"Record this.
Subject number fifty, Lilith. Overall assessment: Outstanding.
In light of her exceptional family circumstances and her remarkable practical skills, she is to be added to the preliminary candidate list for Lord Irene's civilian Alchemy assistant program.
Furthermore, notify Lord Valery's aide — arrange for an additional elderly subject supplement to be disbursed to her household."
Lilith stood frozen, two streams of silent tears sliding down her young face — a face both childlike and deeply marked by hardship.
"Th-thank you... thank you for Her Majesty's grace!
Thank you, General!"
Outside the window, the pent-up rumbles of thunder finally dissolved into a dense, fine curtain of rain, pattering against the heavy glazed windows of the council chamber with a flat, monotonous hiss.
This long-awaited spring rain not only washed the dust from the Royal City's streets, but swept away the stifling restlessness that had clung to the air.
Sophia set down the slightly heavy quill in her hand, lifted her lukewarm red tea, and watched the tea leaves drift and sink in the cup, reflected in her pale golden pupils.
Willow stood to one side, her voice soft and steady as she reported on Delilah's movements through the commoner district — in particular, the scene at Lilith's household.
"An additional elderly subject supplement disbursed to her household?"
When Sophia finished listening, the corner of her mouth curved in an almost imperceptible arc.
She showed not the slightest displeasure at Delilah's act of exceeding her authority and acting first without asking — if anything, she pointed to the register on the desk with a small, gratified gesture.
Delilah has finally stopped being that violent block of wood who only knew how to swing a greatsword.
She is beginning to understand that true governance isn't just about making subjects tremble on their knees in the dirt — it's also about pressing a precisely measured measure of warmth into the cracks of their deepest despair.
This tiny act of kindness is nothing more than a few lines on a ledger in my eyes. But spoken from Delilah's lips, it becomes a direct reward from royal authority to loyalty.
That girl called Lilith — the precision she brought to building that livestock pen is itself the most absolute affirmation of Mason's Order.
Giving her a small stipend doesn't just save two people's lives. It buys the lifelong devotion of a master craftsperson.
"Your Majesty, the supplement General Delilah requested — I've already calculated it."
Willow opened the account book in her hands, that signature smile of hers — wry yet perfectly measured — sitting at the corner of her mouth.
"By current standards, it amounts to an additional two small sacks of wheat, and five strips of the palace kitchen's special long-form Black Bread — the kind made for long storage."
In this era of desperately scarce productivity, where famine was an ever-present shadow, a "supplement" was never something as weighty as a bag of gold coins.
In the eyes of Lilith and her elderly grandmother, those two sacks of wheat were not merely rations — they were a get-out-of-death-free token for the coming month, perhaps the coming season.
The palace-supply bread, blended with a small amount of bran and dried fruit, was dense and satisfying. Every bite carried the fragrance of the finest produce this land could yield.
A supply so simple as to be almost laughable in this age — and yet it was the stuff of dreams for Mason's subjects.
Willow refilled the warm herbal tea, her fingertips deftly skirting the faint trace of Holy Light that lingered around Sophia's fingers.
Her Majesty's eye for people is always so uncannily accurate it sends a chill through you.
That little girl, Lilith — she was nothing more than the most unremarkable stalk of dead grass on a wasteland.
But simply because she put in a few extra ounces of effort on those rear hills, wiped clean a few extra rocks, Her Majesty handed her a ticket to the halls of Alchemy.
This logic of reward and consequence was now taking root in the hearts of subjects household by household, carried there on the back of Delilah's cold, gleaming armor.
Everyone would come to realize: as long as you followed Her Majesty's rules, you received not just a chance to survive, but this kind of dream-like extra surprise.
General Delilah's peculiar brand of military tenderness — that was probably Her Majesty's influence rubbing off on her.
Watching these once-rough and unruly muddy-footed commoners slowly learn to feel gratitude and reverence — this civilizing process was, unexpectedly, rather pleasing to observe.
Just as Sophia was about to rise and attend to the next confidential letter, the heavy oak door gave a slightly urgent, soft knock — and then a familiar figure stumbled in, trailing a gust of cool, rain-laden air.
It was Daphne.
Her brilliant golden hair, dampened by the rain, had lost its usual volume and now clung to her cheeks in damp, silken strands.
Over her thin velvet sleeping robe she had thrown a cloak in a hurry; the hem of it had darkened with obvious waterlogging from her sprint through the rain.
"Your Majesty..."
Daphne stood in the doorway, breathing slightly hard, those blue eyes — clear as washed sky — brimming with the particular relief of someone who had feared something lost and found it again.
I don't remember how I collapsed. I don't remember how that heat — like molten rock — finally subsided.
All I remember is that in the darkest, most agonizing depths of that nightmare, a cool, steady presence had wrapped itself around me the entire time.
Those warm hands. That touch carrying the clean scent of cold fir. Like an unbreakable levee, hauling me back from the raging deep-sea of Holy Light by sheer force.
I knew it was her.
In this world, only she can make my soul feel so utterly small — and yet so completely at peace.
So when I opened my eyes and that silver figure wasn't the first thing I saw, panic flooded me almost instantly.
Even if it meant running through rain, I had to confirm she was still within the range of my breathing.
"Ridiculous."
Sophia's brow furrowed slightly, an undisguised reproach flickering across those pale golden pupils.
She set down her teacup and closed the distance in a few steps, slender fingers lightly touching Daphne's shoulder. The cold seeping in at the contact made the chill in her eyes deepen by several degrees.
"Your fever only just broke and you run out in the rain. Do you really think your body is made of iron?
Willow — fetch a thick blanket and a dry towel."
"Your Majesty, I'm fine!"
Daphne tried to explain, her expression a little flustered, the post-illness pallor still on her cheeks — though Sophia's touch had already kindled a dangerously appealing flush across them.
"A normal cold and fever is nothing to me at all.
I just... I just wanted to tell you in person: thank you.
In the dream, I felt your presence — and that feeling made me feel more alive than I ever have."
Willow retrieved a dry towel from the cabinet, her gaze drifting helplessly toward the two of them.
Here we go again... this performance that was nominally mistress-and-servant, but in practice indistinguishable from the most thoroughgoing spoiling.
Miss Daphne like this looked exactly like a puppy that had been caught in the rain and was now wagging its tail as hard as it could.
And Her Majesty, for all her verbal scolding, showed not the slightest intention of removing the hand she had placed on the other's shoulder.
It seems tonight's milk will need double honey — and I had better prepare some ginger broth as well.
Just as Daphne was edging closer to Sophia, the door was slammed open again by a brute force blast!
"Your Majesty!! Urgent news!! Something big — ow!"
Irene came careening in like a pink cannonball soaked through with rain.
Her pink hair had been plastered into a single wet twist, her custom-made Alchemy work coat was splattered with mud, and there were even one or two green grass stalks stuck to it from who knows where.
"I was planning the first batch of— huh, Daphne? You're here too?
You're awake!"
Irene's frenzied shouting came to an abrupt halt the moment she spotted Daphne leaning against Sophia's side.
She scratched awkwardly at her soaking wet hair, those sapphire eyes flickering between the two of them before finally settling on Sophia's blank, faintly exasperated expression.
Three of Mason's central pillars had now assembled in the study. It was just that at this moment, one bore the fragility of recent illness, the other the dishevelment of a post-experiment mud bath — both utterly bedraggled.
Delilah, who had just returned from her patrol outside, stood in the shadow of the doorway, watching the scene within. A vein at her temple twitched.
What is this uncanny feeling of "Her Majesty's study has filled up with wet women"?
Inexplicably infuriating.
Sophia rubbed her temple, took one look at the two thoroughly disheveled figures in front of her, and the last trace of helplessness became a very quiet sigh.
"Willow — towels."
Sophia practically bit those two words out through her teeth.
Willow understood at once, gliding through the study like a wisp of smoke. When she returned, she carried an extra stack of thick, soft dry towels.
Sophia took one, stepped right past the aggrieved-looking Daphne, and dropped it with precision squarely over Irene's head — just as she was opening her mouth to report her triumph.
Dry off.
Irene hunched her neck, let out a sheepish laugh, and obediently dropped into the chair beside Daphne.
And so the study became the site of a thoroughly bizarre tableau: Mason's Saint and Chief Inventor sat side by side, like two startled farmyard birds, vigorously rubbing their soaking hair through their respective towels.
Delilah watched these two acting this outrageously right under Her Majesty's nose, and her grip on her greatsword tightened considerably.
Daphne was understandable — she was a patient, after all.
But Irene — that creature hadn't even bothered to change out of her mud-caked Alchemy coat before sidling up next to the throne.
It was only because Her Majesty had a good temperament. Had this been any other monarch, the two of them would be airing out in the dungeon by now.
Irene gave her hair a couple of careless rubs, then yanked the towel down around her neck, revealing a flushed face, her sapphire eyes glowing with unusual brightness.
"Your Majesty! While you were watching Delilah's patrol from the terrace just now — did you notice a major problem?"
Irene waved both hands animatedly, sending a small spray of droplets flying.
"Everyone is still using primitive cloaks, straw hats, even burlap sacks over their heads to keep off the rain!
Those things are dreadfully heavy, they'll make you sick once they're soaked, and they're far too complicated and inconvenient for ordinary people."
Sophia raised an eyebrow, signaling her to continue.
"I want to make a simple, collapsible umbrella!"
Irene yanked from her soaked pocket a sheet of paper that had been half-drenched by the rain, and spread it on the table as though it were the most precious thing in the world.
"We don't need expensive silk. We can use the flexible timber you find everywhere on Mason's rear hills for the frame.
For the canopy... we can use good-quality bark paper, then coat it with the oil compound from our Alchemy workshop — an oil-paper umbrella!"
"Low cost, lightweight, foldable."
Irene's voice grew louder and louder, crackling with a near-fanatical researcher's energy.
"As long as the locking clasp on the frame is designed properly, the thing can snap open as fast as Her Majesty's crossbow.
The cost per unit is barely three wheat cakes, yet it could allow Mason's subjects to get around normally on rainy days without worrying about falling ill from getting soaked!
Cloaks and the like still let in rain one way or another — but an umbrella is just so much more convenient."
Willow listened to Irene's pitch and thought it was a genuinely excellent idea.
She had never seen an umbrella before, but it sounded wonderful.
Her sensitivity to cost is practically a match for Her Majesty's own.
If this oil-paper umbrella can be mass-produced, we could absolutely print the Black Rose emblem on the canopy.
When every subject in the city is walking down the street carrying one of these, what a staggering brand statement that would make.
This isn't just rain protection — it's an announcement to the entire continent that Mason has mastered the technology to stand against the sky itself.
Sophia lowered her eyes to the messy diagram.
From her perspective, this was not simply an umbrella.
It signified that Mason's productive capacity was making the leap from ensuring bare survival to improving the efficiency of daily life.
"Not a bad idea."
Sophia tapped the table lightly with her fingertip, that residual shimmer of Holy Light flowing faintly in the dim light.
"But ordinary paper won't be durable enough.
Irene — afterward, find Irene and have her pull a batch of low-grade linen off-cuts from the warehouse to pair with your oil-compound experiments."
We truly have no umbrella technology yet, and getting around without one in the rain is genuinely a nuisance.
"No problem!
Give me three days, and I'll have the first batch of Black Rose oil-paper umbrellas out on the streets!"
Irene was so excited she nearly leapt out of her chair.
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