Bardess's first day in the Mason Royal City was more eventful than an entire year in the City of Qubi.
It wasn't the frantic busyness of someone scrambling without direction — it was the breathless pace of being carried along by an extreme current of Order and efficiency.
For Bardess, whose mild obsessive tendencies had always made ordinary workplaces feel like a form of slow torture, this place was nothing less than a sanctuary for her soul.
Within the first hour of stepping into the Council Hall, she had already distinguished herself through a meticulousness so extreme it could have aligned a register down to the width of a single hair — and she was promptly assigned to multiple tasks.
She spoke very little. But every report that passed through her hands was reorganized in a manner that bordered on art.
What truly shook the foundations of her worldview, however, was what she discovered while sorting through the archives: on the latest territorial map of the Kingdom, there was a coastal region labeled Avalon.
Avalon? That fog-shrouded coastal nation, absent from every ancient record in existence, had already become something Her Majesty kept in her pocket?
While Qubi and the surrounding city-states were still squabbling over a scrap or two of barren iron ore deposits, Her Majesty's gaze had already pierced through to the very edge of the continent — had already reached out and touched that legendary expanse of blue.
No wonder Her Majesty's appetite for iron ore was so immense. No wonder she was building roads that solid and that far-reaching.
She wasn't ruling a broken-down Mason. She was assembling a sacred puzzle that stretched across mountains and seas.
That kind of transcendent, dimensional grip on power had long since surpassed anything a mortal sovereign could claim.
Carrying this near-fanatical reverence within her, Bardess moved through the Royal City like someone who had forgotten the concept of exhaustion, leaving a trail of industrious activity in every corner she touched.
In the morning, she accompanied the construction crew, supervising the cement thickness with her trademark uncompromising eye.
Anyone who dared apply half an inch too much — or left even a hairline gap — could not escape those hawk-sharp eyes of hers.
At noon, she helped Daphne carry heavy wooden crates of Potions.
Even in this task, she arranged every box in order from darkest to lightest label color, transforming the previously somewhat cluttered laboratory into an instantly crisp and orderly space.
In the afternoon, just as everyone assumed she must finally be taking a rest, she appeared of her own accord in Sophia's greenhouses.
She knelt in the moist soil and pulled weeds with surgical precision — her speed so swift, her furrows so immaculate, that Hailey, who was inspecting nearby, stood there staring with her mouth slightly open.
Spring — a day in the life of Sister Bardess.
I'd wager my life that Sister Bardess has one of Sister Irene's perpetual motion machines installed somewhere inside her body!
She's helped everyone today.
When I watched her pulling weeds just now, the weeds looked like they were jumping out of the ground on their own out of sheer fright.
This is the supreme hard worker personally handpicked by Her Majesty.
Sister Bardess isn't just doing work — she's using this as a form of offering, sacrificing her loyalty to Her Majesty with every task.
As the evening glow began to rise, Sophia sat in the pavilion, watching that brown-haired young woman who had just emerged from the greenhouses — still upright in her posture despite being caked in dust — and a faint shimmer of appreciation passed through her pale-gold eyes.
"Bardess."
Sophia's cool, clear voice drifted over on the breeze.
"This minister is present."
Bardess stepped forward immediately, executing a flawless bow with precise, practiced movements.
"Your performance today exceeded Our expectations."
Sophia rose to her feet, her fingertips lightly brushing the Black Rose ornament at her waist.
"As a reward for the diligent, tonight's dinner — take it in the Administrative Hall."
"Willow, go to the cold storage at the rear hills and retrieve some of the special ingredients brought back from Avalon."
"Since Bardess already knows of Avalon's existence, let her taste the flavor of that sea with her own lips."
Willow gracefully inclined her head in acknowledgment.
She knew perfectly well that the so-called "special ingredients" were the finest deep-sea delicacies that Her Majesty had previously dispatched a large merchant convoy to cold-chain transport from Avalon, preserved in the rear-hill cold storage using a natural cooling system designed by Irene.
These were deep-sea treasures that even the royal families of other nations could rarely lay eyes upon.
Her Majesty is lubricating this new component.
Letting Bardess taste these flavors she has never encountered isn't merely a reward — it's a message: follow the Black Rose, and you will not only have Order, but the most exquisite pleasures this world has to offer.
It seems that tonight, Miss Bardess is about to be plunged into yet another spiral of fanatical devotion by Her Majesty's grace.
This total conquest — from the taste buds to the very soul — is a technique Her Majesty has refined to an absolute art.
The moment the cold storage door swung open, a torrent of frost-white mist billowed outward.
It was a preservation technology that would be considered outrageously extravagant even by this era's standards.
Inside the ice-layered wooden crates, enormous deep-sea crabs, silver-scaled hairtail fish gleaming with a metallic sheen, and premium processed shellfish meat lay quietly in wait.
Willow held her silver lantern steady, the lavender hem of her skirt stirring gently in the cold air.
As the lamplight illuminated the crates coated in a thin layer of ice, the normally still-as-water Willow felt her pupils contract ever so slightly — the instinct of extreme professional judgment igniting within her.
There, nestled in the crushed-ice-lined padding, a massive Avalon deep-sea crab lay perfectly still. Its dark-red shell, even under freezing conditions, radiated a dense, metallic weight.
Beside it lay several hairtail fish, long as silver swords, their scales intact, exuding the cold, briny breath unique to the open sea.
Shell this thick — the roe inside must be as rich as volcanic magma.
No unnecessary spices needed. Simply use the high-pressure steam from Irene's laboratory, seal in that raw, briny sweetness, then balance the cold nature of the flesh with last year's aged ginger-fruit vinegar...
Willow's gaze then shifted to the silver-scaled hairtail fish.
"This coloring — the fat distribution is exceptional."
"They should be cut on the diagonal into finger-width pieces, lightly patted with fine salt, then placed into walnut oil and slow-fried over a gentle flame."
"The moment the skin turns that faint golden-crisp color — like the color of Her Majesty's hair — that is the peak of texture and flavor."
"And this premium shellfish meat — firm and supple in texture."
"Best sliced into translucent, cicada-wing-thin pieces, lightly cured with freshly picked green lemon juice from the greenhouses, then paired with a touch of the sea-salt Potion Daphne developed — that burst of fresh sweetness will explode from the tip of the tongue straight into the depths of the soul."
A complete panorama of the perfect dinner banquet materialized instantly in Willow's mind.
This isn't merely a meal. It is Her Majesty's silent proclamation over that azure expanse of territory — and a high-dimensional baptism for this administrative genius named Bardess.
"If Her Majesty wishes to reward Miss Bardess, it must not be raw wildness alone — it must also carry the elegance of Mason."
Willow extended her pale fingers and, through her handkerchief, lightly tested the elasticity of the fish flesh. The corner of her mouth curved into a smile of absolute certainty.
"This kind of overwhelming, dimension-collapsing delicacy — I suspect it will become the most unforgettable oath of loyalty Miss Bardess swears tonight."
"Someone come."
Willow turned around, her voice returning to that crisp, no-nonsense authority that brooked no argument.
"Retrieve the special ceramic steaming set from the back kitchen."
"Tell the head chef: every seasoning used tonight must be exact."
"Her Majesty intends to make this newly arrived vassal understand that in Mason, we do not merely pave the roads to distant lands — we also command the most exquisite art of living this world has to offer."
The attendants quickly carried out the seafood Willow had designated, following her instructions to the letter.
Everyone handled it with the utmost care, not daring to be the slightest bit careless.
After all, even a single small shell from that crate was worth more than any of their lives.
The moment Willow stepped into the palace back kitchen, the normally clamorous atmosphere froze solid.
The cooking fires danced beneath the stoves, casting their light across the side of Willow's calm yet naturally imposing face.
She rolled up her sleeves, revealing a section of forearm as pale and smooth as a lotus root, and let her slender fingers drift lightly over those treasures from the deep sea.
This was not merely cooking. This was her own interpretation of Her Majesty's will — the expression of a Chief Steward's devotion in another form.
Willow first took up the hairtail fish, silver as long swords.
Rather than cutting them crosswise as any ordinary cook would, she used an implement thin as a cicada's wing — surgical in precision — to remove the central bone and every fine connecting spine.
The fish head and bones were placed into a scalding ceramic pot coated with a thin layer of walnut oil.
Once both sides were fried to a golden brown, she poured in ice-cold spring water.
Under the fierce heat's urging, the broth transformed in an instant — from clear to bright, and finally into the texture of milky-white silk.
She filtered it three times through fine gauze, ensuring not a single impurity remained in the broth.
"Her Majesty enjoys something warm to sip while she thinks."
"This fish broth must not be too thick — it should carry that quality of dissolving on the tongue the moment it touches it, yet leaving an aftertaste like wandering through the deep ocean."
"As for Bardess — I want her to understand that in Mason, even broken bones can be rendered into the most noble of flavors under Order."
This was one of Sophia's most beloved dishes.
Willow selected the finest red wine from the rear-hill cold storage — a rare vintage that had aged for years, carrying the fragrance of fruit wood.
To dehydrate and lock in freshness, thick cod fillets were cut into equal-sided squares, rubbed with fine salt, and set to rest for five minutes.
The red wine was slowly reduced in the pan, with a touch of fresh herbs picked from the greenhouses.
When the sauce thickened enough to coat the back of a ladle, the cod was gently slid in.
The outer layer of the cod became suffused with a deep, captivating jewel-red, while the interior remained white as snow — like a dark-red rose blooming under moonlight.
"The depth of the red wine represents the weight of power, while the tenderness of the cod is Her Majesty's mercy."
"Someone as perceptive as Bardess will appreciate the artistry of following such a sovereign most acutely through precisely this kind of contradictory balance."
For the large, plump oysters, Willow rejected any complicated preparation.
Each oyster was held in boiling water for precisely three seconds — long enough to barely curl the mantle edge without losing moisture.
The stew incorporated finely diced root vegetables and a natural grain starch thickener.
Willow took the ladle herself, stirring slowly in a counterclockwise motion until every single oyster was enveloped tightly in the rich broth.
"Her Majesty dislikes overpowering aromas."
"This combination of earthy fragrance and briny sea freshness is the most effective thing for easing the fatigue she accumulates from handling affairs of state throughout the day."
"Bardess — in this stew, you will see how Mason embraces all things."
"This is tonight's grandest stroke."
Willow arranged the giant crab, the shellfish meat, and the remaining smaller sea creatures onto a vast white porcelain platter in a precisely geometric, rigorously proportioned arrangement.
The roe steamed from the crab was spread evenly across every piece of shellfish meat, then allowed to seep in a second time using the residual warmth of the ceramic platter.
The vibrant orange of the crab shell, the silver-white of the fish skin, the vivid green of the fresh herb leaves — and finally, a drizzle of rendered oil, shimmering with gold.
"This is not merely seafood. This is Her Majesty's territorial map."
"From mountains and rivers to the open sea — from Qubi to Avalon."
"Bardess — when your teeth cut through these layered delights, you will understand the true nature of the great empire you have pledged your loyalty to."
The moonlight lay like frost, falling through the tall windows of the Administrative Hall and casting long, mottled shadows across the gleaming marble floor.
Having washed up and changed into a neat, close-fitted black civil official's dress, Bardess stood before the long table, her hands clasped together with a trace of awkwardness.
Though the mud stains had been scrubbed away, her heart was beating far faster now than it ever had while digging in muddy pits earlier in the day.
At the far end of the long table, Sophia was gracefully swirling a glass of pale-purple wild berry juice, her pale-gold eyes deep and inscrutable in the candlelight.
Before Bardess, several steaming dishes of strange shape but intoxicatingly mouth-watering aroma sat quietly radiating what could only be described as the luminescence of civilization.
"Sit."
Sophia's cool voice broke the silence.
Bardess sat down with a slight stiffness, her gaze locked helplessly onto the seafood platter at the center — especially that enormous deep-sea crab, entirely orange-red and bristling with backward-curved spines.
So this is... a specialty of Avalon?
This creature looks like something mutated in the depths of an abyss — its heavy shell like a layer of impenetrable armor.
Her Majesty... is actually consuming this monster?
No. Her Majesty is devouring the sea itself.
In Qubi, we fought tooth and nail over a trace of iron ore in the ground — while Her Majesty has already plunged her hand into that forbidden expanse of blue.
Every single shell on this platter probably carries within it the very fate of Avalon, that small coastal nation.
This isn't a dinner banquet — this is a military review of territorial dominion!
"Don't stand on ceremony, Bardess," said Sophia.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Then, guided by a graceful gesture from Willow, Bardess raised a trembling hand and scooped up a spoonful of the fish broth.
The moment that milky-white silk-like broth touched her lips, it was as if a bolt of lightning had struck straight through her.
This was no flavor any land animal could produce — it was the ultimate in sweet freshness and smooth warmth, surging from the tip of her tongue all the way to the crown of her skull, washing away every last trace of the day's exhaustion in an instant.
"This was rendered from the bones of deep-sea fish you have never seen before," said Sophia, unhurried, her fingertips lightly tapping the table.
"The ocean's resources far exceed those of the land — but they are also far more dangerous, and far more complex."
"To claim the most exquisite flesh, one must first crack through the hardest shell."
Bardess lifted her head sharply, and found herself falling straight into those gold eyes that seemed to see through everything.
Sophia carved a small piece of jewel-red cod, the movement as graceful and precise as a surgeon at work.
"Bardess, your performance today in the greenhouses and at the worksite — We observed all of it."
"You pursue precision. You despise chaos."
"This is good — because the laws of Mason exist to drain the swamps of disorder and pave over them with this hard, unyielding cement."
Sophia placed the piece of fish in her mouth, and her tone became distant and far-reaching.
"But remember — governance is like this seafood."
"Some people look at it and see only its strange form and flesh-tearing shell, and retreat three steps."
"Others know how to harness fire and the right tools, and transform it into the nourishment that sustains an empire."
"We summoned you here from Qubi not to use you as a ruler — but to make you the one who cracks the hard shells open."
At these words, Bardess felt something inside her crack wide open.
Her Majesty is personally teaching me the Way of Governance!
Those stubborn old bureaucrats, those tangled territorial relationships — these are the strange, forbidding shells.
Her Majesty is telling me: Mason's territory will expand without end, and I will face countless unknown, difficult challenges, just like Avalon.
If I flinch out of fear and refuse to act, I do not deserve to sit at her long table.
She is telling me through this meal: under the banner of the Black Rose, there are no monsters that cannot be conquered — only blades that are not yet precise enough.
This girl queen is not giving me food. She is giving me the appetite to command the world!
Willow refilled Bardess's glass with a small measure of diluted fruit wine, her voice soft yet carrying the quiet assurance of someone who holds every thread in her hands.
"Miss Bardess, this red wine cod has been personally selected by Her Majesty."
"In Mason, only the most diligent of souls deserve the privilege of this ocean-crossing delicacy."
Watching Bardess's near-fanatical expression — eyes faintly reddened at the rims — Willow smiled inwardly.
There it is.
A flavor like nothing ever tasted before, paired with Her Majesty's conversation that lands like divine revelation — enough to make any genius fall completely and irrevocably.
The look in Bardess's eyes right now is no longer mere obedience — it is the absolute resolve of one who would die for the sovereign who truly sees her.
From tonight onward, every official document she signs will carry this briny taste of the ocean and the cold edge of the Black Rose.
Sophia set down her cup. Moonlight fell across her silver hair, layering it with something that looked almost like a sacred glow.
"Finish this meal and go rest."
"First thing tomorrow morning, Victor will deliver the seal of the Royal Road Inspector to you."
Sophia rose, her black riding outfit crisp and solemn against the night.
"We expect to see that black stone thoroughfare — the one bearing the handprints of the future — become, under your supervision, the truly unshakeable spine of Mason."
"This minister... swears loyalty unto death!"
Bardess shot to her feet and bent deeply at the waist, her voice carrying a steely conviction that had been utterly reforged by both exquisite flavor and the weight of power.
In the palace study, only a handful of candle flames danced in quiet stillness.
Having endured a full day of affairs, Sophia had shed that heavy, intricately worked Gothic gown and changed into a light, moon-white silk sleeping robe.
Her silver hair fell like a waterfall across her shoulders, unadorned by any ornament, yet in the gentle firelight it carried a cold beauty like moonlight itself.
Rather than retiring immediately, she reclined on the daybed by the window, her fingertips turning the pages of a book Willow had sourced a few days ago from a street bookstall: Legends of the Wasteland Ruins.
These folk chronicles, which most scholars dismissed as absurd fantasy, often concealed in Sophia's eyes certain buried threads — traces of a bygone era smothered beneath the dust of history.
The study was very quiet. Only the occasional soft rustle of a turning page broke the silence.
Sophia's expression was serene, her pale-gold eyes skimming the fantastical descriptions of lost cities, the corner of her mouth carrying the faintest, most imperceptible trace of cool amusement.
This solitary time was a supreme luxury for her.
On this territory built from Order and sweat, she was the master switch that never stopped turning — only in the deep watches of the night like this could she briefly become again that young woman who might feel a flicker of curiosity toward ancient stories.
Knock. Knock.
Two knocks — perfectly rhythmic, yet carrying a heaviness like the clash of iron and steel — instantly shredded the study's quiet.
"Come in."
Without looking up, Sophia closed Legends of the Wasteland Ruins, her voice as cool as ever.
The door swung open. Delilah, still in full armor, her uniform carrying the chill of the night dew, strode in with swift, purposeful steps.
Her characteristically sharp and spirited face was etched with an unprecedented gravity. Her gaze swept the room, confirming that no one else happened to be present, before she walked directly to Sophia's side.
Delilah went down on one knee in salute — but rather than rising, she used the armrest as support, leaned slightly forward, and brought her lips close to Sophia's ear.
Delilah dropped her voice, speaking with extreme speed.
As those few short words — brief yet heavy as a thousand-weight boulder — entered Sophia's ears, the previously tranquil air seemed to freeze solid in an instant.
Delilah's expression was taut, and the moment she delivered the news, even her breath seemed to stop.
After listening to Delilah's whisper, Sophia did not display the expected shock.
She paused for just a moment — then, in the flickering candlelight, the corner of her mouth slowly curled into the faintest, most barely perceptible arc.
It was a smile that held both cold mockery and absolute certainty — like a Black Rose quietly blooming in the dark of night.
"So that's how it is," said Sophia.
The words were soft as a fallen leaf.
She raised her head, and a shiver-inducing brilliance flashed through those golden eyes.
The firelight in the study illuminated the side of Sophia's face, sculpted as if from marble, and within those pale-gold eyes there flowed a subtle radiance that could only be named "control."
"Pull back half the operatives."
Sophia's fingertip tapped lightly on the cover of Legends of the Wasteland Ruins, her voice carrying a bone-deep coolness into the stillness of the deep night.
"That 'old acquaintance' of Ours has inherited the darkest and sharpest parts of that bloodline."
"She is like a blind fish lurking in the crevices of the deep sea — even the faintest ripple in the depths will send her recoiling instantly into the darkest corner."
"Now that she has shown her tail, We are in no hurry to pull in the net."
Delilah lowered her head slightly, a trace of puzzlement crossing her brow — though it was far outweighed by her absolute obedience to her sovereign's will.
"Pull back half?"
Delilah kept her voice low, her tone carrying the frank bluntness of someone forged in iron.
"Your Majesty, the covert sentinels I trained personally — even the shadow assassins of the Kingdom of Orr would struggle to detect their breathing."
"No matter how clever she is, can she truly detect the slightest trace of anything on this land that the Black Rose has already claimed?"
Sophia turned her head, silver hair sliding across her shoulder, revealing a smile that carried a note of sardonic contempt.
"Do not underestimate that person."
"The shadow that slipped away through fire and rust on that night has never relied on mere stealth."
"What she relies on is her fear of Order — and a madness that shares the same root as Ours, yet has grown into its polar opposite."
Sophia rose to her feet, the moon-white silk robe flowing around her like liquid mercury.
"Pull the net too quickly, and all you get is a pile of shattered scales."
"We want her to walk out on her own — to see with her own eyes, on this thoroughly consolidated royal road, what Mason has become today."
"This is not merely a hunt."
There is something in Her Majesty's words that I cannot reach.
By deliberately pulling back half the operatives, she appears to be giving the other party room to escape — but in truth, she is weaving a trap out of that person's own psychological weakness, using the illusion of safety as the snare.
The soldiers' concealment techniques are truly perfect — but in the eyes of a master of control who can see into the very soul, perfection itself is the greatest flaw.
Her Majesty is not merely deploying soldiers. She is using human nature itself to mend that escaped gap.
This breadth of vision, this calculated, step-by-step precision — it sends a genuine shudder through me, as commander of the Royal Guards.
The following morning, moisture left over from the previous day's waterlogging rose under the glare of sunlight into drifting wisps of white mist.
Sophia's mood seemed particularly bright today.
She did not don the heavy ceremonial robes. Instead she changed into a neat, sharp black riding outfit, tying her silver hair behind her head with a simple black cord — looking vigorous and full of an unrestrained energy.
She walked unhurriedly through the palace corridor, her boot heels striking the smooth road surface in crisp, rhythmic beats.
Before she had even stepped into the Drill Ground, a thunderous roar — like rolling thunder sweeping across the earth — surged toward her.
At the center of the Drill Ground, Delilah was already outfitted in silver light armor that reflected the cold morning light, wielding a heavy, unsharpened broadsword, weaving through the ranks of thousands of soldiers like a howling gale.
The movements of every single soldier were synchronized to a suffocating degree of uniformity — not the wild hacking of a bygone era, but under Delilah's relentless drilling, every thrust of the spear and every raise of the shield driven by the pursuit of absolute killing efficiency.
With Delilah's flag signals, the formation rapidly contracted and expanded — like a breathing iron giant, pounding the earth beneath its feet until it trembled.
The moment Sophia's silhouette appeared in the viewing stand, the entire clamorous training ground fell eerily still for half a heartbeat.
Then, that roar which seemed to want to pierce the very sky erupted again:
"For Mason! For the Black Rose! We salute Your Majesty!"
Sophia stood at the high platform, looking down at those rows of young, resolute faces below.
She could feel it — that terrifying tension building under Delilah's hand, as farmers were gradually transformed into instruments of war.
Willow followed at her side, quietly observing the state of this girl queen today.
The look in Her Majesty's eyes as she watches the Drill Ground today carries a sharpness beyond the usual.
Delilah's confidential report last night seems to have awakened some dormant competitive hunger in Her Majesty.
These soldiers are not merely shields guarding the territory — they are extensions of Her Majesty's will.
When cement smooths the roads, and seafood stirs the appetite, this absolute martial supremacy is the final — and the heaviest — piece of the Black Rose Order's puzzle.
It seems the shadow that caused Her Majesty to personally order the loosening of the lines will soon come to understand: in this Mason, there is not a single corner that can escape the canopy of moonlight.
The yellow earth of the Drill Ground rose in faint clouds of dust under the iron boots, mingling with the cold clear morning air to form an atmosphere of grim martial power that belonged only to the strong.
Letting the soldiers continue with their standard training, Delilah and Sophia made their way to a small open space within the Drill Ground.
Sophia undid the top two buttons of her riding jacket, baring the pale, slender length of her neck.
She accepted the specially made practice wooden sword passed over by a soldier — bladeless, yet in weight no lighter than a real broadsword.
"Delilah, hold nothing back," said Sophia.
Her voice rang out across the open Drill Ground, cool as always, but shot through with a buoyancy it had never quite carried before.
Delilah blinked — then a fiercely passionate grin spread across her face.
She leveled the broadsword across her chest and exploded forward like a leopard released from its cage, the heavy blade carving a fierce half-arc, its whistle tearing through the air as it drove straight for Sophia's shoulder.
Clang!
The dull crash of impact made the watching crowd collectively hold their breath.
Rather than retreating, Sophia advanced — silver hair flying like moonlight — pivoting to deflect the force, her wooden sword snapping with precision into the dead angle of Delilah's attacking momentum, then driving her hips into a clean, sharp horizontal sweep in return.
Delilah was taken aback.
Holy spirits above... the speed and accuracy of that stroke — it's like fighting a completely different person!
I still remember a year ago: Her Majesty would be slightly winded walking a little quickly through the palace corridor, her silhouette so slender it seemed a gust of wind could topple it — a sight that had been my deepest, most private worry.
But look at her now — every step she takes is planted as solidly as an iron stake driven into the earth, every sword stroke carrying the absolute resolve of one who has seen past the boundary of life and death.
In a one-on-one match at this level, aside from a creature like myself who has spent years walking the razor's edge of survival, there are probably very few ordinary people left in the entire Mason Royal City who could withstand three of her exchanges.
Her Majesty's growth is not merely a physical transformation — it is the black stone of sheer will!
Dozens of exchanges passed. A crystalline sheen of fine sweat had risen on Sophia's pale forehead, her breathing slightly quickened — yet those golden eyes grew brighter and clearer with every moment.
"Your Majesty, this minister concedes."
Delilah voluntarily sheathed her sword and stepped back, wiping the beads of sweat from her face, her expression suffused with a pride that came from the very bottom of her heart.
"Though this minister can still overpower with brute strength, in terms of the fluidity of technique and the reading of openings, Your Majesty has already made this minister feel something close to awe."
"To evolve in the span of a single year from frail and fragile to this — Your Majesty is, without question, a miracle."
Sophia casually tossed the practice sword back to a guard and accepted the silk cloth Willow offered, lightly dabbing at her fingertips.
"If We were not sharp enough, how could We cut open a crack named Order in the mud and rubble of this wasteland?"
"Besides — you were holding back."
"It is Your Majesty who is too formidable. I underestimated Your Majesty."
Just as the atmosphere of the Drill Ground was beginning to grow lighter, Willow, who had been standing quietly in attendance, stepped swiftly forward.
She held in her hand an intact sealed letter, and as the lavender hem of her skirt swayed, a faint smell — carrying the cold edge of a border wind — seemed to spread from it.
"Your Majesty."
Willow gave a slight bow, and the normally gentle look in her eyes now held a trace of gravity.
"A urgent intercept has just arrived from the shadow intelligence unit — sent from the direction of the Kingdom of Leighton."
"Although it bears the seal of a merchant guild, the wax inside... belongs to the Leighton Royal House."
The motion of Sophia's hand, wiping away sweat, stilled by the smallest fraction.
She took the sealed letter, her fingertip tracing lightly over the pattern in the wax, and her pale-gold eyes recovered that bottomless, unfathomable calm.
"Leighton..."
The word crossed her lips, carrying a coolness as clear and penetrating as moonlight.
Sophia's slender fingertip hooked upward slightly, and the dark-red Leighton royal wax cracked under the morning sun, producing a sound like a dried leaf being crushed underfoot.
She unfolded the thick sheaf of parchment at an unhurried pace.
Delilah and Willow, still beside her in the process of calming their own breathing, moved instinctively inward by a step out of professional reflex, their gazes rapidly sweeping the characters on the letter.
The language of the letter was florid to the extreme, every line between the lines exuding the arrogance and hypocrisy of old nobility.
To the Sovereign of Mason, Queen of the Black Rose.
In my hand is a bargaining chip you absolutely cannot refuse — one that concerns Mason's future trade dominion, or perhaps that 'treasure' you have been most eager to find.
If you wish to negotiate, tonight at the midnight hour, please dismiss your guards and attendants and come alone to the dried-up well at the northern outskirts of the Royal City.
Only the candor of coming alone is worthy of the weight of this gift.
— A friend who prefers to remain unnamed.
The air seemed to be sucked out of the space in that instant.
The veins on the back of Delilah's sword hand stood out.
In her eyes, this letter had practically carved the words "it's a trap" directly into the paper.
Go to the northern outskirts? Alone?
Do those Leighton fools think Our Royal Guards are blind, or that they think Her Majesty is a three-year-old child?
Sending this laughably crude assassination plot right here to the Drill Ground — how brazen.
How do I talk Her Majesty out of going? If she is tempted by curiosity about that so-called bargaining chip, I swear even if it means defying direct orders, I will lock her in the Bedchamber tonight!
Willow's brow was also knotted tightly, the lavender sleeve cuff trembling faintly.
They mentioned a secret treasure — and that is exactly the field Her Majesty has been looking into lately.
And Her Majesty has indeed been searching for a certain item recently — which clearly means the other party has had Her Majesty under surveillance.
This kind of precisely targeted bait is precisely the type most likely to draw even the wisest of sovereigns into the trap of insatiable curiosity.
No good. I must immediately have Valery set up covert sentinels throughout the northern outskirts — even if Her Majesty insists on going, she must go within the center of our encirclement.
But with Her Majesty's cool, intractable nature, once she has decided something, no one can pull her back.
What is to be done?
Just as both of them were running through arguments at top speed, desperately searching for the words to dissuade Sophia from walking into danger alone — Sophia herself knit her beautiful brow ever so slightly, and a look of unmistakable clarity passed through those pale-gold eyes: the expression of someone watching a fool.
"Heh."
Sophia let out a short, cold laugh and casually tossed that letter — which the Leighton side presumably valued more than gold — into Willow's arms.
"Do the people over in Leighton have their skulls packed with cement that hasn't set yet?"
Sophia re-tied her slightly disheveled silver hair as she spoke in a tone of supreme nonchalance:
"Willow, take it and burn it."
"Make the fire good and hot. Leave no ash."
Willow stood there holding the letter, dumbfounded, all the carefully prepared words of dissuasion stuck in her throat — neither able to come out nor go down.
"Your Majesty... You — you don't intend to go take a look? What if the bargaining chip mentioned is genuine..."
Sophia turned her head, those moonlight-like eyes transparent with the clarity of someone who sees through everything:
"Do We look like We have nothing to do?"
"Rush out in the middle of the night for a 'friend' who doesn't even dare sign their own name, to stand around a mosquito-infested dried well waiting for them?"
"If they truly had the bargaining chip We want, they should be kneeling at the palace gates begging an audience right now — not playing this degrading game of hide-and-seek."
She looked toward Delilah, the corner of her mouth curving upward:
"Why the dazed look?"
"Delilah, that horizontal sweep from just now — I didn't quite catch it cleanly. Let's go another round."
Delilah and Willow exchanged a glance — then both broke simultaneously into wide smiles of pure, unburdened relief mixed with deep reverence.
As expected... I was putting Her Majesty in too ordinary a box.
An ordinary sovereign might take the risk for that one-in-ten-thousand chance at gain, or be drawn in by curiosity.
But Her Majesty is different — she is the one who sets the rules.
In her logic, anyone who wants to do business must come and talk on Mason's terms.
This composure — the kind that throws intrigue and scheming straight into the rubbish bin — is the true, open stratagem that stands above all plots and machinations.
The other party thought they were dangling bait — not realizing that in Her Majesty's eyes, it was nothing more than a waste of perfectly good parchment.
This breadth of vision, this unshakeable composure... the glory of the Black Rose is truly beyond compare!
"Yes! Your Majesty!"
Delilah raised her broadsword again, battle-hunger blazing in her eyes.
Willow lightly turned and tossed the letter into the nearby warming stove at the rear.
As the parchment rapidly curled and shriveled in the flames and collapsed into ash, the Leighton side's grand midnight dream was — before it had even truly begun — crushed to nothing under the feet of this silver-haired queen, right there on the morning Drill Ground.
The morning sun hung high. From the Drill Ground came the crisp, clean sound of wooden swords meeting once more, and all scheming, in the face of absolute force and absolute composure, looked every bit as ridiculous as it deserved.
---
"My Lord, word has come back."
A voice sounded low in the shadows, carrying the dry rasp of someone who had weathered wind and snow.
"That letter was successfully delivered into the Mason Royal City — exactly as you anticipated, it was intercepted by their sentinels at the first opportunity."
"By now, that letter should already be sitting on the silver-haired queen's desk."
"The only question is — how will that girl queen react when she sees it?"
In the darkness, a hand with distinctly defined knuckles tapped the mottled table surface with a steady rhythm, producing a faint clicking sound that rang out with particular sharpness in the silent sealed chamber.
"Intercepted... very good."
The figure let out a soft laugh, their tone carrying the composed, toying ease of someone who holds all the cards — as if watching from across a range of mountains as a discarded piece on the board finally began to move.
Looking carefully, one could see that on the table before this person lay a portrait of Sophia.
There was one of her sitting upright with her crown, formal and dignified. There was another of her on horseback, vital and spirited.
"She is too clever — so she will certainly see through the fact that it is bait."
"And it is precisely this act of seeing through it that is the most critical link in the entire plan."
"The moment she picks up that paper — whether she tears it to pieces or burns it to ash — the seed named 'doubt' has already broken through the soil."
The shadow shifted almost imperceptibly. The candle on the table flickered without a sound, briefly illuminating an expression of absolute cold, profound amusement — before it dissolved swiftly into the thickening darkness of the night.
"Have those standing watch over there prepare themselves."
"In the act that follows, even if the Black Rose does not wish to enter the game, this wind will blow it to the position We have already set."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The attendant hesitated for a moment, then continued: "The few in the dungeon have been causing a fuss again today."
"Fuss?"
"Do you need Me to teach you how to handle it?"
Hearing the icy tone from the throne, the attendant immediately understood exactly what attitude to take with those in the dungeon, confirmed their understanding, and withdrew at once.
The room returned to silence. The figure seated on the throne pushed a stack of official documents off to the floor and picked up a fresh sheet of parchment.
Taking up a nearby charcoal pencil, they began to sketch, lost in their own thoughts.
Viewed from a distance, it was possible to make out that the figure in the drawing had long, straight hair.
Looking more closely, one could see it was a girl — long straight hair, sitting on the edge of a bed, a look of faint displeasure in her eyes.
As the face on the paper grew more and more complete, the artist's lips could not help but murmur:
"Sophia... Sophia..."
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