Nightfall.
Liliana gritted her teeth, her gaze sweeping over the troops Delilah had deployed to nearly seal off the better part of the corridor, then shooting a vicious glare at Irene, who from beginning to end had been clutching her musket's fuse-cord with a death grip.
She knew full well that at noon she had already handed over, in full, the golden royal seals of both kingdoms, thoroughly completing the transfer of legitimate sovereignty. As of now, she stood here in the capacity of City Lord of Leighton.
If she forced her way through tonight, leaving aside whether she could even beat these two Mason women whose heads were stuffed full of stubborn defense-protocol dogma—
should the commotion grow too large and utterly wake the resting Sophia within, the efficient and capable City Lord image she had worked so hard to build up in Her Majesty's heart would likely take a severe hit.
"Hmph... fine, tonight you win this round."
Liliana let out a cold sneer, balancing the pure-silver tray in her hands with utmost elegance.
That crimson silk nightgown carved an extremely resentful yet crisp arc through the moonlight as she lifted her proud chin slightly. The trace of fervent, sour longing and adoration in her beautiful eyes, far from being extinguished, blazed all the more resolutely.
"The latest main-warehouse ledgers of both kingdoms, the border supply inventories, as well as the schedule for reclaiming land with two hundred thousand displaced refugees that I personally planned—come morning, I shall present them in person before Her Majesty's long desk.
As for the late-night defensive line of Her Majesty's bedchamber... we have many days ahead. We shall see!!"
Having dropped this provocative parting threat, the newly appointed City Lord swept back her ink-black curls and, treading unwilling yet still elegant steps with a hint of teeth-grinding spite, finally melted gracefully into the night at the far end of the corridor.
Only after that dazzling crimson of Liliana's had completely vanished from sight did the thirty Mason Garrison Army female warriors, who had been standing in rows with nerves stretched taut, soundlessly let out a breath of relief, each lowering their leveled black muskets.
"Phew... we finally drove off that woman who plays by no rules."
Irene hopped nimbly down from the large wooden crate, shoved the hefty new-model musket in her hands back into the fine-iron latch-clasp behind her, and raised a fair little hand to wipe the fine sweat from her brow.
Yet the pink-haired girl's round, pretty face was anything but relaxed; instead, those big sapphire-like eyes were filled with grave wariness.
"Delilah, do you think that shameless woman has really given up?
I keep feeling like tomorrow night, the night after, even every single late night, she'll come creeping over with the excuse of verifying the new ledgers or reporting the reclamation plans!
A person like this—before the wheat fields of both kingdoms have all sprouted green shoots—will absolutely fix her eyes on Her Majesty's bed like a bee that's caught the scent of maple sugar!!"
How could this person be like sticky taffy, impossible to shake off no matter how you flung her away?
Delilah expressionlessly planted her ruby heavy-armored greatsword back onto the ground, one hand pressing the hilt, her flame-bright red hair undulating faintly in the night breeze.
She coldly fixed her gaze on the empty far end of the corridor, those dark-red eyes brimming with a heavy, master-guarding killing aura.
"Given up?
A savage wolf that just washed Leighton's deep palace clean with blood—how could she possibly abandon her covetous greed over a musket or two.
Since Her Majesty has entrusted me with the core security of this Yurilland Temporary Palace, then from now on, every late night I shall personally nail myself dead-center before this main doorway.
Any impurity that attempts to shake Her Majesty's divinity through sticky, clinging means—this General will liquidate clean on Her Majesty's behalf!"
As long as she, Delilah, drew breath for a single day, this woman would not approach Her Majesty for a single day!
Just as these two core retainers of the main camp were brimming with righteous indignation, ready to turn this bedchamber defensive line into a permanent, twenty-four-hour, high-intensity sentry post—
"Swish, swish..."
An extremely light rustling of an ivory folding fan, however, abruptly drifted over once again from the depths of the corridor behind them.
The two women warily glanced back, only to see the Third Princess Victoria—who had just left on the pretext of "taking the little court historian Hailey and the withdrawn little girl Tulan back to rest"—now actually returning all alone.
The intricate long robe on this Third Princess refracted a cold, noble radiance in the moonlight, while the ivory folding fan in her hand tapped lightly, now and again, against her fair palm.
On that bright, beautiful face of hers, at this very moment, hung a teasing smile that seemed about to see clean through a person entirely, and those golden eyes were brimming with a gleeful taste for gossip.
"Oh my, you two—still standing guard like door-gods here at this hour of the night?"
Victoria came strolling over with a face full of smiles, her beautiful eyes giving a crisp once-over to Delilah's greatsword and to the black-powder fuse-cord tucked into Irene's artisan vest.
Then, with utmost elegance, she actually sat down on a pinewood high-backed chair off to one side—originally left for the inner guards to rest during shift changes—her long skirts spreading out, her fan swaying lightly, her whole person appearing exceptionally languid and at ease.
"Sister Victoria, why have you come back alone?"
Irene blinked in some confusion, her two little hands folded somewhat puzzledly across her chest.
"Are Hailey and Tulan both settled in?
It's the dead of night—instead of going to sleep, why come running back to this front line that could erupt into a red-hot conflict at any moment?"
Victoria gently unfurled her fan, covering the corners of her mouth that had nearly curved up to her ears. Her golden eyes were full of the gleam unique to a seasoned, gossip-loving fox, and she laughed in a lowered voice:
"A grand ultimate court drama concerning the ownership rights of Her Majesty's skirt-hem—how could This Princess possibly watch only half of it and then go back to sleep?
That little court historian Hailey has already tidied and tallied today's chronicle clean upon the stone steps, so I grew a bit curious and deliberately came back, wanting to have a good chat with you two~"
Saying this, Victoria's noble frame leaned slightly forward, fixing her gossipy gaze on the cold, hard face of Delilah, her tone carrying an undisguised strand of teasing mockery.
"Come to think of it, there's something I don't quite understand.
That City Lord Liliana just now outside the door—didn't she already hand over the supreme royal seals and the rights of governance of both kingdoms early at noon?
She is now nothing more than the City Lord of Leighton; in the dead of night her thoughts got a little sticky, and the excuse she sent up was nothing more than that thick stack of wasteland ledgers, reclamation plans, and a bowl of fragrant, soft, heat-relieving thick soup...
Adoring Her Majesty is a perfectly normal thing.
Little sisters, why go to such great lengths to surround the entire corridor so tightly not even a grain of rice could slip through?
Why must you forcibly drive the poor little lady away?"
Before Irene and Delilah could even open their mouths to retort, Victoria elegantly twirled the ivory fan in her hand and switched to a near-matter-of-fact tone of grand-scale reckoning, sighing faintly:
"Just look—these past two days Her Majesty has nearly rubbed her temples to pieces over the two hundred thousand displaced refugees from those seventeen downgraded cities, and the grand grain ledger in her hands churns out vexing liquidity-deficit figures every single day.
If...
This Princess is only saying 'if'—if we could let that Sister Liliana, who is exceedingly skilled at playing the pitiful card and who also holds Mafen's latest reclamation schedule, get through the door...
having some matters of that sort might just relieve a bit of the administrative fatigue and mental stress for our Queen who's under such heavy pressure and facing crisis at any moment~
You two, as retainers, why can't you show a little understanding for how hard it is for Her Majesty?"
"Victoria!! You—you stop talking nonsense over there!"
Listening to this Third Princess, in front of everyone, actually begin to openly proclaim in that noble aristocratic tone such dangerous remarks that nearly breached Mason's line of purity, Irene's entire being instantly flared up red-hot to the most insane critical point!
The pink-haired girl's round face flushed crimson, and even the twin tails atop her head looked about to stand up straight in anger.
What sort of nonsense was this!
She fiercely swung the black musket in her hand and, in indignant embarrassment, growled low at Victoria:
"What do you mean, relieve stress?!
That is straight-up spiritual-level terror-torture, all right?!
That Liliana is simply a shameless woman who acts with absolutely no rules!
She came in at the dead of night carrying soup and clutching a stack of reclamation plans—do you really think it's to verify those furs and figures with Her Majesty?!
She just wants to scheme up something improper!!
If we don't nail her dead outside the main door, Her Majesty's innocence and sense of security will see a massive plunge in output tonight!!
Victoria, since you've already merged into the core system of our Black Rose, how can your head be calculating Her Majesty's boudoir every single day with these weird, bizarre ideas?!"
Though the Delilah at her side did not shout out in embarrassment like Irene, those dark-red eyes likewise narrowed dangerously.
She coldly pressed her ruby greatsword, her voice hard as a slab of granite that hadn't thawed in ten thousand years underground.
"Third Princess, put away that vile taste of yours that belongs to the old nobility.
Her Majesty's world belongs to the lowest-tier productive lifeblood of the entire Northern border; her nobility and purity are the supreme lock of the contract of faith for Mason's eighty thousand troops.
As long as I, Delilah, still live in this world for a single day, any rude wretch who attempts to defile Her Majesty's divinity through such filthy means...
must first ask permission of this heavy greatsword in my hand!!"
Watching these two core guards before her—one with eyes glaring round in fury, the other surging with killing aura—nearly break their composure on the spot from just a few of her words.
Victoria, seated on the pinewood chair, was about to laugh herself into internal injury behind her fan.
As she very properly observed the expressions of these two female generals, each so fiercely guarding their food, the corners of her mouth couldn't help but curve up.
How interesting.
And meanwhile.
Just within the inner side of the luxurious bedchamber's main door, separated by only that single panel.
Sophia, seated steadily on the white-fox-fur soft chair, had her long lashes tremble violently in the cool night air.
The little red-maple cake smothered in maple syrup in her hand—the very instant she heard from Victoria's mouth that line, "having some matters of that sort might just relieve stress"—stuck hard, dead in the gap between her teeth, mid-disintegration.
On Sophia's porcelain-white, deadpan face, that pair of pale-golden dead-fish eyes blinked exceedingly slowly and full of bewilderment.
Why did she keep feeling that, for Victoria to bring up such a thing at a time like this, there was just a touch of ill intent in it?
The night breeze along the corridor wafted slowly past, carrying the fresh fragrance of Black Rose. Victoria looked at the core retainers before her—impervious to all persuasion—and the smile at the corners of her mouth, far from restraining itself, grew several shades richer.
She raised the ivory folding fan, lightly covering her red lips, her voice carrying a strand of meaningful leisureliness:
"After all, no matter how much Her Majesty acts day to day like a flawlessly-scheming deity, in the end she is still merely a sixteen-year-old girl.
After bearing the enormous grain pressure of a full two hundred thousand refugees, perhaps what Her Majesty truly needs at this moment isn't cold armor and black muskets, but a touch of tenderness and care from the gentle quarters?"
The words had not yet fallen when an extremely soft, rhythmic sound of footsteps came from around the corner.
Administrative Officer Willow, carrying a cup of freshly brewed evening calming tea, came strolling over.
The pure-white long dress on her appeared especially neat in the moonlight. Upon hearing Victoria's words, those fair footsteps suddenly paused, ever so lightly, at the edge of the corridor.
For a moment, the atmosphere along the entire corridor grew all the more subtle.
Irene, Delilah, and Willow who had just drawn near—all of them at this moment heard Victoria's several insinuating words clearly, every one, into their ears.
The expressions of the three women varied in the moonlight, yet all of them tacitly refrained from erupting on the spot.
Irene's already-flushed round face instantly turned so red it seemed about to drip water, her big sapphire-like eyes glancing somewhat flusteredly back and forth between the tightly shut bedchamber door and the teacup in Willow's hand. Her lips moved a few times, but flustered with embarrassment, she ultimately couldn't get a word out.
What on earth was Victoria even on about.
Delilah's flame-like red hair surged fiercely in the night breeze.
Upon hearing those three words, "gentle quarters," the knuckles of this red-haired General pressing the gemstone greatsword suddenly tightened, even producing a faint, crisp creak from excessive force, and a flash of extremely dangerous contention crossed her dark-red eyes.
And as for Willow, holding the tray, on those cheeks that usually wore a placid expression with a standard gentle smile, her long lashes likewise trembled ever so faintly.
Although this top-tier civil official still maintained an impeccably elegant posture and displayed not the slightest emotion on her face, that deep gaze of hers fixed on the tightly shut door clearly showed that her inner heart was not nearly as calm as the surface.
Victoria, seated on the pinewood chair, took in every bit of that subtle abnormality on the faces of these three Black Rose core retainers.
She rose gracefully, lightly smoothing her long skirt with her fan, the smile at the corners of her mouth as deep as that of a fox who'd had her scheme succeed.
"It seems tonight's defensive line remains rock-solid indeed.
Then This Princess won't disturb you all in your faithful discharge of duty."
Victoria folded up her fan, briskly tapping it against her fair palm, and with a satisfied smile turned and ambled away, leaving behind only a deep corridor where, beneath the moonlight, each harbored her own thoughts in silent stillness.
Only after the figure of the Third Princess Victoria, swaying her fan, had completely vanished at the far end of the corridor did the atmosphere lingering in the air gradually disperse.
Administrative Officer Willow stood before the tightly shut carved door, drawing a deep breath of the slightly chilly night air, striving to steady her breathing.
She lowered her head and glanced at the calming tea in the tray in her hands, still curling with wisps of white steam, its porcelain lid glistening with a moist luster in the moonlight.
Care from the gentle quarters?
Willow chuckled softly in her heart, that rarely-revealed flicker of emotion in her eyes faintly surging.
Having witnessed how Her Majesty Sophia, with nothing but the most basic farming plans and tens of thousands of catties of white powder, had outright schemed supreme wealth into being upon a barren wasteland, she knew better than anyone that the silver-haired girl upon the throne had absolutely no need for that debauched, frivolous brand of soothing belonging to the old nobility.
Yet, upon hearing Victoria slyly mention that "Her Majesty also needs a touch of tenderness," Willow's fingertips still tightened involuntarily.
As a top-tier civil official who had followed all the way here from the Royal City of Mason, every early morning she tallied countless refugee registers and bad debts of the main warehouse, and the sole driving force that sustained her uncomplaining, high-intensity overtime was that, each deep night, she could justifiably push open this door and bring a cup of hot tea to that sixteen-year-old empress who bore the pressure of an entire continent.
She wished to become the support that could shoulder all burdens on Her Majesty's behalf—not like that ruleless Leighton City Lord outside the door, who could only bring Her Majesty pointless mental wear and tear.
Having tidied up her somewhat turbulent mood a little, Willow raised that bare, ungloved hand and, in a very orderly manner, knocked lightly three times upon the heavy wooden door.
"Knock, knock, knock."
"Come in."
From within the door, Sophia's voice came swiftly—as ever cold, steady, and without a single trace of mortal worldliness.
Willow gently and softly pushed open the wooden door, the faint sound of her armor scraping deliberately suppressed to the very lowest.
The interior of the spacious bedchamber was quite cool.
Ice blocks had already been placed in the room, and these ice blocks had been reinforced by Daphne with magic, so they would melt extremely slowly and release far more cold air than ordinary ice.
Placing these ice blocks within the bedchamber was as comfortable and contented as having a small air conditioner.
Beneath the room's tall glazed vaulted ceiling, several faint wall-lamps cast down a soft halo of light, stretching that slender, plain-white silhouette behind the long desk into a tall, slim shape.
Sophia was sitting quietly upon that comfortable white-fox-fur soft chair, a head of silver hair flowing like moonlight, a quill still pinched in her fair little hand, while stacked before her was a thick pile of military registry archives concerning the surrendered Olan troops.
Seeing that the one who had entered was the composed Administrative Officer, and not that figure outside laughing like a villainous witch, Sophia, seated steadily in her chair, in the very deepest part of her heart, ever so covertly let out a long breath of relief.
Thank heavens—the one who came in was Willow.
Sophia's facial muscles did not so much as twitch superfluously; her pair of pale-golden dead-fish eyes lifted from the long desk with utmost coldness and, with utmost composure, looked toward the official approaching.
Willow walked to the side of the long desk with measured steps, gracefully bent down, and steadily placed that tea cup—emanating a faint herbal fragrance—at the very far edge of the long desk, well away from the documents, then revealed to Sophia a gentle, solicitous smile.
"Your Majesty, this is the heat-relieving calming tea that Saint Daphne specially blended for you.
It contains a soothing herb from the high mountains of the far west, exceedingly effective for relieving the soreness of these days' temple-rubbing.
The Saint is still tonight in the Administrative Hall's main warehouse, verifying with several centurions the wheat-seed quotas to be distributed at dawn tomorrow to the seventeen cities—she's truly rather busy and couldn't get away, which is why she couldn't deliver it to you in person, so she entrusted me to bring it along on the way."
Upon hearing that Daphne, even in the dead of night, was still high-intensity verifying tomorrow morning's quota ledgers with the department heads, Sophia's ears—originally turned a bit sour from the clamor outside the door—instantly felt a sliver of slight consolation.
Originally Daphne wouldn't have needed to do such things, but because trustworthy and capable hands were few, she still had to do some of it.
This was the crucial period of Mason's expansion; everyone had work that could never be finished and overtime that could never be capped.
Sophia lowered her long lashes slightly. That exquisite, flawless deadpan face remained as still as an ancient well, only coldly setting the quill in her fingertips ever so lightly against the edge of the inkstone, and giving an exceedingly slight nod.
"You've worked hard.
Have Daphne rest a bit early too; tomorrow's refugee transfers aren't urgent for this one moment."
"As you command. Your Majesty's consideration—I think the Lord Saint, upon hearing it, will surely be heartfeltly delighted."
Willow gently answered, her pair of deep eyes quietly studying, in the moonlight, that porcelain-white pretty face of Sophia's, which faintly betrayed a sliver of weariness.
Looking at this Girl Queen—who, before eighty thousand troops and countless rotten ledgers and deficits, hadn't so much as furrowed her brow, that supreme divinity—Willow's inner heart instantly welled up with a fervent, sour ache mixed of extreme reverence and a vow to defend her to the death.
Her Majesty truly bore far too much.
Those neutral small nations looked on coldly from the shadows, and the ancient empire to the south could mobilize heavy troops at any moment.
At such a turning point of grand tides, Her Majesty, in order to let the Northern border greet a great harvest come autumn, had stubbornly, all alone, in this cool deep night, silently shouldered all the burdens upon those slender shoulders of hers.
She, too, could only share some of it for Her Majesty in her own feeble way.
Willow retreated two steps, somewhat reluctant to part, preparing to withdraw.
However, upon reaching that heavy wooden door, this top-tier civil official—who usually most valued the rules—exceedingly rarely halted her steps.
She slowly turned around, fixing that gaze brimming with submission and warmth upon Sophia, her hands folded before her lower abdomen, and in a voice thin as a mosquito's hum yet soaked through with boundless heartache, softly murmured a single line:
"Your Majesty... don't toil too late tonight.
The new Order of the Northern border is important, to be sure, but your body is Mason's most irreplaceable trump card.
Please... rest early."
Seated behind the long desk, Sophia stirred her eyelids slightly.
Faced with this sudden, somewhat boundary-crossing yet unusually gentle evening care from Willow, this Transmigrator blinked her pair of pale-golden dead-fish eyes in some bewilderment.
Why was it that tonight, one after another, they all suddenly came running to fuss over This Queen's quality of sleep?
Still, gazing at Willow's eyes, which appeared especially earnest in the moonlight, Sophia didn't say much more, only giving an exceedingly steady "Mm," which served as the final, ultimate verdict upon this late-night tea delivery.
Having received this single response from the Queen, the cheeks of Willow's placid face at last fully bloomed into an impeccable gentle smile.
She once again bowed gracefully toward the silver-haired silhouette upon the throne, then very crisply pulled open the door and stepped out, drawing the wooden door completely and soundlessly shut behind her.
The night grew ever deeper, the lamplight in the corridor casting long shadows across the marble floor.
After Willow had withdrawn, that luxurious carved door was once again tightly shut.
Delilah, guarding before the door, pressed the hilt of her ruby heavy-armored greatsword with one hand, arms folded as she leaned against the cold stone pillar, her pair of dark-red beautiful eyes slightly closed, beginning to rest her spirit with eyes shut.
All around the corridor, now and then came a few exceedingly crisp, faint sounds of armor scraping—the patrolling female guards in charge of the outer defensive line treading on light, soft footsteps and slipping quietly past, terrified that too much commotion might disturb Her Majesty within, who had at last finally settled into peace.
And on the pinewood bench off to one side, Irene was slouched in an utterly unkempt posture, her two fair little hands propping up her round chin in a daze, now and then heaving a long sigh.
Those big sapphire-like eyes of hers were utterly unfocused, while round and round in her head turned all those slyly insinuating words that the Third Princess Victoria had left behind when she departed earlier.
"What does 'care from the gentle quarters' even mean... and, that sort of thing?"
The pink-haired girl tugged distressedly at her long twin tails, her little mouth pouting slightly.
Thinking it over carefully, the words of that scheming fox Victoria did seem to carry a bit of sense to them.
Ever since Her Majesty had led them all the way, fighting from the Royal City of Mason to this Yurilland Temporary Palace, every morning the moment she opened her eyes, what she faced were countless downgraded cities, refugee registers, and the headache-inducing grain figures of the main warehouse.
In everyone's eyes, Her Majesty was forever that supreme deity perched high above, flawlessly scheming, that porcelain-white face never letting any superfluous expression slip out, and in daily life she had no enjoyable diversions whatsoever.
Bearing such an enormous survival pressure day after day, Her Majesty was, in the end, still only a sixteen-year-old girl. Perhaps on certain weary deep nights, her side truly did need a touch of gentle care, or...
or that sort of thing Victoria spoke of, to relieve stress?
But the instant she closed her eyes, the moment that cold, aloof deadpan face of Sophia's surfaced in her mind—facing that ruleless shameless woman Liliana—
or that gorgeous female lord of Black Stone City—and revealing some gentle, water-soft, clinging expression, even embracing and snuggling under the covers doing those things...
for some reason, Irene suddenly felt her chest tighten.
An irritation she couldn't articulate, an unclear faint sour grievance, like dust and smoke suddenly bursting open in the workshop, instantly surged up to her heart like a tide, choking her until even breathing felt a little difficult.
Irene clutched fiercely at the collar of her artisan vest, her two lovely slender brows knit tightly together, her whole being sinking into the deepest contemplation she'd ever known.
She felt a bit like crying, and her heart was so flustered.
Why on earth was this?
Why was it that the moment she imagined Her Majesty possibly doing something or other with another person, her heart felt so inexplicably uncomfortable, so awful?
This bizarre symptom of a stifled chest and a heartbeat that faintly seemed to be losing its pace had never once occurred back at the old main camp.
After dozens of breaths of grave contemplation, the pink-haired girl on the bench suddenly snapped her eyes wide open, and her whole person shot up from the pinewood chair out of excessive terror!
"Oh, oh no!!"
Irene let out a near-despairing scream in her heart, her round face frightened pale in an instant.
This is finished!!
Could it be that this Inventor...
has, because of all this time staying up night after night in the workshop tinkering with the armor assembly line—high-intensity, no-rest overtime—finally had her body's defensive line completely collapse, and bottled up a case of myocarditis?!
Or a severe heart disease that could drop a person to the ground on the spot at any moment?!
No wonder that the moment she heard Her Majesty might be together with someone else, this Inventor's myocardial tissue ached so terribly, unable even to draw out a steady breathing figure!
This is absolutely a danger warning of bodily overload caused by long-term staying up late!!
Whoosh—
This sudden, large-commotion standing-up motion of Irene's rang out especially jarringly in the deep corridor that had been deathly still.
Delilah, who had been resting her spirit with eyes shut all this while, snapped open that pair of dark-red beautiful eyes in an instant, a sharp glint flashing past, and the greatsword planted beneath her hand even gave off an exceedingly low metallic rumble at its master's vigilance.
The red-haired General tilted her head slightly, looking somewhat puzzledly at the pink-haired little girl whose complexion kept shifting and who was now clutching her chest in a death grip, and in a low voice asked with knitted brows.
"Irene? What's happened?"
Hearing Delilah's inquiry, full of solemnity and battle-intent, Irene awkwardly twitched her mouth, revealing a somewhat guilty, forced smile.
She rubbed her heart—which had absolutely no pathological change—a bit embarrassedly, lowered her head, and tugging at her hem, muttered softly in some fluster:
"No, no... Delilah, that shameless woman hasn't come back.
It's just... I just feel like something here suddenly seems a bit off—my heart's pounding terribly hard, and I can barely catch my breath.
I suspect I might have developed some serious ailment in my heart-vessels from all the frequent overtime and late nights, so I've got to hurry over to the Administrative Hall's main warehouse to find Saint Daphne and have her blend me a bowl of soothing herbal decoction..."
Hearing that it was Irene's body that had taken ill in the dead of night, a flash of grave concern instantly crossed Delilah's cold, hard face.
In her subconscious, Irene's workshop was the most core military-industrial guarantee of Mason's entire new Order.
If something went wrong with this pink-haired Inventor's little heart, those heavy padded armors in the Temporary Palace that hadn't yet had their rivets hammered in would, come tomorrow morning, likely meet with catastrophic halt of production on the spot.
Delilah very solemnly nodded at Irene, one hand pressing the hilt, her voice steady and dependable:
"Since your body's unwell, then hurry on over.
Daphne should still be over at the warehouse reconciling accounts with the centurions tonight; a matter of heart-injury like this mustn't be delayed.
I alone will be nailed dead-center before this main door here; I will absolutely never let any impurity mix its way in. Go on, set your heart at ease."
"Mm, mm! You've worked hard—then I'll be back soon!!"
Irene nodded as if granted a pardon, hiked up her artisan vest, and with a string of somewhat flustered little leather-boot patters, dashed at full speed down the steps of the side hall, madly racing toward the brightly lit Administrative Hall's main warehouse.
And the red-haired General who remained in place once again slowly closed that pair of dark-red beautiful eyes, melting that heavy ink-black armor into the shadows of the corridor, continuing, like the coldest steel statue, to guard with all her might that supreme tranquility beneath the moonlight within the door.
As Irene's string of flustered, hurried little leather-boot patters completely vanished at the stair landing, the deep corridor once again returned to the deathly stillness peculiar to the dead of night.
Delilah still planted both hands upon that broad ruby heavy-armored greatsword, her body leaning cold and hard against the chilly stone pillar.
She slightly closed that pair of dark-red beautiful eyes, looking as though she'd sunk into slumber, but even the faintest shift in the wind around her, or the rustle of a patrolling female guard's armor scraping past, none of it could escape those exceedingly keen ears of hers.
In the silence, however, those slyly insinuating hints Victoria had left behind earlier began, like lingering embers of a campfire impossible to dispel, to rekindle bit by bit from the dead ashes in the red-haired General's mind.
Care from the gentle quarters... was it?
Delilah murmured the words low in her heart, the hands originally folded across her chest unconsciously tightening a little.
Though that pair of dark-red pupils hidden beneath her long lashes did not open, a certain equally silent, cool night long ago—that scene which had nearly let her hot blood utterly wash away her reason—in this very second, with absolute clarity, fully revived in the depths of her mind.
That was the most absolute, and most warm, vow-to-the-death contract between her and Her Majesty.
That night, at the seaside, they had shared a kiss—exceedingly light, exceedingly soft—yet one that had nearly melted her whole being alive.
To this very deep night, every time she recalled that warm touch carrying the faint herbal fragrance of Black Rose, Delilah's heart—long forged hard as iron amid the mountains of corpses and seas of blood of the battle formations—would still uncontrollably skip a beat, welling up wave after wave of bashful tenderness and savor.
That was the core domain belonging to her and Sophia, the two of them alone.
Thinking up to here, the knuckles Delilah pressed on the ruby hilt loosened a little, and the violent killing aura that had originally arisen in her heart because of Liliana was, miraculously, completely soothed by a strand of sweetness.
That shameless Leighton City Lord Liliana thought that by carrying a bowl of stale-rice thick soup and draping herself in a thin garment, she could exchange it for Her Majesty's pass in the dead of night.
But she simply didn't understand—this General and Her Majesty... had long ago already experienced a supreme moment countless times more intimate than that.
Her Majesty was usually lofty, cold, and proud, pressing all her weariness and the two-hundred-thousand-refugee figures deep in her heart, never revealing the slightest bit to outsiders.
But if one day Her Majesty truly were crushed breathless by these sky-filling deficit ledgers, and truly needed some tenderness and care from the gentle quarters...
Her Majesty would surely, at the very first moment, once again choose me—her most trusted iron wall of a guard—without reservation, wouldn't she?
After all, we are intimate ones who long ago already possessed the most perfect contract.
The moonlight spilled like water across the corridor floor, stretching Delilah's tall, slender figure exceedingly long.
Thinking of that lightly sweet, gentle kiss from so long ago, on the originally cold, hard face of this red-haired General—who on the battlefield made countless old nobles flee at the mere mention of her name—that pair of tightly pressed lips at last, beneath this cool night, exceedingly rarely curved ever so slightly upward into an exceedingly gentle and sweet arc.
Meanwhile, in a small office beside the Temporary Palace's Administrative Hall main warehouse, magic wall-lamps were emitting a soft, bright glow, setting the room aglow with an especially warm air.
Because a large batch of improved wheat seeds needed to be verified and distributed through the night, stack upon stack of brand-new official ledgers were laid neatly upon the long desk.
Daphne sat to one side, her smooth long hair slightly pinned up, sketching and marking upon the pages with single-minded focus.
Somewhat unexpectedly, besides this Lord Saint, even the Third Princess Victoria and First Commander Bardess were prominently seated beside the long desk at this moment.
Bardess tonight wore a light, casual wheat-colored everyday outfit, that tall, slender figure of hers still appearing exceptionally upright as she sat in the chair.
As the Mason Commander who had come along with the army, she had originally already completed the breaking-up and handover of the second-line defenses, but owing to her somewhat rigid obsessive-compulsiveness and slight cleanliness fixation, the moment she saw the slightest irregularity in the ink-marks upon the ledgers, she simply couldn't sleep.
At this moment, Bardess was using her pleasant, slightly androgynous, magnetic female voice—bright and hearty yet exceedingly rigorous—to direct an attendant at her side:
"These quota documents for the seventeen cities here must be placed in the same drawer, in the same orientation, as Leighton's inventory over there.
Yes, all four corners must be pressed tight; not the slightest crookedness is allowed.
And these few quills—arrange them neatly from long to short, lined up on the left side of the inkstone."
"Bardess really is this stringent no matter the occasion."
Victoria, off to one side, sat elegantly in the high-backed chair, still leisurely swaying that ivory folding fan in her hand.
Tonight she had watched her fill of the contest between Liliana and Delilah before Sophia's bedchamber door, her heart all aflutter with gleeful gossip-savoring delight, and after returning to her room she'd tossed and turned on the bed with no sleep at all, so she'd simply run over to this office to help handle official affairs—and to find someone to chat with along the way.
Just as the three were seated around the long desk, the work of checking through the documents advancing in orderly fashion—
"Da-da-da-da—!!"
A string of exceedingly hurried, even somewhat panic-stricken little leather-boot stomps, like a dense flurry of drumbeats, came thundering crisply all the way from the far end of the deep corridor.
Immediately after, with a "bang," the office's wooden door was slammed open by a brute force.
Irene, her pink twin tails fallen loose and somewhat disheveled, came charging headlong in, one hand clutching for dear life at her chest—which had absolutely no pathological change—her whole person gasping for breath, her round little face appearing somewhat pale from excessive terror.
"Daphne!! Help—help me!!"
The three by the long desk simultaneously halted the movements in their hands and turned their heads in unison.
"Miss Irene?
Aren't you keeping the night watch with General Delilah before Her Majesty's bedchamber door?
How is it you've come running over here in such a frenzied rush at this hour?"
Bardess blinked her pair of bright, clear big eyes somewhat dazedly, asking in puzzlement with her hearty, androgynous voice.
And Victoria, seated to one side, watching that familiar gesture of the pink-haired girl clutching her collar for dear life, her pair of golden eyes instantly flashed with a knowing glint full of teasing.
"Boo-hoo... Bardess, Victoria, I think I've gone and done something catastrophically bad!"
Irene plopped down with a thud onto an empty chair beside them, her big sapphire-like eyes glistening, brimming with dread of a terminal illness, and bawled out at the top of her clear, loud voice:
"I suspect that I...
suspect that maybe, because all this time I've been staying up night after night in the workshop tinkering with that fine-iron armor and the assembly line—high-intensity, no-rest overtime—my body's defensive line has completely collapsed, and I've bottled up a serious heart disease!!"
"Heart disease?!"
Saint Daphne, who had been verifying the wheat-seed quotas, took on a grave expression. Upon hearing this word—which sounded exceedingly serious in the dead of night—her pair of eyes, clear as limpid lake water, instantly filled with solemnity.
The Lord Saint didn't even have time to set her quill down steady before she crisply rose to her feet, treading with light, nimble steps quickly over to Irene's side.
"Miss Irene, don't panic—please first relax your breathing."
Daphne's expression was solemn and holy as she gently lifted that slender, jade-white hand of hers into empty air.
Immediately after, a wisp of utterly pure white Holy Light, suffused with a faint warm glow, spread lightly through the air like a soft length of silk, instantly and steadily wrapping Irene from head to toe.
The sacred healing flow of light slowly coursed across the surface of the pink-haired girl's body, while Daphne, eyes slightly closed, used that perception belonging to the Saint of the Black Rose to verify, in exceedingly fine detail, the damage indices of every patch of myocardial tissue within Irene's body.
However...
As time wore on, the warm white Holy Light wrapped around Irene gradually subsided.
Daphne, somewhat puzzled, slowly opened that pair of jade-green eyes.
This ever-gentle, dignified Lord Saint, at this very moment, blinked her eyes in a rather strange and dazed manner, looking at the pink-haired girl before her, still trembling with fear.
"Um... Miss Irene."
Into Daphne's soft, lovely voice unique to a Saint, there had, at this moment, rarely crept a strand of indescribable speechlessness and absurdity.
Caught somewhere between laughter and tears, she withdrew the spiritual energy from her palm and let out an exceedingly light sigh, saying:
"According to the Holy Light's feedback...
not only does your body's defensive line have no breach whatsoever, it's in fact healthy to a ridiculous degree.
Your myocardium is exceedingly tough and resilient; every single beat is just like those few hundred thickest forging hammers in your workshop, brimming with vigorous vitality.
Forget heart disease—with your current energy and physical condition, even if you were to go back to the workshop right now and hammer in a hundred riveted padded armors through the night, you likely wouldn't generate the slightest negative deficit."
"Eh?!"
Hearing the Lord Saint's merciless diagnosis, Irene—who had originally been certain she was about to drop dead from high-intensity overtime—stiffened up most bizarrely on the chair, like a stone carving.
She blinked her big sapphire eyes somewhat incredulously, her two little hands somewhat guiltily releasing her collar:
"No—no illness?
But just now the moment I closed my eyes, as soon as I thought of Her Majesty possibly embracing and snuggling with Liliana or that lord of Black Stone City...
doing those things, it ached so terribly right here for no reason, choking me until I could barely catch my breath.
If this isn't a serious staying-up-late heart disease, then what bizarre hidden ailment on earth could it be?!"
Listening to the pink-haired girl's whole-hearted, utterly self-unaware, hardcore artisan-style complaint—
Third Princess Victoria, seated to one side holding a tea cup, in this instant finally bottled the laughter behind her fan fully into internal injury.
Her pair of golden beautiful eyes had laughed into two pretty crescent moons as she watched this pink-haired little inventor—even more oblivious in matters of the heart than her own Majesty—the corners of her mouth wildly curving up.
Did Irene even know what she was saying?!
"What, embracing and snuggling?"
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