Sunlight streamed through the glazed windows, casting a lattice of light and shadow across the thick carpet of the West Tower's uppermost floor.
No one could say how much time had passed. The violent Holy Light that had been rampaging through Daphne's body finally, under the rhythm of Sophia's steady strokes and the careful channeling of magical recharge, subsided into the slow, deep undercurrents of a midnight sea.
The fingers that had been clutching Sophia's collar loosened one by one. Daphne's ragged breathing eased into something long and even, and her whole body, like a golden cloud finally stripped of all its defenses, sank softly into the black sweetness of sleep.
Sophia felt the body in her arms gradually returning to its normal warmth. Only once she was certain that Daphne had truly fallen into a deep sleep did she slowly exhale the long-held breath she'd been keeping.
She reached out both hands and, with the lightest of touches, slipped them beneath Daphne's knees and behind her back, lifting the Saint — who was normally so imperious and commanding — into a steady horizontal carry.
She had to admit: those dull, grueling physical training sessions that Delilah had been dragging her out of bed for every single morning these past weeks had just proven their worth beyond all expectation.
Had she not developed the arm strength to brace a heavy crossbow one-handed, or the core built through months of combat training, the idea of steadying herself through nearly an hour of that awkward, intimate standoff and then smoothly carrying a dead-weight magical girl — one offering absolutely zero cooperation and sleeping like a piglet — back to her proper place would have ended with nothing but an aching back and a bruised dignity.
It seemed that even as a queen, in a world brimming with uncertainty, possessing a body capable of bearing burdens truly was an indispensable pillar of the ruling order.
Sophia set Daphne down carefully at the center of the velvet bed, then drew the silk coverlet over her, concealing the curves that, though tousled from the earlier struggle, were still decently wrapped within the thin silk nightgown.
When Sophia pushed open the heavy oak door, the spring light in the corridor was at its fullest.
Willow stood exactly where she had been left, like a perfect sculpture.
The silver kettle in her hands still trailed wisps of steam — evidently just reheated in the side corridor moments ago.
Seeing Sophia emerge, Willow gave a slight incline of her head. Her gaze paused for less than a second on the faint creases at her mistress's collar, then moved away. Her tone was as warm and efficient as always.
"Your Majesty, the water is at just the right temperature."
"Go in," Sophia said.
She pulled her cloak tighter, covering the faint trace of Holy Light still clinging to her.
"Fill the water pitcher in her room. The physician said the fever-breaking stage requires plenty of fluids. Keep your movements light — she's just fallen asleep."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Willow lowered her eyes and obediently stepped aside, gliding past Sophia with feather-light steps and into the bedroom, where a certain overly intimate warmth still lingered in the air.
Willow moved to the bedside table, swiftly swapped out the old water, and poured in fresh, crystal-clear hot water.
In the moment between setting down the kettle and fastening the lid, her sharp eyes swept, almost involuntarily, across the expanse of the great velvet bed.
The covers were indeed a little rumpled. The sweet, cloying scent of caramel had not yet fully dissipated. Miss Daphne's brilliantly golden hair fanned across nearly half the pillow.
Though her complexion still carried the flushed rosiness of fever, her breathing was even.
Most importantly — though the light silk nightgown had been somewhat disturbed by all the earlier commotion — it was still properly, thoroughly in place. There was not a single trace of anything beyond the scope of medical care and comfort.
Phew…
It seemed that even under that near-uncontrollable assault of clingy affection, Her Majesty had still maintained the supreme self-discipline befitting the master of Mason.
This balance of cool aloofness and indulgent tenderness — that measured restraint — truly was worthy of the wise young queen I swore my lifelong loyalty to.
And yet… watching Miss Daphne like this, wearing that expression of someone who got exactly what she wanted, smiling even in her dreams — the cup of warm milk waiting for me when I get back tonight is going to need twice the honey to smother this tiny, lingering sourness in my heart.
Willow slipped silently out of the room and eased the door shut behind her. The faint click of the latch drew a perfect close to this afternoon interlude in the West Tower.
"Let's go."
Sophia watched Willow return to her side. The two of them fell into step, one before the other, descending the spiral stone stairs at an unhurried pace.
Sunlight threaded through the gaps between the corridor's stone pillars, stretching their shadows long across the marble floor.
From the distant Drill Ground, Delilah's sharp commands drifted faintly through the air. The fountain's water chimed on, clear and bright.
"Your Majesty, today's land-clearing roster for the rear hills has been delivered to the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Lord Valery is awaiting your final approval."
Willow kept close at Sophia's heels, her voice settling smoothly back into the cadence of daily governance.
"Mm."
Sophia walked without slowing, her pale golden pupils fixed straight ahead, as though all the tenderness inside that room had never happened at all.
"The Aran merchant caravan should have cleared the heartland of Mason by now. Have Victor draft a second newspaper summary on deep-sea development. I want every subject, even as they rest under Mason's protection, to remember who it is that gives them that sweetness."
The two of them passed through the inner garden in full spring bloom and made their way toward the seat of power — the Council Hall.
Behind them, the West Tower stood quiet in the spring light, unchanged. Within, the Saint was dreaming, slowly digesting the warmth that belonged to her queen.
Inside the Council Hall, the spring sun slanted across the great long conference table, and dust motes drifted lazily through the columns of light.
Sophia sat upright at the head of the table. Though she had shed the softness from the West Tower, that barely-there aura of Holy Light still clung to her fingertips, filling every minister present with a pressure and sanctity unlike anything they had felt before.
On this point, Sophia had begun to sense something: the closer her connection with Daphne grew, the more vivid and real that Holy Light feeling became.
And it was something only she could feel. No one else.
"The flat areas on the rear hills have been cleared," Sophia said, "but this is only the beginning."
She spread a finely detailed map drawn by Irene across the table, her fingertip tracing the swath of freshly turned brown earth.
"The forested sections remain untouched for now — they will serve as a natural barrier in the future. The next priority is seeds."
Valery looked down at the document labeled Seed Allocation Schedule. His eyelids began to twitch.
Potatoes, chili peppers, onions, asparagus…
Some of these he had seen in ancient texts. Some he had never even heard of. Potatoes and chili — weren't those names Her Majesty and Miss Irene had come up with themselves?
He truly could not fathom where Her Majesty had obtained species that had never appeared on a large scale in this age.
Behind every single seed, there must lie some scheme so vast it could reshape the ecology of an entire continent.
Her Majesty isn't just farming. She is rewriting the Creator's domain!
"Irene," Sophia said, turning to look at the pink-haired girl, who was wearing an unusually grave expression, "these vegetable seeds are extraordinarily rare. Every single one of them concerns Mason's food structure for the next three years."
"I'm entrusting this to you. What I need is an absolute survival rate."
"Your Majesty, rest easy! Give me soil, and I'll turn them into Mason's medals!"
Irene hopped in place, her twin tails swinging wildly with excitement, her eyes blazing with a fervor that bordered on scientific mania.
"Good. Then I leave it to you."
Once this was done, there would be other things that needed doing.
The following morning, a thin mist coiled like gauze around the lower slopes of the rear hills.
Two hundred young men and women were already standing in neat formation on the cleared flat ground. They wore clean linen work clothes, and though the morning dew had soaked the hems of their trousers, not one of them dared to move.
Ahead of them, dozens of cavalry bearing black muskets stood in solemn silence — less like guards, more like sentinels over some rare and priceless treasure.
"I need every last bit of your attention!"
Irene stood with her hands on her hips, a foldable alchemy ruler in hand, pacing back and forth before all two hundred of them, her voice carrying the unquestionable authority of a professional.
"What you're holding in your hands isn't a clod of dirt — it's Her Majesty's gift! It is the lifeblood of Mason's future!"
Soldiers carried out crate after crate of tightly sealed wooden boxes. The moment the lids came off, the seeds that Irene had personally prepared with such care revealed themselves:
Potato tubers — cut into pieces, every cut surface coated with wood ash for preservation, the sprouting eyes already pushing up stubborn little sprigs of green.
Chili and cabbage seeds, fine as gold dust, each packed in clear glass bottles.
Precious asparagus and pumpkin seeds, every one polished like a gemstone, catching the morning light with an enticing gleam.
"Listen — the sprouting side of the potato faces up. Depth must not exceed this red line!"
Irene directed the group, even dropping to a crouch herself, using her precisely graduated ruler to mark perfect square grids in the soil.
"The distance between every planting hole must have an error of less than half a knuckle!"
The young men and women received their allotted seeds with trembling hands.
Hans — the strapping lad who never so much as flinched while hauling boulders — stood there now with three chunks of potato tuber cradled in his palms, hands shaking like a sieve in a storm.
Gods above… can this thing they call a potato really fill a person's belly on its own, like Lord Irene says? Looking at this translucent skin, this must be a star-fruit Her Majesty plucked down from the heavens.
If I plant it crooked, or if I press too hard and damage it — I'll probably be strung up at the south gate as a public spectacle, won't I? No, that's too easy a punishment. What I'd be doing is nothing less than desecrating Her Majesty's miracle!
Lilith, meanwhile, held her breath and pinched a single chili seed between two fingertips, easing it with painstaking delicacy into the grid Irene had marked — her touch as gentle as if she were setting down a newborn infant.
As the sun climbed higher, the once-barren flat ground filled in with those green-promise grids, one row at a time.
Carrots, onions, garlic, leeks…
Delicacies that only nobles could occasionally afford were now pressing, one by one, into Mason's earth, carried along by the sweat of these young workers.
Hailey was crouched at the edge of the field, a smudge of dirt on the tip of her nose, her pen flying:
Spring, Rear Hills, Wanfang Garden Base.
Her Majesty has launched a grand plan called the Green Factory.
Sister Irene was so incredibly cool today! When she was directing all these big brothers and sisters, it was like she was conducting a symphony.
The subjects' eyes when they looked at those seeds were so intense — I think even if they went hungry themselves, they'd find a way to make sure the seeds were fed.
I understand now! Her Majesty doesn't just want everyone to have enough to eat. She wants Mason's soil to grow something called the dignity of abundance.
Looking at these straight, true furrows, I know that come autumn, every leaf harvested here will become a luxury that the old men of neighboring kingdoms can only dream of.
When the last shovelful of fresh earth on the rear hill was tamped down, Delilah's silver light armor caught the warm spring sun and threw back a cold, sharp gleam.
She did not linger at the field's edge. Instead, she moved at her customary measured, iron-heeled pace through the flower-lined corridor and back to the Palace's core.
When she pushed open the heavy nanmu-wood door to Sophia's study, a faint scent of fir drifted out to meet her.
Sophia was not reviewing documents as usual. She was leaning slightly forward, her moon-silver hair sliding off her shoulder, those pale golden pupils unblinking as they bore into the well-annotated rough map spread across the desk.
From Delilah's vantage point, a haze of Holy Light, faint as smoke and mist, wreathed the young queen's fingertips.
It was the lingering trace of last night's deep resonance with Daphne — a residue that had not yet fully faded, leaving her looking so radiant and pure it was difficult to meet her gaze directly.
"Your Majesty."
Delilah pressed her right fist to her chest and gave a slight bow.
"Irene's side — all went smoothly. The two hundred subjects regarded those seeds with more reverence than they would show a statue of a god. Every planting hole depth was precise to the knuckle. Survival rate should meet your expectations."
"You've worked hard, Delilah."
Sophia did not look up. Her fingertip continued to trace slowly over the areas marked as barren slopes on the map, and her voice carried a shade of unease that was easy to miss.
"Even with staple grain and these new vegetables filling stomachs, there are very few fruit-bearing trees anywhere within Mason's territory right now. Vitamins — or rather, the physical constitution of our subjects — requires more long-term supplementation."
At those words, Delilah's heart — that heart so long steeped in iron-blooded training — skipped a beat.
Is this truly our queen?
In Aran, it's a miracle if subjects can eat a wheat cake without sand in it. In Orr, the old king only ever wondered whether the wine cellar had enough vintage to last through next year.
But what is Her Majesty thinking about?
She has already given Mason a fullness it has never known before. She has even planted chili peppers — a novel seasoning no one here had ever tasted.
And yet she is still fretting over whether her subjects' complexions look pallid, still thinking about fruit trees — the kind that only noble estates were ever thought to deserve.
This attentiveness — down to whether each commoner's gums bleed, whether their cheeks hold any color — this exceeds the duties of a ruler. She is treating the entire land of Mason like a womb, nurturing it.
In the face of such compassion, any act of betrayal would be a sinner against civilization itself.
Delilah bowed her head, concealing the near-fanatical reverence that had ignited in her eyes.
She was about to suggest Her Majesty take a short rest, but Sophia moved first, folding the map in her hands.
"The fruit trees can wait — they'll need time."
Sophia rose. Her black cloak swept across the desk with a soft rustle.
"But the weather is warming. I recall that the livestock in the royal stables, the ones Irene has been improving — they've been breeding quite quickly lately?"
"Yes, Your Majesty." Delilah adjusted her focus and reported faithfully.
"Due to the compulsory composting and fermentation program and the clean drinking water initiative, mortality among the pigs and sheep in the stables has been extremely low. Not only has the herd held its original size — since the start of spring, the newborns alone have made the stables rather crowded."
"Good."
Sophia moved to the window and gazed out at the busy street below. Her tone was calm, but each word landed with weight.
"They shouldn't just circle endlessly within the Palace walls. Eventually we'll need to separate out a portion — distributed based on merit to the families who performed best. They must register voluntarily, and we'll select from among them. Tell our subjects: these are the seeds of the Black Rose. From the meat and milk they produce, I will only take the tax portion. Everything else is theirs."
"Your Majesty! You intend to… give the livestock directly to the commoners?"
At that, Delilah completely lost her hold on that icy composure. Shock sent her brows shooting upward.
By the logic of the old order, livestock and land alike were the absolute property of the nobility. Commoners were only ever permitted to raise pigs on a noble's behalf — never to own so much as a single hair off one.
This move of Her Majesty's — this isn't distributing supplies. This is Her Majesty personally dismantling the deepest chasm between rich and poor with her own hands!
This is Her Majesty's true grand design!
Giving them seeds teaches them to survive. Giving them livestock teaches them to prosper!
Once commoners hold in their hands assets that do more than keep them alive — assets that generate surplus — the chains of servility that have bound them to the old nobility will snap in an instant.
Who would sell their life for two pieces of Black Bread for some lord's sake? They will pick up their dung forks and fight to the death against any enemy, just to protect the two animals Her Majesty gifted them in their backyard!
This single move… has turned all of Mason into an ironclad fortress for Her Majesty.
What Her Majesty is giving away is the Royal House's assets. What she is getting back is the eternal, indestructible fighting soul of an entire nation.
If Her Majesty decided right now to conquer every other kingdom and declare herself Empress, her subjects would only cheer her on and wave their banners!
Very soon, Willow delivered the list of outstanding performers — and the names were far more numerous than expected.
Mason's people had a remarkable solidarity. Ever since the plague, it seemed as though everyone had rallied around Sophia, drawing tighter and tighter.
Sophia's fingertip drifted lightly across the dense roster of merit records. The ledger documented every subject's performance in the land-clearing work: Hans's diligence, Lilith's precision, and all those young men and women who had never once arrived late through the pre-dawn mist.
In the old era, these names were nothing but numbers on a tax roll. In Sophia's eyes, they were Mason's first cohort of seed adopters.
"Go by this list, and have them register on their own initiative. Those who are accepted will first be taught how to care for and raise these animals."
Sophia picked up her quill and brought it down in its final, decisive stroke on the specially made official document stamped with the Black Rose wax seal.
When the notice — ink still wet — was nailed to the wooden post on the Palace Square, the quiet afternoon was instantly torn apart by screaming and noise.
Subjects surged forward like a tide. When they read every word on that notice, the air seemed to be sucked out of the world for one breathless moment — and then erupted in a roar that bordered on madness.
[Black Rose Special Decree: Livestock Benefit-the-People Plan]
By Royal Will: In acknowledgment of your diligence in the land-clearing effort, Her Majesty hereby authorizes the distribution of Royal House improved livestock.
Regulations: Recipients must care for the animals with dedication. Of the meat, dairy, and hides produced, only taxes shall be collected; all remainder belongs to the individual.
Motto: Your backyard is Mason's granary.
The subjects on the square fell into a silence like death — and then, an instant later, a tearful, wild joy unlike anything Mason's soil had ever known before boiled over and erupted.
Some knelt and kissed the dirt beneath the notice. Some waved their calloused hands toward the Palace and howled.
"Did I hear that right?! Those are living, breathing animals! Her Majesty is actually going to let us raise Royal House meat ourselves?!"
"Before this, even catching a whiff of meat would get you beaten by a noble's switch. And now Her Majesty is sending the family livestock straight to our backyards!"
"Just pay taxes?! Gods, that's not paying taxes — that's Her Majesty finding a creative way to hand us money! We'll actually get to taste meat!"
"Anyone who touches the animals I bring home, I'll fight them to the death! Those are Her Majesty's gift — they're my lifeblood!"
"For the Black Rose, even these old bones of mine — bury them in the rear hills if you must — but I'll fatten those animals until they're round and white!"
"Long live Her Majesty! Long live Queen Sophia! Even if you ordered me right now to march against the whole continent, I wouldn't so much as flinch!"
"From this day forward, if anyone speaks a single word against Her Majesty, my entire family will drag them down with us!"
"Our Mason… we've really made it… Follow Her Majesty, and even a muddy-footed commoner can become a landowner!"
These words — short, rough, and burning with heat — wove together into a force of faith that felt capable of scattering the very clouds from the sky.
Delilah stood on the high terrace of the Palace, listening to the thunder of cheers below.
Her hand moved unconsciously to the hilt of her greatsword. Her knuckles whitened with the force of her grip.
Listen… that isn't cheering. That is souls shaking.
Her Majesty traded a few dozen head of livestock for the absolute loyalty of an entire city — of all ten thousand subjects of Mason.
No one else could do this. Or rather — no one else would ever even think of it.
Because those people never saw the common folk as human beings at all.
In the eyes of the old nobility, commoners were expendables.
But in Her Majesty's eyes, commoners are the vessels of assets.
Once these families own their own pigs and sheep — once they possess the means of their own survival — they are no longer drifting weeds blown by the wind. They are bedrock, bound inseparably to this land called Mason.
Anyone who dares threaten Her Majesty's rule is threatening the eggs in these subjects' backyards — threatening the milk in their children's bowls.
A line of defense built from both interest and dignity is more unbreakable than any city wall.
Your Majesty… you are not merely our king. You are the one true God of salvation on this dark continent.
The fire in Delilah's chest burned for a long while before it found its outlet — in training.
The afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of the main hall, casting the Council Hall's black marble floor into the likeness of a deep, still mirror.
Sophia sat upright on the cold, unyielding throne, one hand propped under her chin, the other tapping a steady rhythm on the armrest carved with the Black Rose emblem.
That crisp sound echoed through the cavernous hall, a sharp contrast to the distant, relentless roar of the crowd outside — crashing like waves on a shore.
Soon, a set of light footsteps could be heard approaching.
"Your Majesty, these just arrived by express courier from the South Gate relay station — and there are more from Withered Willow Town and Kree Village… even people from Eagle's Nest Mountain want to participate."
Willow entered the great hall carrying a stack of application documents so tall it nearly cleared the top of her head.
The hem of her well-tailored steward's skirt whispered softly with each step, and even under the intensity of this workload, she maintained that elegance and composure Sophia found so pleasing to the eye.
Thud.
The heavy sheaf of documents landed squarely on the long table with a muffled boom, sending a small puff of dust into the light.
In just three days, the number of registrations had broken ten thousand.
Miners from Withered Willow Town, hunters from Eagle's Nest Mountain, farmers from Kree Village… settlements that had been nothing but cold coordinates on a map were now boiling over, every last one of them, because of a few breathing, living assets.
Behind every name stood a family willing to bleed their last drop for the Black Rose.
"Your Majesty, if you truly distribute them all at this rate, I'm afraid the piglets in the royal stables will run out before your guard does."
Willow said it lightly, with a deft hand peeling open the packages sealed with the official stamps of various village magistrates, the corner of her eye carrying that faint, teasing glimmer she only ever let Sophia see.
Sophia reached over and picked up the topmost application — it had a rough muddy thumbprint on it, clearly left by some subject in a state of extreme excitement.
"Greed is instinct, but access must have a threshold."
Sophia's voice rang out cool and rational in the quiet hall.
"If every household receives one, it stops being a gift and becomes an entitlement. I don't just want to feed them — I want them to understand that in this Mason, only the most diligent, most loyal believers will be the first to taste that bowl of thick, rich meat broth."
Sophia's logic of power was simple.
The first recipients must be the standout top performers from the land-clearing effort. They are the models. The living advertisements.
When the most enthusiastic subjects walk through the streets of Withered Willow Town leading a fat little pig, those who didn't make the cut won't resent the Royal House — they'll resent themselves for not working hard enough yesterday.
This drive born of disparity — this is the lubricant that keeps the great machine of Mason running at full speed.
Willow watched Sophia's focused profile, the silver strands of her hair catching the light as though gilded with a sacred edge.
She moved forward with complete naturalness, fingertips deftly sliding past Sophia's shoulder to flip open a pre-sorted ledger, and in the same motion, took the opportunity to lean just slightly — to steal a quiet breath of the fir-cedar scent still clinging to Sophia.
Truly… the way Her Majesty looks while sitting on the throne and calculating how to move the hearts of her people is even more radiant than all that Holy Light in the West Tower.
Looking at this pile of over ten thousand applications threatening to bury the Ministry of Internal Affairs, I can almost picture those subjects desperately rolling up their sleeves to outcompete each other for selection — it's almost comical.
Her Majesty is like the most patient chess player in the world, who used nothing but a handful of livestock to turn every man in Mason into a tireless ox and every woman into the most devoted Black Rose believer.
And that suits me just fine. The more united Mason's people are, the safer Her Majesty is.
And as for me — I only need to stand beside her throne, help her sort through all of this, and enjoy, quietly, this closeness that belongs only to me.
Willow's lips curved upward ever so slightly. That signature smile of hers — knowing, yet willingly drowning in what it knows — flashed through the shadow and was gone.
Delilah, who had been standing to one side like a greatsword returned to its sheath, stared at the mountain of documents and found that the astonishment in her eyes had still not faded.
Ten thousand registrations…
If Her Majesty wished, she would only need to say a single sentence — 'priority pig-rearing rights go to those who join the Royal Guards' — and by tomorrow, Mason could field a steel tide capable of sweeping through the entire Northern border.
In the old era, we had to lure knights with land, with titles, with the nebulous honor of family legacy.
But Her Majesty… she used this family-asset approach to drive the roots of royal power down into the backyard of every single household.
Every stable is Her Majesty's forward post.
Brilliant, Your Majesty. Truly brilliant.
While the Palace Square was still submerged in the feverish afterglow of the livestock registration frenzy, in the most sheltered hollow of the rear hills, a life workshop — a hatching greenhouse — built from blue bricks and sealed with double-layered glazed tiles, radiated a warmth that was both serene and taut with potential.
Push open the heavy windbreak door, and a wave of air hit — dry wheat-straw fragrance, a faint hint of charcoal, and the damp, specific scent of new life struggling toward its first breath.
The layout inside the greenhouse achieved a near-austere geometric beauty.
To ensure the highest possible hatching rate for the chicken, duck, and goose eggs soon to be distributed to Mason's subjects, Irene had poured into this place no less care and effort than she had into crafting an identity card.
Beneath the floor ran a complex network of flue channels. In each of the four corners, large red-copper furnaces burned silver smokeless coal at a steady, even pace. The temperature inside was locked at a precise threshold — warm, but not stifling.
Beside every hatching rack stood shallow ceramic dishes filled with clear water, the vapor rising in the warm air to keep the shells pliable and resilient.
Thousands of carefully selected chicken, duck, and goose eggs lay on their sides in long troughs lined with clean white cotton batting.
Every egg had a date and number marked on its surface in red mineral powder, glowing with a soft, smooth luster like mutton-fat jade under the warm amber lamplight.
In one corner of the greenhouse, Irene was curled up on a low bamboo stool.
This pink-haired genius — normally a whirlwind who regularly put her cloak on inside out — sat still as a guardian deity.
Her signature pink curls were somewhat disheveled from the long sleepless nights, a few strands plastered by sweat to her flushed cheeks, warm and bright in the heat of the room.
She held her breath. In her hand was a specially made egg-candling mirror inlaid with glowing ore, and she was peering with painstaking care at a goose egg.
The air cell size — perfect. The embryo's pulse rate — approximately one hundred and forty beats per minute. The ideal figure.
Her Majesty said these little ones are not ordinary poultry. They are the fastest-turning components in Mason's entire food infrastructure.
If the first batch can hatch successfully, within three months, there will be a warm egg in every subject's bowl. A year from now — a pot of rich, fragrant meat broth.
Even if it takes another all-nighter, I must personally watch over this temperature curve. In this room, I am their mother bird. I will not allow a single degree of deviation to ruin Her Majesty's grand vision.
In the stillness of the greenhouse, a sound suddenly rang out — tiny, but with an uncanny power to pierce the silence.
Tap… tap tap.
Irene's body went rigid. She set down the candling mirror in a flash and practically crawled on all fours to Hatching Rack No. 3.
In the center of a thick nest of soft straw, at the crown of one plump egg, a black pinhole — smaller than a grain of rice, barely worth a second glance — had appeared.
A tiny beak tip, just a hint of pale, tender yellow, was working with the steady rhythm of the most resolute little drill, striking against the shell that stood between it and the world.
"It's out… the first one!"
Irene's voice dropped to almost nothing, and it trembled.
She stared wide-eyed as that hairline crack spread rapidly outward — like a miniature earthquake, shattering the silence of the old world.
Through the crack, she could almost see a small tangle of damp, golden-yellow down working to unfurl itself.
Irene did not reach in to help. She knew that only by enduring this painful ordeal of breaking free could these little ones build the constitution to face the outside world.
As that chick let out its first weak yet clear cheeping sound, something in Irene's bloodshot eyes ignited — a brilliance more dazzling than any Holy Light.
The joy of having created life, of witnessing something grow — it was so overwhelming she found herself clutching the hem of her own clothes, white-knuckled.
Irene's soul shook.
Listen — this is the sound of Mason's revival!
Your Majesty, do you see? Seeds take root in the earth, and life cracks open in my hands.
These little ones don't understand politics. They don't understand class. All they know is how to draw nourishment in this warm room and fight with everything they have to stay alive.
We are not only hatching poultry! We are hatching the backbone of this nation!
As long as this sound echoes through every backyard in Mason, even if the twilight of the gods descends upon us, our civilization will never wither.
In the quiet greenhouse, that faint, fragile cheeping still hung in the air, like a slender yet tenacious bolt of lightning splitting open the exhaustion that had been pressing down on Irene for days.
Irene took one final deep breath of that warm air mixed with straw and life, held her gaze on the broken eggshell for three full seconds, then shot to her feet.
With swift, feather-soft hands, she pulled the protective cover over the hatching rack — it was there to shield the just-hatched chick from the disturbance of any stray draft.
Click.
As the heavy windbreak door swung open, the moist warmth of the greenhouse was instantly sliced open by the cool, clean spring air outside.
Irene stepped out — and met not just a lungful of fresh air, but four pairs of eyes, sharp as blades cutting across her face.
The four Royal Guards stationed at the door stood with their spines straight as pine trees. Their heavy black armor drank in the sunlight and gave back cold dark gleam.
Even facing Miss Irene, who held such deep trust from Her Majesty, their hands stayed steady on sword hilts and musket stocks. Their feet did not shift by half a step.
Ever since Her Majesty was attacked in a conspiracy shortly after her coronation, the word security had become Mason Palace's iron law, overriding everything else.
This rear-hill greenhouse was nominally a hatching facility — but in their eyes, it held something Her Majesty had planted with her own hands: the fortune of the nation.
Every egg was more precious than the head of any member of the privileged class.
Daily patrol squads rotated punctually at every turn of the corridor, their synchronized boot-fall against the stone the most reassuring heartbeat this Palace knew.
In this place, even a bird not belonging to the Palace's inventory that dared to fly past would find a black musket trained upon it.
"Miss Irene — everything all right?"
The squad captain's voice rang out like a bell, though his eyes held a flicker of genuine respect for this scientific prodigy.
"Great news!"
Irene didn't bother fixing the damp pink wisps plastered to her forehead. Her twin tails bounced with the rapid pace of her words.
"Tell the patrol to increase vigilance around the flue vents at the back of the greenhouse. And — I need to see Her Majesty immediately!"
Irene shot forward like a streak of pink lightning through the orderly marching of the patrol, blazing down the long corridor.
Handmaidens on either side stepped aside and curtsied as she passed, catching only a glimpse of that whirlwind figure before it disappeared around the corner of the colonnade.
Irene's heart hammered in her chest — because she was more excited than she had ever been.
Meanwhile, inside the Council Hall.
Sophia sat with her eyes lowered, reading through the stack of application forms Willow had so neatly organized.
As Daphne slowly recovered, the Holy Light circling Sophia's fingertips grew ever more concentrated, and in the full light of noon, it even cast a faint, dreamlike iridescence across the surface of the black marble table.
Willow was standing at Sophia's side, fingertip tapping lightly on a budget proposal for the stable renovation.
Her keen ears had, a few seconds ago, already caught the sound of those hurried, irregular footsteps at the far end of the corridor.
"Your Majesty, it appears Miss Irene is bringing back news of something that will please you."
Willow inclined her head with a composed smile, and with a naturally fluid motion, pushed the pitcher of freshly reheated warm milk closer toward Sophia — carefully avoiding direct contact with the Holy Light residue, yet placing it precisely within arm's reach.
That particular pattern of footsteps from Irene only ever appeared when an alchemy array exploded or when new life was born.
No explosion sounds had been heard, and given how she had lately been acting like a broody hen over those eggs — the conclusion was self-evident.
Good. As long as this batch of poultry can be successfully distributed, Her Majesty's plan to win the people's hearts will have its most crucial piece of the puzzle complete.
And I should notify the kitchen in advance — tell them to prepare some more nourishing ingredients.
After all, watching Her Majesty spend so much energy worrying over these little creatures these past few days, my heart has been in that gently aching, quietly taut state all along.
"Your Majesty! Your Majesty!! It's hatched!!"
Irene practically burst the Council Hall doors open. In the old noble world, this kind of breach of etiquette would have been a punishable offense — but in Mason today, it felt nothing but vivid and alive.
Sophia looked up, pale golden eyes fixed on Irene.
Even from several meters away, she could feel the wave of elated energy radiating off Irene's utterly thrilled body.
"The first one?"
A faint ripple passed through Sophia's cool, clear voice.
"Yes! The first one! It's a little gosling-yellow chick, and it's got so much spirit!"
Irene rushed to the table, both hands braced on its surface, stars blazing in her eyes.
"It was cheeping away in there like it was making an announcement to all of Mason! We'll be able to send these little lives to our subjects very soon. But they're still too fragile right now — we'll need to properly teach our people how to care for such small animals first."
____
________________________________________
🌸 Help Love Bloom!
Our girls need a little push... and you can help!
💖 Gift for Everyone: Once we hit 50 Powerstones, I'll release +1 bonus chapter to warm your hearts.
🚀 Community Reward: If we reach 20 supporting members, we'll have a +5 chapter marathon across all stories! The romance won't stop.
👻 Come to our secret corner: Search for GirlsLove on (P). You know that's where the magic happens... 😉