Sleeping with the dragoness.

Having children with the dragoness.

Taking a walk with the dragoness.

And holding hands with the dragoness again.

If these actions of Leon were exposed in an age of advanced information, no matter what his intentions were, he’d undoubtedly be sent to the gallows.

After Muen left, the two of them still didn’t let go of each other’s hands.

But when the awkwardness reached its peak, it paradoxically didn’t feel all that awkward anymore.

As the saying goes: he who has nothing to lose fears nothing.

Since things had already come to this, how much more awkward could it get?

What’s more, with their hands clasped together, the nosy dragons around them were too busy shipping them as a couple and secretly cheering to have any time for gossiping about whether their majesties had just met.

Leon’s face flushed red as he cleared his throat twice, still holding her hand, but his face nearly twisted to the other side of the earth.

“Well... if you don’t want to hold hands, you can let go.”

Roswitha lowered her eyes, her delicate face blushing like a spreading sunset glow, “N-no, it’s fine. Let’s keep holding hands. Otherwise, people might talk.”

“Oh, okay then.”

Leon swallowed and glanced at Roswitha a couple of times.

Recalling her soft, gentle tone when she’d asked him earlier whether they should stay closer, and now seeing this bashful, maiden-like demeanor of hers, Leon couldn’t help but blurt out:

“You seem especially... compliant today.”

For a dragoness, the word "gentle" was one Leon would only ever use in wishful thinking inside his mind.

When spoken aloud, “compliant” somehow felt more fitting.

“Do I?”

“You do.”

Roswitha’s pupils flickered slightly, as though calculating something.

But the expression disappeared in an instant, replaced by her usual stern, aloof demeanor as she straightened her face and said,

“Looks like I’ve tamed you, Dragon Slayer. Now that I’m getting along with you, you don’t seem to know how to handle it.”

Ah, there it is.

That’s more like it!

Leon straightened his back, ready to banter.

“Hah! Handle what? This is merely a case of a tiger fallen into the plains, harassed by dogs.”

Roswitha raised a brow and tightened her grip on Leon's hand slightly, “Incorrect. It’s a tiger fallen into the plains harassed by—”

She deliberately drew out the last syllable.

A literary technique called “building suspense.”

In layman’s terms, it’s called “I’m not telling you, go ahead and die of curiosity.”

Leon couldn’t resist turning his head. “Harassed by what?”

“By a dragon rider.”

“Damn it.”

Leon rolled his eyes and reflexively shook his hand, only to realize they were still holding hands.

Their fingers were interlocked, making it genuinely difficult to pull apart.

That unintentional shake only heightened their awareness of the physical contact.

Palms pressed against one another, the heat unable to escape from between their hands, wandering between their skins and gradually increasing the temperature.

Soon enough, a thin layer of sweat formed in their palms, making the sensation of their skin contact even more delicate.

As they walked, the movement subtly and unconsciously rubbed their palms together, creating a tingling, itchy feeling that reached straight to their hearts.

“There’s a bench ahead. Let’s sit for a bit,” Roswitha suggested.

“Okay.”

The two of them reached the bench, and as they sat down, they instinctively let go of each other’s hands.

“Phew…”

As their hands retreated, both of them sighed simultaneously, feeling at ease.

But also instantly, they felt a sense of emptiness in their palms.

The warmth dissipated from their hands in an instant.

A slight chill crept in.

Even so, Leon didn’t reach out to take Roswitha’s hand again.

He leaned back against the bench, tilting his head slightly to enjoy the warmth of the noon sun on his body.

When one is physically frail, soaking up the sun becomes especially comforting. It’s soothing, even pleasant.

Maybe it could even briefly blot out the homesickness that gnawed at his heart.

Roswitha, on the other hand, sat upright as always—it was her ingrained habit. Chest out, stomach in. Even in her sitting posture, she maintained an air of constant poise.

Turning her head to study the peaceful, slightly reclined Leon, she pondered for a moment before asking,

“Do you miss home?”

“Mm.”

Leon’s response wasn’t particularly serious; he gave a nasal “mm-hm,” sounding half-hearted.

Yet beneath the perfunctory tone, there was sincerity.

He truly did miss home.

Roswitha’s pupils trembled slightly as she asked again, “Your parents—”

“I grew up in an orphanage. Never met my parents. It was my master and mistress who took me in.”

“Oh… then we’re somewhat alike.”

“You’re an orphan too?”

Leon’s bluntness was dangerously close to sounding like an insult, but his straightforward nature meant he didn’t think much of it.

Thankfully, Roswitha didn’t grasp the insulting connotation it might’ve had in human culture. She simply shook her head and earnestly elaborated,

“No, I meant, I’ve never met my father and mother either. My sister and I were raised by our grandmother.”

As she spoke, she slightly lowered her head, finally allowing herself to adjust her otherwise prim and proper posture.

Leon opened his eyes a smidge, sneaking a glance at her.

The haughty queen now seemed somewhat forlorn.

Leon shut his eyes again, unwilling to delve into mutual empathy. Instead, he teased as he would on any other day:

“Oh, no wonder.”

Roswitha glanced over. “No wonder what?”

“No wonder you’re so bad at being a mom.”

“How am I bad at being a mother?”

“See? Even when Muen and the others aren’t around, you still use the term ‘mother.’”

Roswitha frowned. “What’s wrong with the term ‘mother’?”

“What do they call me?”

“They call you dad.”

Leon spread his hands. “See? In normal parlance, ‘father’ is usually paired with ‘mother.’ Muen calls me dad instead of father because she prefers the closer, more intimate term.”

“Is ‘mother’ not intimate?” Roswitha asked seriously.

“It’s not that it’s not intimate—it’s just too... formal. It comes off as a bit distant.”

Roswitha mulled over his words silently, giving herself time to process.

After a pause, Leon added, “How about we make a bet?”

“What kind of bet?”

“Change how Muen and Noa address you from ‘mother’ to ‘mom.’ Let’s see if they seem closer to you afterward.”

Pondering his words briefly, Roswitha nodded in agreement. “Alright.”

“Don’t you want to ask what’s at stake?”

“No need. If I lose, do as you like.”

After a second thought, she added, “Except for letting you go home.”

Leon snickered and said no more.

Roswitha muttered quietly to herself, “Mother and mom... are they really that different?”

Leon offered no further remarks on the subject.

After all, he was being truthful. If they were to maintain this faux family dynamic in front of the children, adopting more affectionate appellations was a necessary step.

Besides, hearing Muen and Noa call her “mother” all the time certainly felt strange.

They were supposed to be a family—why act so ceremoniously?

After that, about twenty minutes of silence passed between them.

Roswitha slowly rose from the bench and said, “Let’s go. There’s somewhere else I want to take you.”

“Where to?”

“Well… this outing wasn’t just for a walk. I also wanted to show you something.”

She added, “I can’t let you go home, but this might help ease your worries a bit.”

Leon didn’t ask what it was. Instead, he squinted at Roswitha and remarked, “You’re really acting strange today, dragoness.”

Roswitha shrugged. “If you don’t trust me, then forget it. Let’s just head back.”

With that, she turned around, intending to retrace their steps.

But she hadn’t taken more than two steps when Leon called out from behind:

“Alright, alright, take me to see it.”

Roswitha, still facing away from him, let a satisfied smile creep onto her lips.

Finally, he’d taken the bait.