The maids felt that His Majesty was in a very good mood today.

No.

Not just very good.

She was extraordinarily, tremendously, exceptionally good.

And why did the maids have such a feeling?

Because their famously workaholic boss had, surprisingly, let them go home early—two days in a row.

Moreover, His Majesty had spent the entire day smiling, unlike her usual self with a perpetually serious expression.

When finishing particularly troublesome tasks, she would even hum cheerful tunes.

All things considered, the maids had come up with two bold guesses:

His Majesty might be pregnant with a third child.

His Majesty might be preparing to get pregnant with a third child.

"You’ve already been dismissed early—shouldn’t you be going home to rest instead of gathering here gossiping?"

Seated at her desk within the grand throne hall, Roswitha continued handling paperwork without lifting her head.

The maids immediately nodded in agreement, bowed, and refrained from commenting further on the unusual behavior of their ruler. Pushing and nudging each other, they left the sanctum one by one.

After all had departed, leaving Roswitha alone, she began humming another lighthearted tune unconsciously.

In her fifty years as queen, it was rare for her to be this cheerful.

During these fifty years, she had spent her days largely repeating the same routine:

Wake up, freshen up, breakfast, work, lunch, work some more, dinner, overtime, sleep.

The cycle continued day after day, year after year.

The Dragon Clan’s seemingly endless lifespan was as vast as an ocean stretching as far as the eye could see. And Roswitha felt like a lonely boat adrift, wandering aimlessly as the wind and waves carried her further into eternity.

But what lay beyond?

Nothing but more water—endless and unchanging.

Her work was the same. The pile of logs worked through one night would magically transform into another towering mountain by the morning.

Roswitha never complained.

For she believed that complaints were futile.

Besides, she was the Queen of Silver Dragons. To her kin, she was a leader, a symbol, the very embodiment of hope and faith. She couldn’t afford to show fear or hesitation in the face of anything.

But did she enjoy being queen?

Did she like dealing with a never-ending workload?

Did she appreciate spending half her existence trapped in this metaphorical cage called a throne?

She wasn’t sure.

She thought that, in time, she would grow to hate this life.

But oddly enough, she felt neither resentment nor enjoyment towards it.

Her heart resembled a serene forest, where birds occasionally took flight—yet mostly remained undisturbed and quiet.

And yet, what she never anticipated was that the person capable of bringing newfound joy to her monotonous life would turn out to be… a human.

A clumsy fool whose only talents seemed to be dragon slaying and babysitting, whose drunken confession of "I like you" haunted Roswitha day and night. She found herself wondering if she had truly developed feelings for him.

But he was human, wasn’t he? Not to mention an annoying rival who relished contradicting her at every turn. How could such a person possibly stir her heart?

The Queen of Silver Dragons, who had solved countless dilemmas for her clan, found herself completely stumped when it came to her own affairs.

And she had no one to turn to for guidance.

The only one who could uncover the truth hidden deep within her heart… was herself.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoed through the sanctum, interrupting Roswitha’s thoughts.

She raised her head, searching for the source of the noise. Speak of the devil—

Leon entered, carrying two buckets of paint. His waist tool pouch held brushes of various sizes, along with two durable navy-blue aprons to avoid messes.

Roswitha scanned Leon up and down, taking in his peculiar equipment, and quipped, "Oh, really? Did Dragon Slayer retire and become a... respectable 'house painter'?"

Leon grinned but chose not to respond, stepping closer instead.

"I’ve set a rule before—no one is allowed to bring paint or similar substances into the sanctum. Violators get half their salary docked," she stated, not lifting her eyes much.

Roswitha had a mild case of obsessive cleanliness, and substances like paint irritated her with their strong odors and potential for creating difficult messes.

But while her words were strict, she didn’t really mean to stop Leon.

After all… this wolfish man wasn’t employed. No salary to deduct.

She set down her pen, rested her chin in one hand, and softened her gaze at Leon standing below the throne.

Leon raised his head to meet hers. "When do you finish work?"

"It depends. Why? Do you need something?"

"Help me out. I want to change the color of Black Gold Chariot."

Roswitha’s interest was instantly piqued.

"Alright, let’s go."

She closed her work logs and gracefully rose from her throne. Gathering the hem of her skirt in one hand, she quickly descended the steps.

Leon blinked in surprise. "Woah. So decisive? I thought it wasn’t even after-hours yet."

"I already told you—depends on my mood."

Leon raised an eyebrow. "Oh? So, you mean you’re in a great mood?"

"Enough chatter. Are we leaving or not?"

"Fine! Let’s go."

The couple walked side by side, leaving the Silver Dragon Castle behind them.

They arrived at Roswitha’s private warehouse nestled within the castle’s rear mountains. Leon led the way; Roswitha followed closely behind.

In his days with the Dragon Slayer Army, none of the Dragon Clan warriors he conquered ever knew his name or face. They simply referred to him as “the man in black armor.”

Over time, the alias spread throughout the Dragon Clan, gaining notoriety.

After all, someone wielding lightning and cutting down dragons wherever he went wasn’t likely to remain unnoticed.

Just as Roswitha's grandmother might have remarked the other day.

When Leon had recently donned Black Gold Chariot for a battlefield purpose, in order to evade suspicion from the Silver Dragon Clan warriors, he had casually splattered a bit of silver paint across the armor, relying on nighttime shadows for cover.

It worked temporarily. No one recognized him.

But such makeshift disguises weren’t infallible forever.

Leon anticipated hard times ahead staying at Roswitha’s domain—at least until uncovering the Empire’s conspiracy. He was certain about needing this base for a while longer.

Given the Empire’s tendency to resort to desperate measures, they might send even more Dragon Kings this way. Leon decided it was best to prepare for that eventuality, rather than repeating his near-last-minute frenzy during the mess with Constantine.

After explaining to Roswitha why Black Gold Chariot required aesthetic upgrades, the pair started disassembling its pieces and laid them out on the floor. They tied on the protective aprons and sat down, ready to give the armor its “spa treatment.”

"Hey, why didn’t you ask your daughters for help? Isn’t Noa back already?" Roswitha held Black Gold Chariot’s helmet in her lap, delicately brushing paint onto its surface.

Leon hesitated slightly. "They’re... busy keeping Grandma company. It’s their first meeting, after all. Can’t interrupt that."

It was a fairly reasonable justification.

But Noa had returned yesterday, and the three daughters had spent last night sleeping with their great-grandmother.

Now, nearing nightfall again, surely sticking together wouldn’t last this long, no matter how affectionate across generations?

Leon could easily say, “Who wants to help Dad paint?” and likely Noa and Muen would eagerly rush over.

Aurora?

Aurora could barely walk properly yet, so she should just stay quiet and safe in her room.

Besides, his daughters didn’t know the backstory behind Black Gold Chariot. Lending a hand wouldn’t exhaust them and could even strengthen their bond as father and children.

Thinking of this, Roswitha felt a flicker of mischief arise within her. She slyly teased, "Oh, so you didn’t want to disturb the kids spending quality time, huh?"

Leon shot her a brief glance but replied rather bluntly, "Yeah."

"Ah." Roswitha sighed lightly, feigning disappointment.

"What are you sighing about?" Leon asked.

"I thought you wanted to do this task alone quietly with me," she replied, gently tracing the helmet’s edges with her pink nails and pouting as though she’d been wronged.

Leon immediately detected her facade. "…Mother Dragon, enough already."

Seeing her little act unravel, Roswitha didn’t seem flustered. She collected herself slightly before casually looking up toward Leon.

"So, you're now calling me out for overdoing things, huh? Funny you didn’t dismiss me this way when confessing your feelings two nights ago."

Leon turned red, nearly choking on his own words. "That was—!"

"That was WHAT?"

"It was… because I’d had too much to drink. Drunk words shouldn’t count!"

Roswitha scoffed coldly. "One sip of alcohol and you lost control? Who are you fooling? You were perfectly sober."

Leon shot her an irritated glare, clearly eager to change the subject.

For the record… yes, he had been sober that night.

Though his drinking tolerance wasn’t high, it hadn't impaired his rationality enough to blurt out improper things.

He understood what he had said—and the feelings behind them.

It just didn’t sit well with him to revisit the matter, especially right now.

"Why so quiet all of a sudden? Don’t tell me you’re regretting it?" Roswitha pressed him further.

Regret?

Not exactly.

Leon only felt regret when acting against his own will.

So that "I like you," well… [reluctantly] counted as the truth, an honest sentiment straight from the heart, oddly enough.

"Tch. Who do you take me for? What’s spoken is spoken—no regrets."

Leon’s stubbornness aside, he embodied accountability to perfection.

It was a quality Roswitha had always admired in him.

"Then say it again," she coaxed softly. "No way!" Leon snapped. "Last time you didn’t even reply—why should I bother?"

Oh.

Someone’s temper flaring now.

Roswitha pouted but mumbled quietly, "Fine, don’t say it. As if I care."

Returning her focus to painting the helmet, Roswitha worked in silence.

Yet she soon noticed that every bucket Leon brought was filled with one singular color—silver.

Was this some kind of joke?

A Black Gold Chariot makeover featuring its new “Silver Dragon Edition”?

"Why all silver?" Roswitha asked casually.

"II like silver," Leon blurted out.

Roswitha froze momentarily, coughing twice in mock pretense to grab Leon’s attention.

Leon cooperatively raised his head to look at her.

He saw Roswitha pretending to casually fiddle with her silver hair strands.

Leon rolled his eyes helplessly but said nothing, lowering his head again to continue painting the surface.

“Ahem—”

He raised his head once more.

Roswitha was pinching the tip of her silver locks, still feigning nonchalance.

Leon sighed but chose to remain silent.

“Ahem—”

“Alright, alright, yes, your silver is stunning, okay?”

The mother dragon’s hints were practically smacking him in the face. If Leon continued to feign ignorance, Roswitha would likely force him to say it outright.

Better to take the initiative than to be coerced.

Finally satisfied, Roswitha cheerily resumed painting the surface.

The two worked tirelessly together for quite a while and eventually completed the re-skinning of the Black Gold Chariot.

Looking at the armor, now renewed and gleaming, Roswitha nodded in approval. “Not bad, looks pretty good.”

“Mm.”

Such a dull and stoic “Mm.”

Roswitha glanced sideways at him. The man’s face was void of expression.

His demeanor and mood were entirely different from how he behaved earlier at the temple.

Roswitha had a guess as to why he was acting like this—

That conversation just now:

“Are you done? I say it, and you don’t respond. What was the point of saying it?”

The stubborn man had finally mustered the courage to take a step forward, but that night she had only hugged and kissed him in response, without giving him any verbal affirmation.

Although nothing had been said in the past two days, it was clear he was probably feeling somewhat bothered deep down.

Roswitha pressed her lips together hesitantly. After a brief pause, she quietly scooted closer to him and gently tugged on the hem of his shirt.

“What is it?” Leon asked in a low voice, but his gaze remained fixed on the Black Gold Chariot.

“Cosmod.”

The queen stood on her tiptoes, leaned close to his ear, and whispered softly, her breath warm and fragrant,

“I like you.”

xx

Black Gold Chariot: So now I’m just a prop in your romance, huh?