At first pass, her question sounded aimless, like an arrow loosed into fog. But Adelaide had her reasons, cool as moonlight on steel. Ask straight for the Savia Rose’s location or its security, and you’d stir a hive. Skirt the edge with a half‑provocation, and the current would pull them to volunteer details.

Her abacus clicked in her chest like beads in rain, yet the two across from her didn’t bite like fish under a lantern.

Instead, they traded a look, then leaned together, whispering like leaves.

(Um… did we run into an edgy teen case?)

(Not sure. Kinda sounds like it.)

…Edgy teen?

Adelaide nearly cracked her mask; the smile tugged like a ripple on still water. They swept a cautious glance over her, then both nodded when they caught that tuft of white hair leaking from her hood, pale as frost.

(And dyed hair, too. This new generation, honestly.)

(They’re young. Spring sap will climb.)

The heat of debate bled away like mist at dawn. In its place came that adult brand of pity, high and dry as a crow on a branch.

While Adelaide blinked at the turn, the louder Elf strode over, boots tapping like pebbles on a streambed.

Instinct pricked first, a thorn under skin. Her hidden hand traced a spell circle inside her sleeve, inkless as shadow. The Elf didn’t strike. She… patted Adelaide’s shoulder, light as a moth’s wing.

“Little sister, when I was your age, I burned hot too, doubting everything like summer thunder.”

She shook her head with a heavy sigh, the cadence slow as a temple bell.

“But the longer I’ve lived, the more I get the strength of a state. Hear me. Trust the soil under your feet. We’re noble Elves, not the Nacha Tribe. A sacred thing getting snatched only happens to them—”

“— dîn (silence) —”

“Mmph—!!”

The sermon snapped shut as an invisible band of magic taped the talker’s mouth, smooth as ice. The other Elf wore a look as flat as winter water and scolded like a north wind. “Enough. What year is it? Don’t pour that antique theory into her.”

She ignored the muffled protests and turned to Adelaide, gaze clear as glass.

“Newborn, you probably haven’t gone through the Flower Dancer selection. You don’t know how it works.”

…

Yes, a misunderstanding bloomed like an awkward chrysanthemum. But the sentence itself rang true. Adelaide hadn’t seen that so‑called selection. She dipped a silent nod, small as a falling petal.

“Then that’s that. If you’d seen it, you wouldn’t have asked.”

A spark of stubborn pride rose first, like a coal breathing. Adelaide rode it. “You sound pretty sure. You trust the state’s security that much?”

“Security?” The Elf gave a small scoff, sharp as a reed snap, and pointed at the sky. “There’s no need. The instant the Savia Rose is cut from the bough, the magic it releases will overload the entire Sealing Array. The whole country won’t see the sun for two days. If any thief can ghost off with the Rose under that storm, I’ll tip my hat.”

Adelaide followed her finger. The Array draped the heavens like a net of glass, runes faint as frost across a lake. Silence settled in her chest like snow.

…Damn.

The curse tasted bitter as ash on her tongue.

She’d netted the security intel like a fish in a basket, yet her plan for a quiet, sky‑born theft shattered like thin ice.

No wonder Varie had laughed when she’d pitched it. This was a thorny thicket, not a loose fence.

Brows knotted like twine, Adelaide weighed the angles. Maybe squeeze more details, find a seam in the stone. But as she opened her mouth to fish from the two Elves, a tide of noise swelled behind her, rolling like surf.

“Oh? It’s Queen Dreamlan! She’s here!”

The Elf who’d wriggled free of silence lit up like lantern fire, forgot the argument, and waved as she joined the cheer.

Queen Dreamlan?

Adelaide blinked. The cheering Elves parted like reeds in a river, leaving a clear avenue. At the far end, a carriage glided closer, drawn by two white horses with wings, feathers bright as fresh snow.

Huh. So winged horses really are a thing?

“Your Majesty, please accept this small token!”

While Adelaide tried to swallow yet another worldview‑shattering pebble, an Elf who’d been selling glutinous rice dumplings at the festival hustled up to the carriage, voice warm as steam. He held up a neat food box, packed with soft white dumplings dusted in soybean flour, lacquered with a glossy ribbon of black sugar syrup.

“Stop!”

A cavalrywoman on the white horse barked like a clap of thunder. She moved to block, but the passenger inside cut her off, voice drifting out like silk.

“It’s fine. Dumplings are good. Kindness is good. Don’t be rude.”

Her tone held a lazy grace, summer shade beneath a pavilion. From the sound alone, you could sketch a high seat and a steady hand. Yet her manner never pressed down. She stayed the knight’s arm, lifted the curtain, and took the box herself, gesture light as willow.

“Mmm. An extra layer of brown sugar. Your sense for sweets is on point. If every stall matched you, this world would taste a little brighter.”

A handful of words, yet the vendor’s face bloomed like dawn. “Your Majesty prefers it sweeter? Wonderful!”

A pale green seal twirled from the curtain like a leaf, then stamped onto the vendor’s sweat‑damp shirt.

“Keep this sigil. Whether you save it, or trade it at the Ministry of Rites for a prize, that’s up to you.”

Keep it, of course—this shirt’s never getting washed—he babbled, joy bursting like firecrackers, then melted back into the crowd. He was only the first sparrow. The rest flocked in at once, a whirl of wings.

“Your Majesty, try my secret garlic‑roast eggplant!” “No, taste my sweet rice wine first!” “Move! I was here before—ahhh—”

For a moment, their clamor drowned everything, loud as market gongs. It clawed at Adelaide’s ears until she wanted to throw up a sound barrier like a glass dome.

In that fevered wind, no one noticed the figure crawling from a street‑corner shadow, grime black as soot.

“You… you… you bad people!”

The shout came from behind, choppy and raw, like a child splashing in cold water. The fever paused. Then a shared intake of breath hissed through the crowd like reeds in a gust.

A small boy stood in the carriage’s path, face and clothes smeared with black powder, night scattered on his skin. A rough strip of cloth bound his forehead. The pair of scruffy, furred ears atop his head marked him as Nacha Tribe, plain as tracks in snow.

It was the first non‑Elf Adelaide had seen in this festival crowd tonight, a lone thorn in a field of flowers. But his race wasn’t the only thing tightening throats. He held something tube‑shaped aloft, the body gripped so tight you couldn’t see any markings. The shape alone put ice in the belly. A short fuse spat sparks like angry fireflies.

A bomb? Adelaide narrowed her eyes, breath steady as a drawn bow, tracking every twitch of the young beastkin.

“Bad people! You took… father and mother… sister… too! Give them… all back to me!”

His Chinese was clumsy, words stumbling like stones. But he screamed until his voice rasped like sandpaper. The fuse hissed, halfway eaten in a heartbeat.

“Assassin! Guard Her Majesty!”

The cavalry broke out of the ring of Elves like wolves from brush. They raised chants, earth‑colored shields locking into a wall as heavy as clay cliffs, standing between the people and the carriage.

At that knife‑edge, a spark flared in Adelaide’s mind, quick as lightning.

The boy’s words held a lot, seeds in a husk. Parsing his motive would help her map the rift between the Nacha Tribe and the Elves. But that wasn’t her aim right now. Her plan came first, hard as bedrock.

She, Adelaide von Douglas, would obtain the Savia Rose no matter what. That vow lay at her core like a red thread, ranked even above the Sacred Heart. But slipping in to steal and slip out like a night bird? That path had closed like a snapped trap.

If she was to continue, she’d need threads inside the Elven realm—people, favors, corridors—and then haggle and maneuver until the Rose lay in her palm.

What opens doors better, as a first knock, than saving a “Queen” from an assassin’s hand?

Opportunity. The word rang in her ribs like a bell. Bloodsword formed in her sleeve, a red blade pouring like liquid dusk. She stood less than twenty meters from the boy. If she triggered Crimson Frenzy now, she trusted she could cut the fuse before it died, then flick and sever his tendons, tidy as pruning vines.

She finished the Crimson Frenzy pattern, heat gathering like coals. She lifted it toward her heart—

—and then a surge of magic hit from the carriage, vast as a spring flood.

It wasn’t spellcasting; it felt older, rawer, an ocean of mana boiling under a full moon. For a breath, even air felt tight, a belt around the lungs.

Wind roared up a beat later, a gale slamming through the street like a river turned sideways. Adelaide raised an arm to shield her face, peering through her fingers at the source.

The curtain had ripped wide in the gust. Inside sat an Elf in a white dress, beauty clear as new snow, presence pure as temple incense. Her emerald eyes held no panic, no fear, only calm, a lake under stars.

She didn’t weave a circle. She didn’t sing a word. She just watched. And all the surrounding magic seemed to hear a conch call. The invisible sea it made rose in a self‑born tsunami, pushing air into a spinning storm, arrowing straight at the boy.

He had no defense. The cyclone ate him in a blink, his scream thin as a reed flute.

By that force, he should have been tossed skyward like a leaf. He wasn’t. The wind scoured him instead. The black powder dust blew off his skin like smoke. The “bomb” slipped his fingers and shot upward, light as a paper lantern.

Boom!

The sky thumped, a sound that shook the ribs like a drum. And that was all. For a bomb, the shockwave felt small, a pebble in a pond.

Ash drifted down on her hair like gray snow. The constellation of sparks overhead lost more than half its stars.

Wait… fireworks?

Adelaide stared upward, slow as a fox sniffing a trap. The embers on her head still held warmth; the truth didn’t lie.

Hold on—on my head?

Forget the boy’s purpose for a breath. Realization struck like a slap. She’d worn a hood. If ash hit her hair, she should’ve felt nothing.

Which meant… her hood was gone.

“Wow. Edgy teens these days are trendy. They even shave their ears?”

The lecture‑happy Elf’s voice floated over, teasing as a breeze. Adelaide turned with a jerk, stiffness creeping up her spine. For the first time, she met the woman’s eyes barefaced.

Thunk!

“What do you mean shave, you dunce? She’s Human!”

Her companion flicked her on the head, a knuckle like a pebble. Understanding lit her face like a struck match. Her gaze sharpened at once, keen as a hawk.

"Right! You dare to lie—gripping that sword like a fang! What are you trying to do?!"

Just as they said, the Empress struck like lightning; Adelaide hadn’t even had time to sheath the Bloodsword.

The wind tore her hood open like claws; Bloodsword in hand, she stood under every gaze, a lone flame in a field of eyes.

"More accomplices—shield Her Majesty, form the escort formation!!"

Annoyance pricked first; hearing the cavalry’s shouts roll like drums, Adelaide’s eye twitched.

Ah... now this is trouble.