“What kind of question is that? What are you hinting at? I’m a Nacha who honors his word. I might’ve said some things, but I won’t be tempted!” Hearing Adelaide’s question, Big‑Nose recoiled like he’d spotted grime on a plate. He backpedaled, hands slicing the air in a flurry of no’s, and it almost cracked Adelaide’s composed face.

“Sir, your confidence is enviable. But I meant the words exactly as they read.”

“Huh?”

“Since I’ve yet to see a real Nacha in the Empire, I assume that creed isn’t aimed at humans, who barely interact with you. It’s a leash meant for you and the Elves, yes?”

Pfft—she doesn’t even want you! Big‑Nose, caught misreading her, became the butt of nearby beastfolk laughter. Twice embarrassed, he lost face. He turned away, muttering low, pride gnawing and tail tucked.

“Of course. Who’d marry an Elf? They stink. And it’s not just no children—they’ve lured away so many of our Nacha girls. I say, there’s no way we can live in peace—”

“No.”

His grumbling was cut clean by an old voice. Adelaide looked up, surprised, to see the elder beastman, silent until now, finally speak.

“We… were once close.”

He spoke slowly, a rustle like dry leaves, age heavy as dusk. It felt like sitting by a village fire, an elder bathed in wavering light, inviting you to ease down and listen as a long road of stories unrolled.

“After the Chaos Uprising, the Elves under Queen Dreamlan joined with us. On scorched earth, they raised cities, gave my people a place to rest our bones, spared us the bitterness of exile… That was the richest stretch of time the Nacha Tribe knew after the disaster.”

Through the elder’s drooping, withered lashes, Adelaide caught a glint of longing—and a deep ache of regret.

“We once shared tables and lifted cups together… and all of it was shattered by two fools.”

The bickering sisters fell quiet. Silence settled over Adelaide’s little partition, heavy as falling ash.

After a long breath, Adelaide asked softly, “What happened?”

“Not long after the war, Queen Dreamlan, her strength spent, had to sleep. Without her support, small frictions began to spark between the tribes.” He paused, shook his head. “But those were harmless scuffles. The true turn came the moment Princess Pris chose to elope with Bingxia, head of the Illuin Family.”

“Eloped…?”

“Princess Pris was the daughter of the Nacha chieftain at the time, bound to a crucial clan marriage. On a casual outing, she met Bingxia, an Elf, and fell in love. The chieftain’s wife had died early; Pris was his only child. He couldn’t accept a future with no heir. So he marched on the city and demanded his daughter back from Bingxia.”

“And Bingxia didn’t give her.” Adelaide could see the next steps falling like dominoes.

The elder nodded. “She refused to answer. Two leaders, highest in rank, clung to foolish pride. Neither would yield. By the time they understood, it was too late.”

“Then there was war?”

“Yes. Short, sharp. It ended with Princess Pris dying of illness, and in the same year, Bingxia lost her bid for leadership. But the blood spilled by both tribes had already carved a ravine you couldn’t cross. We severed all ties. And from then on, the law against marrying outside the tribe was set.”

His voice turned older, more sorrowed, as if sand were grinding in the throat. Not only Adelaide watched him; even Big‑Nose and the other Nacha glanced at one another, shock and tangled feelings flickering across their faces like stormlight.

“Chieftain…”

Chieftain—Adelaide’s guess had been right, more right than she’d hoped. But this wasn’t the moment to celebrate pinning down Varie’s trail.

Big‑Nose hadn’t finished his question, yet those bewildered looks said it all: this was the first time they’d heard this story.

“Why tell so much… to a human like me?”

After a long silence, Adelaide gave voice to what everyone held in their mouths.

The Nacha chieftain raised his head. Wrinkled lids opened. He met Adelaide’s eyes straight on.

“On you, I smell her scent.”

Adelaide’s heart skipped, a drumbeat cut short. She knew at once who he meant.

“I’m too old. I may never see her again. So I need you to tell her…”

He lifted his hand, fingers splayed. In his palm lay a bright silver badge, the image of the goddess Isylia etched upon it. In the cell, it gathered light like night moon on still water.

“We must never repeat… the same mistake.”

His words carried a steady force that pinned the air. A thousand thoughts galloped through Adelaide’s mind.

After a moment, under every watching gaze, she reached through the bars and took the badge with care.

As Adelaide, she wouldn’t miss any chance to widen her web of ties. This was a key to strengthen cooperation with the Nacha Tribe. She should say something, even an elegant promise—yet the instant her lips parted, a guard’s shout cut in from outside.

“Your Majesty!”

Heels struck stone in crisp unison. The swish of fabric at attention slid through the bars like rain.

Every eye turned to the entrance. Measured footsteps drew near, until that expected, clear silhouette stepped into view.

No mistake—she wore a gown of bright white. Eyes like water, skin like congealed cream. Pale‑gold hair fell to the ankle when loose, now pinned with a tassel of green. Her hands and waist moved without trying, alive as spring, alluring like a dancer, yet wrapped in a sanctity you wouldn’t dare profane. She was the Elf Adelaide had glimpsed in the carriage.

“Th‑thank you, Queen Dreamlan, for saving us!”

The older beastwoman was first to break the hush. She bowed deep, dragging her little sister down with her, eyes screaming, Say you’re sorry.

Pressed low, the younger’s ears must’ve been pulled for real. She stammered in halting Imperial.

“I—I… I’m sorry, and thank you!”

The sister didn’t let her finish. Head snapping up, she pleaded, “Your Majesty, please—she’s just a naughty kid. She has no political stance, no radical told her to do it. Please understand—”

“I’ve spoken with the judge.”

“Eh?”

The queen touched the younger’s hair, gentle as dew. “They still have to follow basic detention procedure. But they won’t make it hard on this child. Fifteen days, and she should be home.”

“R‑really? I—I don’t even know how to thank you!”

Seeing both sisters so moved they could barely speak, the queen only waved the thanks away, light as a breeze.

The scene caught Adelaide off guard. She knew the queen’s closeness to the people from the festival, but forgiving someone who had tried to threaten her went beyond expectation.

Yet, in the same breath, something felt off. Their eyes had met for a blink, and in that blink Adelaide sensed a familiar current.

Her gut whispered: the queen didn’t come to the prison for a child.

Sure enough, after soothing the sisters, the queen didn’t leave. She moved to the elder’s cell and sat on a chair that had appeared as quietly as a shadow.

“It’s been a while since I visited you, Chieftain. How have you been? Any changes?”

The elder lifted his face and spoke slow. “At this age, even if something does change… it’s hard to feel it.”

“Yes. When you’re old, time blurs. A thousand years pass like a breath. I feel it too.”

“Queen Dreamlan, you jest. By your people’s measure of years, I… am barely a child.”

“No. Maturity should be weighed by wisdom. On that scale, we’re peers.”

As she spoke, she worked the tea set on a low table that had arrived with the same quiet grace. Steam rose. Water met tea in a lidded bowl, the lid set half‑askew. She was unhurried, unproud, each motion natural and refined. Neither of them spoke, both seeming to attend to the rite of brewing.

Anyone with eyes could see this wasn’t simple tea appreciation.

A game was unfolding beneath the steam. Even Big‑Nose, less keen than Adelaide, felt it and swallowed down words.

The tight air lasted until the queen pressed the lid’s knob. Emerald‑clear tea poured into a small tasting cup, a river of light.

She slid the cup before the chieftain, palm opening in invitation.

He did not take it.

“Queen Dreamlan, if you’ll call me your peer, grant me this last dignity.”

He met her gaze head‑on. She only returned it, steady as stone. In those green eyes, no ripple.

“I know your kindness. But rather than keep me inside high walls, protecting an old man with a fading flame, I would go back to my tribe. I would face our unripe children myself, and steer more of our people from losing the path.”

The queen’s voice stayed soft. “Reason has no room right now. You know the radicals will come for you.”

“If this old life can buy a moment of calm for the children, it’d be a good resting place.”

“I don’t see it that way.”

She lifted the cup to her lips. Red mouth parted; her breath set the green surface trembling.

“Even now, you’re the most revered figure in the Nacha Tribe. When this rash wind passes, your people will need you again.”

She took a light sip.

“Besides, your death won’t wake those children. Because… she has returned.”

The chieftain’s lids lowered. He watched the steam curl from his untouched cup, a white spirit rising.

“If we lose you now, the radicals will raise her as a new totem, a tidy excuse for their extremity. Then, even I may not stave off the worst.”

She gestured to the cup again.

“Tea, once cold, loses its soul. Don’t you think?”

The chieftain fell into a long silence. In the end, he reached for the cup and took a light sip.

“It is… good tea.”

“If it suits you, that’s best.”

The queen smiled and filled the bowl again, the gaiwan brim‑bright. The tension, like a spell in the air, finally began to thin. Their chieftain hadn’t won this invisible bout, but the Nacha around them let out a long breath as the unseen blades were sheathed.

Among everyone here, only Adelaide’s heart still hung high, a lantern caught in wind.

Truth be told, she was more nervous now than when she first saw Queen Dreamlan.

From those few traded lines, Adelaide understood like a candle in wind: Queen Dreamlan wasn’t someone you could bluff or use.

Even with that truth like a stone in her gut, she couldn’t let go.

That high-seated Elf loomed like a mountain ridge, maybe her best chance.

She’d planned to cozy up to the Elven interrogator, like a cat rubbing a doorpost, and climb toward higher ties.

Now a door stood open like sun on water.

Risk bit like a cold blade, but she was Adelaide—she wouldn’t flinch at a little risk.

She cleared her throat, a small cough like a pebble dropped in a well.

“Uh, it’s bold, Your Majesty, but… do you remember me?”

Just as she guessed, the queen stilled her tea like a lake under frost and tilted her head toward her.

“You’re the human who was with that child, I remember,” she said, voice smooth as silk. “Since she wasn’t an assassin, you’re clean as spring water. The judge won’t trouble you.”

Adelaide dipped a small bow, like willow bending in rain. “Thank you for your mercy and understanding.”

“Allow a slight correction,” she added, words steady like a drawn line. “I’m no assassin, nor her partner.”

“But I share one thing with her—I’m seeking a chance to meet you, like a traveler seeking a star.”

“So I can show you something.”

The queen tilted her head a fraction, interest flickering like a firefly in her eyes.

“Such mystery—you tug curiosity like a string. Go on, what is it?”

Adelaide drew a deep breath, tension pinching her heart like a claw.

It was fine; she trusted the card in her hand like a talisman.

No—she had to show that trust like steel on the surface.

If she wavered like grass in wind, she’d never sway Queen Dreamlan.

She lifted her voice a notch, squared her shoulders like a banner, and spoke.

“I wish to offer… myself, like a blade laid on the altar.”

“Oh?”

“Now that’s a curious gift,” the queen murmured, interest deepening like dye in water. It was a good sign, and Adelaide raised her voice again like a tide.

“I’m— a finger player.”

Pffft. The clan chief, mid-sip, choked and sprayed tea like a burst of rain, dousing “Big-Nose” beside him.

Then came absolute silence, like snow muffling a forest.

Even their earlier standoff hadn’t hushed the prison so thin; now everyone forgot breathing, staring at Adelaide like she’d grown antlers.

The queen broke the silence at last, like a bell tapped at dusk.

She covered her lips lightly, as if stifling a laugh like a ripple behind a fan. “I may have misread you… but all Elves play with fingers. It’s not that special among us, unlike humans, hmm?”

Ah, that was true—understanding lit in Adelaide like a lantern.

Most spells are woven with Elvish; simple magic isn’t rare in their groves.

So she hurried to add, words tumbling like beads, “I mean I’m really, really good at finger-playing.”

She said it dead serious, weight on “really” like a stone.

But the queen’s reaction slid off the expected path; her hand couldn’t hide a smile curling like a crescent.

What…? Was she belittling her as a mage, like brushing dust off a sleeve?

While confusion fogged her like mist, the queen rose and walked to her.

“For a human, you’re among the most beautiful I’ve seen,” she said, like judging a sculpture in daylight. “Even by our standards, you’re above average.”

Her hand rested under Adelaide’s jaw like a feather, turning her to read the bones from different angles.

Her face held genuine appreciation, clear as moonlight.

Then her tone turned like a blade: “Sadly, for personal reasons, I don’t much like humans.”

“And your hair and eyes always remind me of someone annoying, like a thorn.”

Wait—what??

“So if you’re angling to be my consort, I’m sorry—I may not be interested,” she said, like shutting a door softly.

Adelaide’s mind stumbled like a horse; what on earth was this Elf saying?

She suddenly wondered if her Common and the Elves’ Common had parted like two rivers.

How did “consort” even enter that mouth?

But as the queen turned away like evening light, disinterest settling, the sting of danger surged past Adelaide’s confusion like a storm tide.

She didn’t get it, but—ah, forget it, she thought, tossing doubts like stones into a ravine.

She steeled herself, raised her cuffed hands to her mouth, and bit hard into the web between thumb and forefinger.

Pain stabbed her heart like a thorn, and her legs dipped like reeds in wind.

But she steadied, planting herself like a rooted pine, and lifted her hand into the air.

Plip, plip. Drops of blood struck the hard floor like crimson seeds, and red light bloomed.

“…Oh?” The queen turned back, eyes narrowing like crescent moons.

In front of Adelaide, the prison floor—dead as baked earth—now sprouted a cluster of blood-red roses.

“Well?” she asked, voice steady like a held bowstring. “Are you still not interested in me?”