Adelaide wanted to smash her head into a wall and die, like a candle snuffed in a storm.

And if she did, she’d drag that damn lioness of a jerk down like an anchor.

Her cuffs were off; she trailed a white-robed beauty, through powder walls and ink tiles under a veil of ankle-deep mist.

Each step felt like cloud-walking into a dream, the Heavenly Palace from Journey to the West painted in moonlight.

But no freedom-spark lit her heart; even the joy of being invited by Queen Dreamlan washed away like rain on dust.

The reason was simple, sharp as a thorn.

She now knew what “playing with fingers” meant, like a slap.

In prison, Adelaide proved her blood was precious, a ruby thread in a bleak loom.

Queen Dreamlan grasped that her “offering myself” meant more, and she spared Adelaide a public jab, like a silk-gloved tap.

She waited until the palanquin swayed like a shell at sea, then hinted sideways: “playing with fingers” isn’t about magic…

It’s that other kind of… “casting.”

Understanding hit like cold water; Adelaide went blank, memories of Varie’s smirking nickname flipping open like a deck of cards.

She’d accepted it too naturally, even used it before the Queen; shame crawled like fire ants.

And every time Mira heard the word, her lips hovered, a blush blooming like a peach blossom.

Back then, Adelaide found Mira’s blush baffling; now—thunder in her skull—I’ll kill you, you damned lioness!

Shame swelled till she could die on the spot; her inner howl stirred mana like a storm-tossed lake.

The leg-strengthening array flared, and—snap—the heel couldn’t take the surge, cracking like dry twig.

Still lost in her mortified fog, she missed the moment; balance dropped, and she shut her eyes like a startled bird.

Yet she didn’t fall.

She opened her eyes to Queen Dreamlan’s face, inches away, beauty so lush it made a throat swallow like rain.

“All Elves are ‘finger‑players’—” said like a breeze.

Waist caught in an absolute beauty’s arms, breathing her heady scent like night-blooming jasmine, Adelaide froze solid.

What’s this Elf going to do… she isn’t going to… to…?!

“Uh—uh, that—”

“We’re here. Take off your shoes.”

Adelaide was flushed and tongue-tied, a kettle whistling; Queen Dreamlan stayed calm, steadied her, and gestured toward the palace like flowing water.

“Welcome to my humble house. Please enter, Miss Adelaide.”

She scrambled out of the broken heels, put air between them like a cool breeze, and let her mind chill.

No, this wouldn’t do; panicking over a stupid mix‑up would only cheapen her, like a stain on silk.

Settling accounts with that lioness could wait; first she’d look composed, or this Elf would swallow her like a fox swallows a rabbit.

She shook her head, breathed deep like drawing spring into her lungs, and lifted her gaze to the hall.

Blue‑and‑white porcelain, inked screens, golden nanmu carved like river-waves—every sight whispered a dreamlike Chinese interior.

“It seems the Nacha Tribe holds deep bias against you; this incense is so serene, like dew on green leaves.”

She breathed once; the light scent soothed her heartbeat like a hand on water.

“I’m glad you like it,” Queen Dreamlan turned, smiling like dawn.

She paused, then shook her head, a willow sway. “That big‑nosed gentleman wasn’t wrong, though.”

“But I haven’t smelled anything unpleasant yet.”

“You wouldn’t, naturally. Elves are drawn only to the same sex from birth; our scent carries that, like a signature in the wind.

To females, our body‑odor is an irresistible perfume, an aphrodisiac under certain moons.

To males, the same scent is rotten‑egg poison, a physiological emetic that seeps through skin like smoke.

It’s impossible to resist, even with fingers pinching the nose.”

“…That is… truly surprising.”

Adelaide’s eye twitched, words knotted like reeds; a verdict wouldn’t come.

“It isn’t exactly trouble—since we can’t desire males—but it affects business with outsiders, like grit in gears.

Sensitive negotiators have vomited at the table, then flew into shameful rages; talks collapsed like sandcastles.”

Adelaide pictured it; if you can’t hold it, you erupt right there, then roar to cover it, like a lion over bile.

She almost laughed, and silently mourned those imperial men who believed legends and dreamed of Elf brides, like chasing rainbows.

“At least today my guest is a lovely lady; I can speak freely, like wind through pines—please sit.”

“My honor, Your Majesty.”

Adelaide tucked her rising smile away, and sat opposite at the tea table like settling on a lotus pad.

“Any tea you’d like?”

“Pu’er will do.”

The Queen nodded, and, as in the prison, brewed slow and quiet, steam curling like mist over a lake.

She slid a cup of deep red tea toward Adelaide, like placing a sunrise.

Just as Adelaide waited politely for an invitation to taste, the Queen moved like a sudden gust.

Without warning, her slender, jade‑like hand pointed at Adelaide’s chest, a green bamboo spear.

“What’s this?” the Queen asked, voice warm as tea, face unchanged.

Adelaide blinked, a question mark dangling like a fishhook.

Adelaide was puzzled, and answered along the line of the pointing finger: “It’s me?”

“I see.”

“Uh… forgive my boldness, but, may I ask…?”

“Don’t mind it; it’s just a personal habit.” The Queen withdrew her hand like drawing a fan. “Please, drink.”

Her face showed no crack, porcelain-smooth; but empire life had hammered reflexes into Adelaide like iron.

A taut nerve was plucked, like a pipa string; she felt the test.

She smiled on the surface, then lifted the cup and took a light sip, a bird tasting rain.

“Clean entry, bitter not astringent, rich sweet aftertaste—this is fine tea.”

It was fine tea, not mere politeness; but she didn’t linger, and set the cup down like closing a lid.

“Your Majesty, you likely already know I possess the Sacrifice Domain.”

No more circles; Adelaide cut straight to the bone, like a blade.

She had read Queen Dreamlan’s type—talk more, expose more—so in this unfamiliar land she abandoned sparring.

“With your station and insight, you know what such a domain means.”

“I do,” the Queen nodded, then said, “You’re fortunate.

It makes offerings a hundredfold, letting fast chant and even swift large spells, like thunder called in a breath.

It also makes you the most precious offering; a shred of your flesh heals vicious wounds without a trace, like snow erasing footprints.

Any scroll inked with your blood gains a hundredfold effect, like a torch turned sun.

Overall, it’s one of the rare, powerful domains.”

“Your Majesty is indeed learned; then I’ll be blunt,” Adelaide met her eyes like a duel.

“I wish to trade my blood for the Elves’ sacred relic—the Savia Rose.”

Yes, that was Adelaide’s chip, gleaming like a blade hidden in silk.

In the empire’s underground lab, that bastard doctor Toka had said Elf scrolls mentioned holders of the Sacrifice Domain.

He called their blood “sírima carnë Tar‑culu”—flowing red gold, like molten dawn.

So the Elves would value her blood; that was her confidence, hard as granite.

Yet, to her surprise, Queen Dreamlan didn’t hesitate a heartbeat; she simply shook her head like a bellflower.

“I’m sorry, but that’s impossible, Miss Adelaide.”