Elves have always adored the idea of a bath—steam like drifting clouds, heat like a gentle sun. Even their reclusive, oddball Blood Magic researchers aren’t immune.

The most senior of them, Ms. Ayu, once said in an interview: a home’s bathing space should at least match the living room in size, and take no less than forty percent of the renovation budget. Only then does it count as proper interior design.

By that measure, the lavish travel bath Menglan gifted to Varie wasn’t such an over-the-top bribe. Next to the bathhouse Adelaide uses now, that gift feels almost plain.

The Fana Family has been tight on cash for ages. Even so, when Qingning’s group built their headquarters, they gritted their teeth and paid out of pocket. They poured a river of money into the bathhouse.

Compared to Menglan’s gift, this bath is four or five times larger, at least. More important, the designer didn’t need to worry about the brutal whims of the road. So the materials and structure run wild. Fragile, gorgeous stone carvings bloom like frost. Precise magical filigree threads every surface.

Those arrays do far more than hold temperature. Calming aromatics curl like incense smoke. Humidity balances like a spring day. Ion purification glints like lightning caught in glass. Salt-plate massage tables glow like warm rock. Sun-bath lamps pour down a noon that never moves. Mood-music hums like bees in clover. A sturdy pole stands ready for a hot dance, bright as steel in moonlight.

Anything a human could imagine for bathing is here. And plenty a human would never think to tie to bathing is here too.

In short, the space is sublime. The moment you step in, your whole body unclenches like snow under sunshine. Whether you’re a half-grown kid with a stubborn streak or a wage slave falling apart, you’ll find exactly what you need. A brief escape, like surfacing for air.

Yes. Anyone would relax here without even meaning to.

Anyone, except the two human women monopolizing the bath right now.

No stretching until a clean “ah~.” No splashy games. Only the thin rain of water. And the pair pressed together at the sink.

Their posture… is awkward.

From a dragonhead faucet carved in white quartz, water rushes in silver ropes. Adelaide stands behind Mira, fingers clasped around her wrists, pressing her hands into the stream. Mira bows like an office worker who just messed up. In truth, she’s dodging Adelaide’s bare chest. She has to lean toward the basin, lets her sister hold her there.

Binding alone isn’t enough. Adelaide leans forward. Her collarbones hover by Mira’s lashes, pinning her to the counter. Pale, silk-soft hands spread her fingers, one by one. From the pads to the tips, she strokes—slowly, inch by inch. Her tender palm cups the back of Mira’s hand, warm water threading through every crossed knuckle and hollow.

Adelaide’s hands are so soft they seem boneless, sheathed in satin-smooth gloves. Each brush sparks like a live wire. No veteran bathhouse scrubber could dream of matching this.

But for the client of this “service,” it’s not enjoyment.

From the instant Adelaide’s gown fell, Mira’s brain shut down. She’s like a little Liser fruit—people praise the fruit’s sweetness for a person’s nature, but here it’s the blistered red skin for Mira’s face. She’s a boiler about to overheat and blow. The faucet’s water isn’t as hot as her skin. Her pupils swirl with question marks, confusion thick as fog, and she can’t make sense of any of it.

She holds that posture—“I’m sorry, please spare me”—and bows to the sink for ages. At last, she peeps out a voice.

“Uh, um… what is this…?”

“Washing our hands.”

“O-oh!”

So that’s it. I’m just washing hands with Sis. Totally normal—Mira tries for a normal face. She lifts her head. The instant her side-eye catches the “fruit” almost touching her cheek, she drops again. Cold sweat trickles. Reality won’t be fooled.

Across from her, Adelaide looks a touch better than Mira. Only a touch.

She’s blushing too. She owns the tempo and knows exactly what she’s doing, but her heart still sprints like a drumline.

[Beep. Teen Mode activated. The Multi-Function Elf Bathhouse Smart Assistant has kindly skipped the next 8,316 characters!]

Adelaide still hasn’t recovered from the chaos. Her frail body, without the crutch of strength enchantments, fluttered, then failed. She plays for a while, then runs out of steam. She sinks back into Mira’s arms. Head on her chest, she lifts a hand from the hot spring and toys with Mira’s loosened hair.

“The color’s faded a little more since half a year ago.”

“Ah… yes.”

Adelaide raises her hand. Damp ash-gold strands slip between her silk-gloved fingers. That dazzling gold has started to wash away. The black of the Nuhaman bloodline is surfacing again.

It isn’t pure black yet, only because Tessmi’s Lament hasn’t been purged. But its backlash is fully smothered by the power of the Savia Rose. It can’t hurt Mira now. Even the bloodline-altering effect is fading to the naked eye.

At this pace, a few more years, and Mira will look like she did as a child.

The thought makes Adelaide smile without trying.

“I do like this color better.”

“…Mm.”

“Heh~ Once you’re back to black hair, we can wear inverted black-and-white couple outfits.”

“…Mm…”

“…? Mira, you’re spacing out again.” Adelaide pokes her cheek, a tiny puff of pout. “What are you thinking?”

Mira stays quiet for a beat. She looks at the beauty in her arms. She looks at the misted hot spring—steam like a mirage—and her eyes go a little lost.

“I just… feel like I’m dreaming…”

She tightens her arms around Adelaide’s, as if to make sure she’s real.

“Sis…”

She closes her eyes and rubs her cheek to Adelaide’s. She’s still a bit dazed.

You can’t blame her for being slow. A few hours ago, she had just hit the six-month mark since they parted. In that span—never mind this level of closeness being an unreachable luxury—she didn’t even know if Adelaide would forgive her for keeping secrets.

Yet a few hours later—never mind rubbing cheeks—Mira has taken Adelaide’s most precious—

“—Pervert. What are you fantasizing about?”

Adelaide scolds, flicks her forehead, and snaps her out of the blushy daze. She can’t flick away the happiness on her face, though.

“Sis, I think I don’t need anything anymore.”

“Hm?”

“I’m so happy now… Sister, let’s just stay here, please? Everyone here welcomes us. They call us heroes. Anta found friends. That vile man’s dead. No one can threaten us. We can live here for half a year, then go to Sanda after autumn. The fallen leaves of the Bata trees are so beautiful—mmph?”

She’s cut off.

Adelaide kisses her.

Unlike the wild, stormy kisses from moments ago, this one is soft. Just lips, gentle as moth wings. But it lasts. Adelaide won’t leave, not until both of them are short of breath.

Most of all, this kiss isn’t acceptance. It’s a refusal.

“No, Mira.”

As their lips part, Adelaide says it, fingertip resting on Mira’s mouth.

She knows what Mira wants to say. She knew even before Mira showed up with that basket of keepsakes, heavy with meaning.

This is the sequel to that night, when Mira pushed her to the bed.

Mira wants the love inside those gifts to persuade her.

Persuade her to stay. To stay somewhere safe. To live quietly together.

Persuade her that they’re happy enough.

Persuade her that with each other, they don’t need more.

…

But just like that night—when Mira was too naive, thinking she could dodge Matisse’s puppeteer by running—this happiness is a bubble. One touch, and it pops.

As said from the start, Adelaide never had a retreat option.

In every life, she’s been chased by trouble like dogs by a fox. That wicked god never has—and probably never will—let her go. He plants landmines on every road she takes.

Like now.

She knows it. That bastard Matisse wouldn’t end with a hello to Mira. He must’ve shoved her into some crisis—one she hid deep and bore alone, even if it broke her promise to Adelaide.

Adelaide has always known: if Mira insists on not telling her, it likely means the problem is beyond what she can fix right now.

That truth stings. It reminds her.

She’s not strong enough yet. She can’t protect Mira. She can’t guard her dearest treasure.

The warmth she feels in these arms is still a soap bubble. It can burst any time.

…

The good news? Like how she handled script-wielding Matisse, there’s no true dead end.

Like today. She won’t waste breath grilling Mira. She chose to take off her gown instead, to stake the purity she’s saved till now, and to offer a proposal Mira cannot refuse.

She knows exactly what to do to grow stronger. To stop losing.

Adelaide lifts her face, brushes Mira’s ear, and whispers the terms.

“Mira, you’ll help me become Emperor, right?”