Dragged along, Medith stopped before a monumental building, a stone mountain that made all else shrink to pebbles. Even a worldly old hand like her felt awe rise.

Medith saw a statue by the grand gate. Its face was erased, just a blurred outline. It looked male, right hand gripping a dragon‑headed lance, commanding as a storm.

He wore an ancient White Dragon robe, much like her own era’s garb, a dragon embroidered in labyrinthine lines. Most striking, his shoulder‑length ponytail kicked up at a forty‑five‑degree tilt, as if the wind had set it like a banner.

“This is…” Medith murmured, dazed, fascination rising like mist.

On Melia’s alluring face, awe unfurled like a temple veil. “This is the one true god. Our will shall endure forever. May the world know no slaughter.”

She raised her right hand, edge like a blade aligned to her chest, then sliced hard toward her lower right, as if cleaving cowardice and all evil, ending in a grip that held an invisible sword.

“Our will shall endure forever. May the world know no slaughter.” Several sprites near the gate closed their eyes in reverence and mirrored the gesture and words, like reeds bowing in the same wind.

Medith noted the statue’s almost‑smiling lips, then respectfully copied Melia and the others, her motions careful as ink strokes.

“Let’s go.” Melia circled the statue and headed for the gate, her shadow flowing like water.

Medith followed Melia’s steps and pushed the heavy doors, the weight like a sleeping ox.

Creak—creak—. The heavy doors opened. A sumptuous red carpet unfurled like a river of wine. On both sides sat countless sprites in splendid attire, mostly men, dressed with strict formality.

Even the female sprites wore opulent gowns, their bearing noble as swans. Medith glanced at her own clothes, felt all eyes on her, and blush bloomed like dawn.

Melia’s face stayed unreadable. She walked to the end of the carpet, smoothed her skirt, and dipped into a respectful half‑crouch. “Melia pays respects to Her Majesty the Queen.”

The Queen did not reply. A line of weathered elders intoned, voices heavy as bronze bells, “Rise.”

Melia rose respectfully and stood to the left, light as a willow leaf.

“Why haven’t you come to greet the Queen?” a fearsome‑faced elder said, anger flickering like sparks.

Medith blinked, then walked respectfully to the carpet’s end, clasped her fists and raised them skyward, and crouched. “I, Medith Waheit, your humble minister, make my kowtow before Her Majesty the Queen!”

“Uh?”

Rustle, rustle…

Bewildered whispers rose around her. Medith lifted her head toward the figure on the dais. The sunlight here was a white blade, veiling the one on the throne so she could not see the face.

What she could see was the attire: a floor‑length, regal gown strewn with jewels, its craftsmanship meticulous as filigree. In her left hand she held a book against her full chest, its cover night‑black and bare of title.

Even the title was absent. The volume looked thick, perhaps a thousand pages, heavy as a brick of night.

“Insolence!” That fearsome elder slapped his chair and stood, the sound cracking like a whip.

Medith flinched and lowered her head, frozen. The elder’s long‑stored aura pressed like a mountain. One bark from him felt as terrifying as her former sovereign’s scolding.

She didn’t know what came over her—she’d simply wanted to look at the Queen’s face. She’d committed sacrilege. In her old world, they would have gouged out both eyes for that.

At the thought, cold sweat slid down her cheeks like rain, spotting the floor.

“Elders of Eterkles, don’t frighten her.” The Queen’s airy voice drifted down, and Euticles settled back into his seat.

“Medith Waheit, why did you call yourself ‘humble minister’? And why did you use the word ‘kowtow’?” Her tone carried neither blame nor favor.

Guilt flashed in Medith’s lowered eyes like ash on wind. It was instinct—how a subject greets a sovereign. She had not stopped to recall this world was different.

“Lately I’ve been… a little obsessed with secular titles in the kingdom. They make the people’s audience with the sovereign feel more formal, more imposing. ‘Kowtow’ carries deeper awe than ‘pay respects.’

‘Humble minister’ further seeds reverence in the people’s minds. It benefits both folk and sovereign, harms none. So the words slipped out. If I’ve offended, your humble minister accepts punishment.” Medith blurted, quick‑witted under fire.

She didn’t know if the Elven Queen would accept the idea, but rulers carry a taste for majesty and conquest. Any sovereign would rarely refuse such words.

Sure enough, a hint of pleasure colored the voice above. “So that’s it… From now on, we’ll do as you say. Standardize the titles to ‘humble minister,’ and change ‘pay respects’ to ‘kowtow.’ Effective immediately.”

The elders stared at Medith, stunned, then spoke in one voice, a drumbeat of obedience. “Your humble ministers accept the decree.”

“Your humble ministers, kowtow to Her Majesty the Queen—” Everyone in the hall knelt in reverent unison toward the Elven Queen, like wheat bowing before wind.

Melia’s sidelong glance brushed Medith, disbelief glinting like frost.

“Rise.”

“This time, I mainly wish to ask you a few things. What marks did those humans bear? Or do you know why they chose to slaughter and plunder my subjects?” The Queen’s gentle voice drifted toward Medith like falling snow.

Medith raised her head, anger burning like coals. “Your Majesty, your humble minister was dull and failed to note their traits then. But from their methods, it was clearly not their first time.

They were organized, a band set to capture us. Their arrows targeted legs, hands, and other non‑fatal places. That proves killing wasn’t their aim; they wanted us alive.

Your Majesty, this is grave. Humans saw our sisters—skin fair as snow, beauty like immortals—and evil thoughts stirred. They took them captive.

Our sisters have surely been abused, perhaps even sold in public markets to fetch them heavy coin.

We must not endure this! They’ve already brazenly hunted within our domain. This time in the forest; next time? They may come straight for the walls.

With humans, the more you show weakness, the deeper they invade. Show a form stronger than theirs, and they kneel at once.

Your Majesty, please stand for our sisters and deliver humans a harsh lesson!” Medith finished, righteous fire in her voice, then knelt with reverence.

Such iron in tone from lips that looked sixteen was startling. At the end, her sincerity struck even blood‑stained elders like a bell.

Medith dared not look up. She’d put the Queen on the spot—Melia had just said the elders’ petition failed, and she had voiced what left the Queen little room.

If the Queen agreed, she’d betray her own intent and make the elders’ counsel seem right, with her stubbornness to blame for more deaths. If she refused, she’d defy everyone’s will. She could do it, but at a cost.

The Queen was surely wrestling within, a storm behind a calm face, weighing which path would wound less.

But Medith felt no regret. The strong eat the weak—that law holds in every world. She remembered her death clear as cold water: she spared a key enemy to avoid war.

Years later, he returned with hopeless, overwhelming force, devoured her nation, made her watch her lover die, and killed her too.

Mercy to an enemy is cruelty to oneself. Medith learned that truth only when dying.

“Your Majesty! The girl speaks true!” Euticles stepped down from the elders’ seats and knelt beside Medith, addressing the Queen.

Medith glanced at the elder in mild surprise. His bearing was deeply respectful, clearly sincere in wanting the Queen to let the words sink in.

A warm current moved in Medith’s heart. “So he isn’t what I thought,” she thought. She loved such people anywhere—straightforward, without guile, unlike those with one face public and another in shadow.

On the dais, the elders’ expressions twisted. Reason said they should implore the Queen, but their positions nailed them to their seats, unmoving.

Medith said nothing. They had spent years climbing to those seats; of course they had concerns. She had none. So let her shoulder it.

“Your Majesty!” Medith spoke again. Melia’s head tilted, a tiny shake telling her to stop. Medith ignored it. “Your Majesty—

Your Majesty is kind and cannot bear the blood of war; everyone knows this. Your subjects love you for it. But the enemy will use it, again and again, bending your mercy to their gain.

They’ll take your mercy for weakness and believe you won’t strike back. They’ll grow more brazen, more wild. When desire seizes their minds, our people will face the disaster of annihilation!”

This time Medith abandoned decorum and bent low, knocking her forehead to the floor with a ringing thud.

Euticles shrugged off his black robe to cover Medith’s immodest skirt, then set his forehead to the floor. “Your Majesty! We beg you to send forces to punish the humans!”

“Your Majesty— we beg you to send troops against the humans—” Without warning, everyone in the hall went to their knees in a sweeping wave. Medith’s words had struck their hearts.

They had remembered every human offense over the years, but for the Queen’s face they dared not speak. As Medith went on, panic rapped their ribs. They could no longer hold back.

“I… do not wish to see war!” The Queen hurled the book onto the throne, a heavy slam cracking the air.

“Your Majesty! Please hear your humble minister one last line!” Medith stood, clutching the robe, her gaze icy and keen on the Queen’s departing back.

“Give me a crack unit. I’ll draw those hunters out. We’ll loose one volley of arrows beyond the boundary ward, avoiding kills. Let them witness our might; that will cow them.

They’ll feel awe and won’t press deeper. We can win a span of peace, with no losses on either side. If any of our people die because of me, I’ll cut my own throat in atonement.” Medith did not kneel this time.

The Queen stood with her back to them, silent, long as winter.

“Granted.”

She lifted her long skirt and strode away, silk trailing like cloud.