So that’s the hidden card that let you come bargain [Beastfolk slaves] with me—like a blade slipped under silk?

Rafi’s face went rigid like frost on glass; she hadn’t expected her purpose to be guessed in a heartbeat.

But the Demon King in her rose like a steel spine; she smoothed her features, set a plain smile like a paper screen, and buried the ripple of surprise.

Just a heartbeat of daze—like a fish flick under water—she probably didn’t notice…

Rafi soothed herself, like stroking a skittish horse in the dark.

Oh my—Miss Rafi won’t answer my question? Her voice drifted like steam from tea.

Rafi lifted the tea she loathed like bitter medicine; empty hands shake like leaves, and nerves love to tattle.

On a stage, hands never know where to perch; nerves choreograph clumsy moves like a puppeteer, and she had to deny them room.

She endured the bitter sting in her nose, kissed the rim, and took a drop too thin to wet her teeth—playing the tea-taster.

Meanwhile, her mind spun like a loom, combing threads and reweaving the words she meant to say.

Ding—like a boxing bell.

The cup kissed the table, chiming crisp like a fight bell, though today’s ring was carved into wood.

Heh. Miss Rafi, that tea-hating face is just like a certain little one—she wrinkles her nose like a cat at a wet leaf.

Is that so—like a pebble dropped into still water?

Mm, yeah—I remember, back then… Memory rose like smoke, but—

Seeing the topic slide like a cart off a rut, Rafi cut in like a knife on rope.

Meh—this isn’t important, let’s skip. I can admit it: those Demon Elite are one of the pillars that let me sit here.

Dorado let the topic drift like a boat in current and kept paddling, unruffled as a lake at dusk.

Oh? I see—but honestly, that alone isn’t enough, like a single arrow against a wall of shields.

Why—one word hammered like a nail?

Because we aren’t short on ladies who wield Holy Light magic—dawn spears in steady hands.

Dorado’s words drew a dry snort from Rafi like flint sparking.

Miss Dorado, I’m saying this because we both don’t want a fight—peace tastes sweeter than iron.

Your Holy Light hurts Daemons like sun on mold.

But mages tire—breath thins like winter air.

Our Daemons revive the instant they die, like embers relit from ash.

When your mage drops, your empire loses—like a banner falling in dust.

What odds do you still hold—cards or smoke?

Not just that, right? Your Daemons grow fiercer each bout, like iron tempered in fire.

Give them a few cycles, and they might weather our spells head-on—stone facing rain.

Also, Miss Rafi, you’re dodging battle because of that covered wound on your arm—bandage like a white snake—aren’t you?

Ah? Ah… yes, that’s right—words stumbling like loose tiles.

Rafi froze for a beat like a deer in brush; she couldn’t fathom how Dorado knew.

Hmm… Most likely Moser, Uru, and Elusen still trade letters like ravens; otherwise, how would she see my injury so clear?

A small chess piece in her chest stepped forward like a white pawn; the plan edged toward her design, and she welcomed that drift like tide to shore.

Then, since Miss Dorado knows this much, you must be ready to agree to the deal—bait set like a hook in calm water, right?

Oh my—Miss Rafi’s that eager? I said already, this alone isn’t enough—like a fan flick dismissing dust.

She knew the danger of Rafi’s Daemons, yet didn’t agree; that twist knotted Rafi’s brow like a drawn cord.

Is the nation’s life and death not enough—like a spear thrown to the heart?

Yep. The nation’s fate doesn’t touch me; even if it’s erased, whatever—so long as they’re fine, a ring of care around a single flame.

Rafi doubted that casual “the nation can die” like ash in wind, but she caught the key—“them,” a stone in the stream.

So “them” outranks a nation—I’m curious who “they” are, cat’s paw tapping a closed box.

Dorado didn’t answer; she lifted the cup and sipped, long as a drawn bow, ten slow counts before setting it down.

The cup lay empty, drained in one pull; her smile turned foggy, a veiled moon you couldn’t read.

What, drink tea and level up in brains—like a game popup?

Rafi couldn’t help the wicked guess, a thorny vine curling in her head.

I wonder if Miss Rafi wants to hear my terms—words dangled like baited hooks over dark water?

Rafi clicked her tongue, a spark on flint; the talk had finally found rails, then veered like a cart on gravel.

Then again, “them” might be Dorado’s soft spot—a bruise under armor—who bares their weak point so easily?

No one opens their chest and says “Come on, hit right here” to someone holding steel—like a stag inviting arrows.

But Dorado pivoted with a dancer’s heel, landing on a topic Rafi couldn’t refuse—honey poured over nettles.

If she knew the terms, she could grind the price down to bone; all those negotiation manuals stacked inside her were a fortress of pages.

Go on, then—I want to hear the terms you rank beside a nation’s life, drumbeats rolling like thunder down a pass.

She crossed one leg over the other, lounging back like a cat on a sunlit sill; confidence warmed her like noon, wind at her back.

Under Rafi’s puzzled gaze, Dorado shed her outer layer, leaving a small short-sleeve; beneath it, twin peaks stood full and clean, mountains misted behind cloth.

Maybe on purpose, the inner shirt was loose; it slid to one side, baring a shoulder like pale porcelain, a strange lure glowing in air.

Then… my other condition: let me devour you—like a polite wolf at the door—how’s that?