"So that's how it is..."

Oren winced, clutching his groin as he lifted his head with a pained expression.

"Why do I always get dragged into messes like this?"

"How should I know? Maybe you just can't help sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

Hilwen pressed her dagger forward slightly. Oren seized his fallen Longsword. Seeing this, Hilwen slowly halted her advance.

"Honestly, I've pretty much resigned myself to this fate," Oren muttered under his breath, slowly planting his sword into the ground. "But would you do me the honor of explaining why?"

The moment the words left his lips, Oren yanked the blade free. He swung it horizontally, its edge aimed at Hilwen, his stance poised for a swift strike. Yet Hilwen didn't withdraw her dagger—not even when the position clearly disadvantaged her. Pride wouldn't allow retreat.

"Lacres is my elder brother," Hilwen stated flatly, maintaining the tense standoff. "But you've seen his face. He has no right to rule us. Not by any measure."

"Ah, I see." A mocking smirk spread across Oren's face. "I always thought Elvenfolk didn't judge by appearances. Turns out you're no different from humans."

Before his words fully faded, Hilwen thrust her dagger forward again. The cold gleam of steel made Oren click his tongue as he adjusted his grip on the Longsword. Hilwen’s eyes never flickered toward his weapon. She locked onto Oren’s gaze and continued.

"Things aren't as simple as you imagine, Oren of Niweya."

*Typical. Doesn’t listen to a word.*

Oren bristled at how she addressed him, but Hilwen pressed on.

"Lacres’s face embodies our failure as Elvenfolk! Would you want your Emperor to wear the mark of defeat? Of course not. Every scar on his face screams our shame! Every time he appears before the people, they see those scars and remember our darkest history."

"Well... couldn’t he just wear a mask?"

"That’s not the point!"

Hilwen’s fury erupted. She kicked Oren square in the chest. A dull *thud* echoed as he doubled over.

"Would the people trust an Emperor who hides his face from them?"

"Ahhh~ That’s exactly why I never wanted to be Emperor," Oren groaned, clutching his chest. "Such a hassle."

"This is duty, Lord Oren."

Hilwen slid her free hand under Oren’s chin, tilting his head up. Her crystal-clear eyes held his as she spoke.

"And you don’t even have the chance to shoulder it."

"Fine by me. I never wished for it anyway," Oren murmured, meeting her gaze. "What about you? I suppose you want Lacres dead so you can take that ‘duty’ for yourself?"

"I did what was best for our Elvenfolk," Hilwen replied without hesitation, though Oren’s sarcasm hung thick in the air.

"But I don’t see it that way."

"Who’s there?!"

Hilwen whipped her head toward the door. Dysaia stood framed in the doorway.

"How did you—"

The instant Hilwen’s dagger left Oren’s throat, he seized his Longsword with both hands and flicked it upward.

*Clang!*

The dagger spun into the air. Oren surged to his feet as Hilwen stumbled back, putting distance between them.

"Tch."

Hilwen scanned the room for an escape route—only to find Yamwen and Lontan blocking the other exit.

"Lord Hilwen, I think we should talk," Dysaia said, stepping forward. Hilwen’s lips twitched at the corner as Dysaia closed in.

"Princess Silver Dragon, I see nothing to discuss," Hilwen declared, facing Dysaia squarely. "The Crimson Dragon Elaer made our position clear."

"But your father, Elven King Edwin, did not."

Dysaia’s smile remained polite despite Hilwen’s icy tone.

"Frankly, I don’t care who rules the next generation of Elvenfolk. I merely wish to see the Elven King."

"Father has no desire to see you."

"That... contradicts what I know."

Dysaia’s smile never wavered, her voice steady. "Edwin has lived five centuries. I knew him as a child. I’d like to think we were... acquainted."

"Those days are long gone."

Oren caught the faint tremor in Hilwen’s voice. Dysaia pressed on.

"Then grant me an audience with Edwin to confirm this. Or..."

Dysaia’s smile stayed fixed, but a crushing pressure—like a tidal wave of ancient power—slammed into Hilwen. She staggered back, face grim.

"...would you test the patience of the last Elder Dragon?"

...

Hilwen stayed silent. Dysaia retracted her draconic aura and stepped closer, still smiling.

"Rest assured, I mean no undue influence on Edwin. So I propose a condition."

She raised one finger.

"I have a contract here with a mage named William. I require Lacres to leave the Alliance’s territory alive. Even an Elven corpse might be dissected by Alliance scholars."

Only then did Dysaia spread her hands, deliberately showing Hilwen the crackling lightning born from spatial distortions dancing across her palms.

"As you can see, I cannot contain the Human Hammer Knight indefinitely. His escape would bring none of us good fortune. So I ask you: honor my request and fulfill this contract. What happens to Lacres afterward is no concern of mine."

*Really?*

Oren studied Dysaia’s face, but her smile was an impenetrable mask. Hilwen seemed equally unsettled. After a long pause, her pearly teeth clenched tight, she finally hissed:

"As you wish, Princess Silver Dragon."