"Proceed with Lanche's plan," Kestia said calmly.
"Gather hops in secret first. Once the time is right, release the foamy malt wine to the market."
"Your Highness, I suggest naming it 'Claire Beer,'" Semos interjected. "Young Master Lanche called this drink 'beer,' didn't he? It’ll spread the Claire Family name."
Liya nodded in agreement.
Kestia gave a slight nod. "Acceptable—but not yet. For now, it remains foamy malt wine brewed with Groot herbs."
"Only after we overcome this hurdle will 'Claire Beer' echo across the entire kingdom," she murmured softly.
Semos and Liya exchanged hopeful smiles. Lekui stayed quiet, no longer insisting on her own views.
The strategy was finalized swiftly and put into motion immediately.
Lanche slipped out of the manor before anyone could rope him into labor. While wandering the streets, he heard about last night’s burglary at Semos Trading Company.
"They were after the Groot herbs," Semos sneered. "No one but the Claires would dare. Cornered dogs jump walls."
"Double the guards these next days. Not a single blade of grass gets through!"
"Yes, Father," his son Ron grinned, confidence radiating from his face.
"And Lord Gorde?"
"Rest easy. As long as the Earl needs us, we bow to him. That’s how our house thrives." Semos, ever the pragmatist, knew merchants needed noble patronage to survive.
"Since you couldn’t wed Gynia Keiman von Bournos, I’ll marry your sister into their house. The Semos name will still cling to Bournos blood."
The old man beamed, envisioning his family’s bright future. Ron felt a pang—his sister was only sixteen—but necessity outweighed sentiment.
This opportunity arose only because Gorde had shifted focus, prioritizing commerce in his domain. With the lord’s backing, their rise seemed inevitable.
A mere Claire Family stood no chance against them. Gorde was an Earl, master of this vast territory—even kings treated him with deference.
"Lekui’s reckless move actually helped," Semos mused.
As long as everyone believed the Claires desperately needed Groot herbs, the plan held. The real test was whether "foamy malt wine" could dominate the market and bankrupt Semos Trading. But that? That would shake this world to its core.
"Guess I’m free now," Lanche sighed in relief.
He drifted back to the tavern, only to learn the elven lady was still asleep.
Since moving in with Tahina, Wenbess slept till noon daily—a true Elvenfolk rhythm, utterly indifferent to dawn or dusk. Yet she worked. When Lanche spotted her, she was already geared up: quiver at her hip, short sword strapped to her thigh, bow and pack ready. A professional archer in every detail.
They exchanged brief greetings, but Wenbess rushed off like a college freshman late for class. Lanche sighed. He’d hoped to chat with this world-traveled elf—maybe glean tales of distant lands, if not divine secrets. Without the internet, information traveled only by word of mouth.
"Eh, another time," he shrugged, ever chill.
He rarely visited, and rarer still to catch her awake. He didn’t mind.
Two leisurely months passed.
Gorde’s crackdown on smugglers raged on, yet he watched helplessly as Kestia acquired another brewery—her fourth.
"How do they still have supply routes?" he muttered, baffled.
His treasury bled dry funding the anti-smuggling campaign. His finance minister tore his hair out. If liquor profits didn’t rebound soon, they’d face ruin.
Unbeknownst to him, Kestia had stopped buying Groot herbs entirely. Her stockpile was gone. The "distilled liquor" she sold now was secretly bought from rival brewers—just enough to keep up appearances. Every coin she had went into acquiring breweries, gearing up to flood the market with foamy malt wine. Failure meant bankruptcy.
Semos Trading Company acted like a dam, hoarding every Groot herb to force the Claires into surrendering the beer recipe. Their entire fortune hinged on this gamble.
Then there were the smugglers—disorganized, opportunistic. Small merchants turned speculators, flooding Gorde’s domain with stolen herbs, betting they could sell to either the desperate Claires or the cornered Semos.
What began as a trade war swelled into a full-blown bubble crisis: the Groot Herb Bubble.
Gorde, the iron-fisted lord, failed to grasp his own powerlessness. Even Kestia grew uneasy.
Semos often found her frowning over documents, shoulders tense with worry.
"Your Highness… perhaps consult Young Master Lanche?" he suggested gently.
"Does he understand commerce?" Kestia’s brow furrowed.
"He’s clever, Your Highness," Semos smiled.
"He has no business sense," she insisted, recalling his abysmal "talent assessment" score. A solid zero.
"True. But hasn’t he surprised us before? Perhaps… look beyond his talents. Look at *him*."
"*Him*?" Kestia fell silent.
"You’re married, yet barely speak." Semos’s voice softened. "Forgive my bluntness, but he’s human. His life is a brief spark to you. Why not… let him in?"
Kestia said nothing.
She had no experience with mortals. Matters of the heart—and fleeting lifespans—were mysteries only advisors like Semos could unravel. Many long-lived beings learned too late: one day, you wake up, and the human is simply… gone.
