The next day, Pietro arrived at the manor in a lavish carriage drawn by four horses.

Miss Christia and Sileus stepped out to greet him upon receiving word.

Even Lucien would’ve wept at such treatment.

The carriage door opened. A delicate hand rested on Pietro’s palm, followed by a noble young lady stepping down.

Pietro stood like her most loyal retainer, head bowed with a respectful smile.

The girl steadied herself on the ground, smoothing a stray strand of golden hair. Her emerald eyes settled on Christia, warm with amusement.

“Viscount Clarein, Miss Christia—this is Miss Yufi Sain Greenshield,” Pietro announced.

“A pleasure to meet you, Viscount, Miss Christia.” Yufi parted her crimson lips in a smile, lifting her skirts for a perfect curtsy.

Her manners revealed no spoiled heiress.

Christia matched her grace, returning the curtsy with serene poise.

As a viscount, Sileus merely nodded, gesturing toward the manor with a welcoming smile.

“Miss Christia truly lives up to her reputation—a vision of loveliness,” Yufi remarked.

“You flatter me, Miss Yufi. You’re equally radiant,” Christia replied.

“Thank you.” Yufi’s smile lingered as she glided indoors.

Christia watched her a moment before following toward the parlor.

Sileus glanced at Pietro. The man merely spread his hands with a placating grin—no malice, just Yufi’s natural aura.

A girl campaigning to be queen could never be simple.

Christia never expected to face such a crushing defeat in these negotiations.

It had nothing to do with power.

Yufi moved like a lioness, her gaze fixed solely on Christia with a gentle smile, ignoring Sileus entirely. She knew her true prey.

“We’re willing to partner with Sloke Trading Company,” Christia stated calmly, “but we reject monopolies.”

“Yet aren’t you monopolizing it right now, Miss Christia?” Yufi countered, smiling.

“You offer to share brewing recipes and techniques—but only under the name ‘Claire Beer.’ Isn’t that a monopoly?”

“You monopolize its very name to claim immense prestige.”

Christia paused. “We invented it first. The naming right is ours by right.”

“Of course it is,” Yufi agreed lightly. “Just as the Hero King named this land the Kingdom of Sain after himself. It declares ownership, doesn’t it?”

Before Christia could retort, she continued, “I’m not here to debate definitions. I see clearly: House Clarein seeks prestige, not coin. And I can deliver that prestige.”

She presented a proposal—Sloke Trading Company would spread Claire Beer’s brewing secrets across the kingdom, even to the empire. Though not the largest guild, they had the reach.

“Prestige and profit. Why refuse?” Yufi’s eyes held Christia’s.

Christia fell silent, unable to refute. She glanced at Sileus, but he offered no rescue. Her advisor’s stillness confirmed Yufi’s point: this was their best path.

“Is there anything else troubling you, Miss Christia? I’ll resolve it,” Yufi pressed, gentle yet utterly in control.

Christia felt the weight of true negotiation for the first time. Past dealings with petty merchants were child’s play compared to this royal contender. Doubt crept in—could she really broker peace between Dragonfolk and humans alone?

Finally, she gave a quiet nod of assent.

“A pleasure doing business.” Yufi extended her hand.

Christia took it. Her blank expression wasn’t calm—it was armor.

Once the contract was sealed, Yufi departed without delay. Her next stop was Count Gorde—the real prize.

Christia sensed she’d never truly mattered to the girl. Without revealing her Dragonfolk blood or power, she was just a minor noble with a clever product and an empty title.

House Clarein had served its purpose.

Blunt. Efficient. Like a lioness claiming her kill. Such was this queen candidate’s way.

“Your Highness,” Sileus murmured, helpless to soothe her.

Watching his master’s distress without remedy filled him with shame.

“It’s fine. Perhaps… this is enough.” Christia’s voice was soft, forcing steadiness.

She felt adrift. Was this right?

The deal *was* mutually beneficial—prestige and profit for House Clarein.

Yet something vital felt missing.

“Lan—” She started, then stopped.

Sileus smiled gently. “He’s on the balcony. Speak with him. He might ease your doubts.”

Christia remained still, silent.

“You may lean on him. He’s your husband,” Sileus urged, kind but firm.

“Never mind.” She turned on her heel and strode away.

Sileus sighed, shaking his head. “You know, those who can’t be honest… miss so much.”

He ambled upstairs to the balcony.

Sunlight bathed the autumn chill—the bite of winter in the air.

A season for rest, for storing grain.

Lanche lazed as usual, savoring the breeze and wild landscapes.

Every time Lekui saw him like this—a useless househusband—her brow furrowed. Yet she still swept his messes. Infuriating.

Sileus’s approach put Lanche on guard.

*Nothing good ever comes with him.*

The steward wore his most genial smile, refusing to be dismissed.

“Young Master Lanche.” He bowed, the picture of a proper steward—steady, dignified.

“What now?” Lanche eyed him warily.

“Merely an update.” Sileus recounted Yufi’s visit and proposal, ignoring Lanche’s reluctance.

“King’s election, huh? Perfect timing,” Lanche mused. The old king *was* long overdue to step down.

“Noted. Anything else?” His guard stayed up.

“Only that Miss Christia seems troubled. Uncertain,” Sileus added gently.

“Not my problem. I’m just the ‘househusband,’ remember?” Lanche spread his hands, all innocence.

“Just thought you should know.” Sileus kept smiling. “Truly.”

With that, he strolled away, hands clasped behind his back.

Lanche stared after him. *That old fox.*