For a long beat, the quiet in Gavin Ward's study felt like a stretched bowstring.
Saint Tianluan had been bold—too bold. The air still tasted of her perfume, the lamp still glowed warmly on the polished desk, and both of them were trying to breathe like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
Gavin looked down at his hands, then at the calm, fearless face in front of him. The legendary Saint was flushed, eyes soft, and far too close. He told himself to stay composed.
But reason only controls so much.
He reached out, pulled her in, and everything between them crashed together in a bright, dizzy rush—then cleanly, respectfully, faded to black.
Nothing explicit. Just heat, a tight embrace, and the sense of two lonely meteors finally crossing paths after centuries in separate skies.
When they stepped away, the world returned in careful pieces: the steady tick of the clock, the smell of ink and leather, the rustle of a uniform sleeve. Saint Tianluan's breathing slowed. She looked up, cheeks still pink, and let a shy smile touch her lips.
"From now on," she whispered, "we are lovers."
Gavin pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose, almost laughing at himself. He had lost control for a moment and made a reckless choice. A king should be colder than this, harder than this. Yet when he weighed the reality, the absurdity vanished: to have a Star Saint by his side—someone who had sworn to protect this kingdom as fiercely as he did—was not the worst mistake in history. Not even close.
There was a knock at the door.
"Boom, boom, boom."
Gavin snapped back to the present, automatically checking his uniform. Jacket straight. Cap angled. Tie… crooked.
He reached up to fix it, but Tianluan's slender hands caught his, and she stepped close with a soft, satisfied look. "Let me."
Her fingers made quick, delicate work—until they didn't. After an enthusiastic half-minute, the tie looked like a knotted rope. Tianluan stared at her handiwork in horror.
"…Let me," Gavin said, trying not to smile.
He turned the tie smooth beneath the stiff collar. Tianluan's eyes tracked each motion carefully, little runes flickering and turning like gears in her irises, memorizing the steps. She nodded proudly. "All right. I've learned it. Next timewon't make"
Gavin coughed. "Someone's at the door."
At once, Saint Tianluan slid her golden, faceless mask back over her features, sealing away the disarming beauty and folding herself back into her "Star Saint" public posture. In the room, only Gavin now knew how bright she could burn in private.
"Come in," he said.
The door opened and Angelina stepped through, carrying a wide, box-like device in both arms. Her soft blonde hair had been tied into two light ponytails; a black, wide-brimmed military cap—one of Gavin's early gifts—sat a little too big on her small head. She paused a second on the threshold, nose twitching.
"…What a strange smell," she murmured, eyes narrowing suspiciously. Her gaze flicked from Gavin—who was suddenly very focused on a stack of documents—to the masked Saint, who stood perfectly still, serene as moonlight.
Angelina blinked the thought away and marched forward, placing the device on a side table. "Ya'er went too far. She borrowed this propulsion unit from the lab and used it without permission."
"It's all right," Gavin said, tone even. "I planned for it. You saw the parachute yourself."
Angelina straightened unconsciously, remembering the wild drop, the sudden tug, the white canopy blooming like a giant flower. "Yes, Your Majesty," she said, cheeks flushed with the thrill of the memory.
"Leave thisto me~~" Saint Tianluan said, slipping back into her strange, sing-song cadence in front of others. Around outsiders, she never spoke plainly; it was safer that way for everyone.
Angelina looked to Gavin, uncertain. He gave a short nod. "Let her take it."
Angelina lifted the box again and passed it carefully to the Saint. The instant Tianluan's fingers touched the casing, her posture sharpened. She hummed through her mask, listening with her hands the way a master listens to a harp.
"I canby ten," she said, matter-of-fact, then added in that halting rhythm: "The Central Magic Empire alsosystems. And Iand refinedifficult."
Gavin suppressed a sigh. The pauses were charming and maddening. He could practically feel his brain slowing to match her cadence.
"Angelina," he said gently, "please return to the lab and inform them the Saint will supervise the redesign. I need to discuss a few more matters here."
Angelina bowed her head. "Understood."
She turned to go, then hesitated, looking back at the pair. Something felt off. A tingling suspicion. She glanced at Gavin a second too long, then at the Saint, who stood with demure stillness… yet something in the set of her shoulders felt too relaxed, too satisfied.
Angelina shook the thought away. Of course the Saint wouldn't… with Gavin… The idea felt ridiculous and made her face heat. She hurried out before her imagination could betray her further.
In the corridor, she hugged the cap to her chest for a moment and whispered to herself, "I must… I must find a chance to tell Gavin how I feel." The words frightened and thrilled her all at once. A breath, then she marched away.
Back in the study, Tianluan set the device down and immediately leaned into Gavin's side, a soft, boneless cat of a woman, all warmth and shameless honesty now that they were alone.
"That girl's feelings for you," she said lightly, mask turned toward the door, "don't pretend you don't see them."
Gavin went very still. "What?"
"You truly don't understand?" Tianluan's surprise sounded almost genuine.
"Understand what?"
She laughed softly. "Angelina likes you."
The meaning hit him like a falling brick. A dozen small memories snapped into place: the blushes, the quiet looks, the way she hugged that over-large cap as if it were a promise. "Ah," he said at last. "That explains… a lot."
He had thought it was just sensitivity—she always reddened if he happened to brush her hand as he handed over a report or corrected a map. He had blamed the temperature of the room, or nerves, or anything but the obvious. He was, in many ways, brilliant about machines—and embarrassingly slow about hearts.
Tianluan's laugh turned teasing. "It's fine. If you wish, I can help you accept that little girl too," she said, all silk and mischief. "You are a king. A king with three wives and four concubines is nothing unusual."
Gavin stared at her. "You are unbelievable."
She tilted her head. "Honest."
Her list came too easily, and Gavin felt a headache forming.
Lina—the sharp-tongued little loli who had bullied fate and circumstance into listening to her.
Angelina—barely grown, brave and bright, with eyes that never stopped shining.
Carolyn—the iron-blooded general, a storm in human shape, all steel and fire.
And now Tianluan—an immortal saint who kissed first and asked questions after.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Is this the life of a king in another world?" he muttered. "Corruption. Too corrupt!"
He tried to sound outraged. He failed and smiled instead.
Tianluan bumped her shoulder into his. "You're not complaining too hard."
He coughed. "I'm complaining responsibly."
She nodded solemnly, which only made it funnier.
Then her tone shifted—lighter, but serious beneath. "About the device," she said, tapping the box. "Its thrust vectoring wastes force on stability you can solve mechanically. The mana coupling bleeds power through poor runes. I'll replace half the array with precision hardware from your workshops and weave a minimal rune bridge only for start-up and surge protection. It will fly farther, safer, faster."
Gavin's face lit with his favorite expression—the look he wore when someone spoke the language of engineering and results. "Good. And the parachute?"
"Keep it. Until failure rates drop below one percent in live trials."
Important decision, he noted automatically, writing it down.
She hesitated, then added, "And… give Angelina access to the training harness. She should learn properly."
Gavin looked up. "You're certain?"
"She has courage," Tianluan said simply. "Courage should be trained, not punished."
He nodded again, pleased. This was what he wanted in the people close to him: not only power, but judgment.
A small silence fell. It wasn't uncomfortable. Even with the mask back on, Gavin could feel how relaxed Tianluan had become—how her voice softened when there were no eyes to perform for.
"I still meant what I said," she murmured. "About your kingdom. About the Twelve. About the Tongsley Empire stirring. And about the black tower in the north that drinks the sky."
"I've already sent a reconnaissance order," Gavin said. "Engineers first, then scouts outfitted with non-magical instruments. No magic near the perimeter until we know what we're dealing with."
"Good," she said, approving.
He glanced at the clock. "I need to meet the War Council in twenty minutes." A pause. "And I need to not smell suspicious."
She made a strangled laugh behind the mask. "I was careful."
"You were not."
"Fine," she admitted, embarrassed—and, somehow, delighted.
They moved briskly through the final details. Tianluan would take the propulsion unit to the lab under guard, oversee a hardware-first redesign, and return with a prototype in three days. Gavin would maintain Level Two martial law in the capital, keep MG42s and 14.5s posted at standard intervals, and rotate tank crews to warm-idle positions.
When the last note was written, he closed the folder. "One more thing," he said. "Do not tease Angelina."
Tianluan placed a hand over her heart. "Oath Chain," she said simply. "I won't."
He trusted that. The golden lock around her vow hummed faintly, like a star remembered.
She picked up the box. At the door she paused, then, unseen beneath the mask, smiled with shameless softness. "Corruption, you said? For a king, perhaps. For a woman who waited eight hundred years, I call it finally catching up."
He shook his head, helpless and amused. "Go work."
She slipped out, shadow long and graceful on the polished floor.
Gavin sat back, staring at the ceiling until the last of his composure returned. Then he stood, straightened his jacket, and checked the tie—perfect, this time.
He opened the window a crack. A clean breeze moved the curtains, carrying the smell of the river, the dust of scaffolds, the faint oil-and-metal breath of a city building its future. Somewhere far below, a crane squealed, a whistle blew, and boots rang on stone in steady, practiced rhythm.
He felt, all at once, the weight and the warmth of it: a kingdom being born not only out of war, but out of work—from rail lines and schools and labs that made children safer, not just bunkers that made enemies nervous.
"Too corrupt," he murmured again, smiling despite himself. "And not nearly enough time."
He picked up the next folder—naval expansion plans—and headed for the War Council.
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