The conversation with the Duke had gone surprisingly well. Once he realized that "Milabuella" wasn't just playing dress-up but was actually building an economic empire that would make the Agro name legendary, he pivoted from a stern father to a shark-like business partner.
We spent the night huddled over blueprints and ledger projections, fueled by the finest dark roast and mutual ambition.
By dawn, he was convinced that his daughter was a genius—even if she was currently split between a comatose "tank" and a squeaky-voiced princess.
The next morning, the courtyard was a flurry of departures. Viking stood by the stables, his dark cloak buffeted by the wind.
I approached him, leading Raya, who was currently being used as a high-altitude cargo transport.
"Here," I said, handing him a reinforced crate. "The coffee supplies should last you a month, and I've tucked in those sandalwood scented candles you pretend not to like. Consider it a retainer fee for your services."
