Outside the stone fortress, the sky had sunk completely into deep blue. The thunderous crash of waves against the reefs boomed ever larger in the darkness of the night.
Old Pierre straightened his back. Though the shock of this slip of a girl personally bringing about the fall of the Kingdom of Orr still lingered in the depths of his eyes, he was, at the end of the day, the great merchant who controlled eighty percent of Avalon's salt industry.
He had no real grasp of what Mason truly represented. He knew only, in the broadest of terms, that Mason possessed the military might to defeat Orr — which meant it was powerful. Very powerful.
But his limited worldview led him to assume: however powerful it was, it was probably just a step or two above Orr.
And if the young ruler before him wanted Avalon — did that not mean the scope of his own future business dealings was about to expand considerably?
So, after absorbing the initial impact, Old Pierre recovered a measure of his composure and dignity. He offered Sophia a slight bow, his tone carrying precisely the right weight of deference and consideration.
"Your Majesty, this place is rather humble, all things considered. The Royal City of Avalon is not far — a carriage ride of less than an hour. While Avalon cannot compare to Your Majesty's empire, the sea view from the Royal City is at least something unique. I trust Your Majesty and your retinue will find it to your liking. Please allow me to lead the way."
With Sophia's permission, the carriages set off once more.
This time, Old Pierre did not scramble ahead on foot as he had before. Instead he mounted a local breed of horse — stocky-limbed and bred for the coast — and rode with steady composure just ahead and to the side of the carriage.
Sophia reclined against the soft cushions and lifted one corner of the curtain.
Moonlight spilled across the rutted dirt road. For want of any proper upkeep, crushed stone and dried seaweed were tangled together, giving the carriage a noticeable jolt with every turn of the wheels.
A territory with a travel radius of under an hour — in theory, the administrative efficiency here could be extraordinarily high. The infrastructure was lamentably backward, yet the depth and current of these waters were remarkably ideal. If a deep-water port were established here, Mason's maritime routes would extend directly southward by several thousand nautical miles.
Even if nothing else could be built here in the short term, the seafood and salt alone were more than enough to sustain a vast number of Mason's needs.
The old Kingdom of Orr's blockade had truly been a double-edged sword. It had left Avalon impoverished and sealed from the world — but it had also preserved the most pristine resources of this stretch of sea in near-perfect condition.
Compared to military conquest, the gap in Avalon's people's basic livelihood was simply too vast. Trade and technology were genuinely the more fitting tools here — the means by which to exchange goods for loyalty.
And the cost would not be particularly high. The Kingdom of Avalon had such a small population in total that after the autumn harvest, Sophia could feed them all without any real strain.
Sophia withdrew her gaze and lightly tapped her knee with one fingertip.
She felt no contempt for this place's poverty. She was simply viewing it through a ruler's eyes — calculating the conversion rate of every inch of land.
When the silhouette of the Royal City, perched upon its clifftop, finally appeared in the distance, Irene and Daphne both let out involuntary sounds of wonder.
Avalon's Royal City bore none of Mason's orderly bluestone walls.
The fortifications here were built from enormous pale-gray whale vertebrae and heavy sea-stones stacked in alternating layers, projecting in the moonlight a gaunt, fierce beauty — raw and magnificent.
The city gates stood casually open. Guards in lightweight shell armor recorded comings and goings with a simple wave of the hand — none of Mason's suffocating hierarchical pressure. The people's faces, more often than not, wore something close to a smile.
As the carriages rolled through the gates, that quality unique to the people of Avalon — a wild, unruly vitality — swept over everything like a breaking wave.
Perhaps a better way to describe it: an untamed exuberance for life.
The streets were scattered with residents sitting freely on the ground. Many had simply spread their fish, dried shrimp, and dried scallops out to cure right there on the open street — and if someone happened to ask the price, they would sell. Men and women alike wore short, practical clothing suited for going out to sea, or simple leather skirts. Years of sea wind had left their skin a healthy, warm bronze.
Faced with the ornate, foreign-marked carriages, the people of Avalon showed none of the excessive fear or prostration Sophia had grown accustomed to. They simply set down what they were doing and gathered in clusters at the doorways of their stone houses, watching with an unguarded, utterly unashamed curiosity.
They were fascinated by the carriages. And that was all — just fascinated.
As for Old Pierre, in a kingdom this small, who didn't know his face?
This atmosphere — wholly untamed by the conventions of formal etiquette — left the retainers, accustomed to the strict protocols of the mainland, feeling something genuinely novel.
"Your Majesty, Avalon is an insular place with no dedicated guesthouse for foreign visitors. This is a private property of mine — the quietest spot in the city, and the one with the finest view."
Old Pierre dismounted at the gate of a small compound, his movements carrying the slight stiffness of age, yet never losing the bearing of a man who commanded his world. He did not bow his head in terrified submission to Sophia's identity. Instead, with the easy manner of a considerate host, he pushed open the courtyard gate — carved from driftwood bleached silver by the sea.
In the Kingdom of Avalon, timber was a scarce commodity. The fact that Old Pierre could afford a driftwood gate said everything there was to say about just how wealthy he truly was here.
The courtyard floor was laid with fine white sand. A single push of the window would open onto an unobstructed view of the sea. The furnishings were spare, but possessed a quiet, unhurried elegance.
"This old servant will proceed directly to the Palace to seek an audience with His Majesty the King and announce the arrival of distinguished guests."
Old Pierre gave Sophia a nod of acknowledgment.
"The local seafood is already being prepared. Please, all of you, wash off the dust of the road first and rest well."
The moment Old Pierre was gone, Irene could not contain herself a single second longer. She leaped into the fine sand of the courtyard, her pink twin-tails bouncing with every jump.
"Your Majesty, the people here are so incredibly spirited! Nothing at all like any world I came from!"
Irene pointed at an Avalonian who had strolled past the outer wall.
"The strength on that person just now — I felt like they could tear apart a machine with their bare hands! And the way they looked at us — no fear at all. More like we were some kind of rare exotic animal!"
Daphne sidled over as well, a slight flush on her cheeks, murmuring quietly:
"I know... even the women dress so... freely here. It's been a very long time since I've seen that."
She paused.
"But watching them run along the beach like that — there's something in it. That feeling of a life that has never been constrained by decorum. It's very... alive."
Delilah stood with her sword cradled in her arms, eyes sweeping the surroundings with sharp, hawk-like vigilance.
She, too, found the wildness here novel — but professional instinct kept her focused on defense.
"Your Majesty, the terrain here is highly defensible and difficult to assault. Control the high ground on those sea cliffs and the entire Royal City falls within our coverage."
She said it, glanced at Sophia's expression, and then quickly dropped her gaze.
Hailey, meanwhile, had settled onto a stone stool and was squinting into the sea wind with quiet bliss.
The others, none of whom had seen the sea or a real beach before, still managed to hold themselves together with some semblance of dignity.
Hailey was different. She was six years old. There was simply no suppressing that much joy.
She had started out gamely scratching at her paper with her pen, trying to record something useful and preserve her dignity as the group's junior historian. But very quickly, she was rolling in the fine white sand of the rear courtyard, giggling with a bright, clear delight that echoed off the stone walls.
Sophia stood on the second-floor terrace, slender fingers trailing lightly over the rough driftwood railing — its edges worn smooth by years of sea wind.
The air here was damp and faintly thick, every breath carrying the taste of salt.
She watched the moonlight shatter across the waves into thousands of shifting silver foils, and the image that rose in her mind was an entirely different one.
This briny, oceanic scent — properly processed — could be converted into premium seasoning and preservative. Looking at this natural sheltered harbor, Sophia could already picture steamships sounding their horns and departing from this very dock.
Old Pierre was a shrewd merchant. But his geographic isolation had capped his imagination. What he called "a great business opportunity" was, in Sophia's eyes, merely one more cornerstone in the Empire's mosaic.
Still — this feeling of being far from documents, kissed by sea wind — it genuinely eased the constant tension she carried in the back of her mind.
Perhaps an occasional mystery-box journey really was a necessary form of psychological upkeep for a ruler.
Inside the room, Willow was directing two of the merchant women through a brisk rearrangement of the space.
Even in these humble coastal quarters, Willow would permit absolutely no decline in the quality of Her Majesty's living conditions.
She drew from the traveling cases a length of cool-touch silk — newly developed by Mason's textile workshops, carrying a faint fragrance of pine — and spread it across the sleeping platform. In the corner, she lit a small burner of calming incense brought from the mainland.
"Your Majesty, the smell of the sea is quite heavy here. I've added some pine-wood fragrance to counterbalance it."
Willow stepped to Sophia's side and spoke in a quiet murmur, draping a light shawl over Sophia's shoulders as she did.
"Avalon's dried fruit is humble, but I tasted a little just now — the sugar content is extremely high. I intend to brew you a pot of sea-salt green tea with some of the green tea we brought, to cut through the richness."
Sophia turned her head and looked at Willow's movements — precise as art in every small motion — and offered a faint smile.
"Do as you see fit, Willow. In a place as wild as this, your refinement actually carries a certain... pressure to it."
Out in the rear courtyard's white sand, the mood was something else entirely.
Hailey had completely abandoned any pretense of junior-historian decorum. Her pen — which never left her hand under normal circumstances — lay tossed carelessly on a stone stool, and she was rolling through the fine sand like a small crab, her laughter bright and unrestrained.
"Irene-jiejie! Come look!"
Hailey called out, voice bubbling with glee.
"The sand here is soft — it's like cotton!"
Irene crouched beside Hailey, a fistful of sand held up to the light for examination. Her pink twin-tails quivered with their owner's excitement.
"Hailey, don't go running too close to the edge — careful you don't fall in the water! Though honestly, this sand quality really is excellent. And this sea wind... the efficiency for wind power generation out here would be so much higher than inland!"
Daphne was picking her way carefully along the edge where the waves washed over the rock, holding her skirts in both hands.
Delilah had her feet planted on the sand. The soft, yielding surface gave her the faintest flicker of unease — but she knew, rationally, it was safe.
So this is the ocean.
If the people of Avalon could look at beauty like this every single day, no wonder their nature had grown so free and wild.
In the neighboring small courtyard, the eighteen black musketeer soldiers were living through the most awe-inspiring moment of their lives.
These hard-bitten men, who did not blink on the battlefield, were sitting in a row along the top of the compound wall, staring out at the boundless ocean in collective, open-mouthed silence.
For the vast majority of them, the largest body of water they had ever laid eyes on in their entire lives was the moat outside the City of Hill.
"So this is the sea? There's just... so much water. Can you even drink it all?"
One soldier asked in genuine, earnest puzzlement, feeding his horse a mixture of fodder laced with a small amount of sea salt.
"Idiot. It's saltwater. Even the horses won't drink it."
The Captain cuffed him on the helmet — but his own gaze never left the rolling breakers either.
"But... Her Majesty was right. A place like this — if we don't take it, it would be Mason's loss."
He stared at the sea and let out a quiet breath.
"Looking at this water, I suddenly feel like the land we used to guard was honestly a bit... small."
In another corner of the courtyard, the two experienced merchant women were working by the soldiers' campfire, sorting through the remaining smoked provisions with practiced ease. They listened to the soldiers' wondering remarks and exchanged a quiet, amused smile.
For them, an errand like this — one that "broadened the horizon" — was worth a hundred times more than peddling coarse salt on the border.
When Hailey finally tired herself out, she dragged herself back onto the stone stool, picked up her pen, and wrote on the paper that had already collected a dusting of sand:
Everyone has gone a little mad for this blue miracle.
Irene-jiejie is thinking about energy. Daphne-jiejie is thinking about the divine. The soldiers are thinking about conquest.
But Her Majesty simply stands there, quietly.
I understand now. Her Majesty has no need to throw her arms around the waves — because the moment she set foot upon this land, this ocean had already begun to bow its head to her.
That unshakeable ease, that stillness like a mountain — it is the confidence of someone who has already counted Avalon as her own.
Watching Her Majesty drink tea in the sea wind, I know: what the King of Avalon is about to face is not some ordinary merchant. He is about to face a True God — one so absolute that, in her presence, he may forget entirely the weight of his own crown.
The night in Avalon's Royal City was far milder than anything the Northern Border had to offer. The sea wind was strong, but it carried none of that knife-edged ice — only a damp, salt-kissed softness.
Moonlight poured down like a bolt of flowing silver silk, laying itself gently over the white sand beach, and illuminating the endless sea beyond into an enormous, breathing expanse of blue satin, shimmering with a million tiny waves.
The sound of waves striking the reefs rang through the deep night with a clarity that was almost musical. Salt air filled the space between breaths, and woven through it, now and then, came the faint thread of pine incense Willow had lit in the courtyard.
Sophia stood on the second-floor terrace of what the locals called "Sea's Edge House," watching as Daphne and Hailey, worn out from playing in the rear courtyard's sand, finally dragged themselves inside to sleep.
In the still and silver-lit quiet, she did not go inside immediately. She turned her gaze outward — past the courtyard fence — toward the wider stretch of beach beyond.
There, a figure in vivid scarlet stood out with striking clarity.
Delilah.
She was not wearing her usual rhinoceros-hide armor. She had changed into a simple, close-fitting black training suit. With no one around to observe, her high ponytail swept wild arcs through the air with every movement — a torch of burning flame.
The longsword in her hands, which seemed formidable even by the Northern Border's fierce standards, traced something unexpectedly light in the moonlight — a strange, airy grace.
Swish — swish — swish —
The crisp, clean sound of a blade parting the damp air.
Delilah's swordsmanship held none of Willow's elegance in dissection, nor Irene's precise calculation in the laboratory. Her style could be distilled into a single word:
Kill.
In the wash of moonlight, she transformed into a streak of blood-red. Every swing carried the ferocity of something capable of splitting a mountain or breaking a wave — clean and absolute, without a trace of hesitation or wasted motion.
She moved as if locked in a death duel with an invisible and supremely powerful enemy, her footwork weaving through the fine sand with fluid, explosive precision.
Wherever the sword's pressure reached, the burning-hot sand was blasted upward by that invisible, penetrating force — and in the silver moonlight, those countless scattered grains glittered like dancing shards of broken diamond, beautiful, and lethal.
That collision of extreme power and extreme speed, played out across this gentle beach, produced a kind of breathtaking, primal beauty.
Sophia watched Delilah's swordsmanship — near-savage in its fury, yet kept under absolute control — and let the corner of her mouth curve upward slightly.
She eased the wooden door open with quiet, deliberate care. Carrying the cool-touch silk sleep gown Willow had laid out for her, she walked barefoot out of the room and stepped onto the fine sand that the sea wind had already cooled, following the patterns left by the tide's retreat.
The sleep gown was thin as ice-mist. In the moonlight, Sophia's figure moved through it with a weightlessness that made her seem like a snow sprite who had wandered by accident into the mortal world — one who had no need to breathe fragrance, who was herself all fragrance.
Though Sophia had done her utmost to suppress her presence, the instincts of a top-tier warrior were Delilah's to command. The moment that signature cool, clean scent drifted to her on the air, she caught it.
Delilah jerked to a halt. The heavy longsword drew a near-invisible arc in the moonlight with extraordinary precision, and in that same instant, went perfectly still.
Those blazing crimson eyes recognized who it was — and in one heartbeat, shed every last trace of killing intent, dissolving instead into a flustered, helpless tenderness.
"Your Majesty!"
Delilah did not even take the time to sheathe her sword. She thrust it point-first into the sand and covered the distance to Sophia in long, quick strides.
Her face still carried the flush of training; a few sweat-damp strands of hair clung to her forehead, and that lopsided ponytail trembled like it was sending out a frantic distress signal.
"What brings you out here at this hour? Willow said the sea air here is heavy with moisture — you're dressed far too lightly."
Before the last word had left her mouth, she had already dropped to one knee in the sand, performing a formal and deeply reverential bow — the kind that belonged to an older era.
Even here, in this gentle moonlight, the submission and devotion that radiated from Delilah's very bones when she faced Sophia was more powerful than any wave.
Sophia looked at the General who had never retreated a single step on any battlefield — now looking faintly awkward and solicitous over nothing more than concern for her health — and felt something stir quietly inside her, like a small, smooth ripple across still water.
"It's fine. The night here is beautiful. You can't hear tides this pure from inside any palace."
Sophia made a light gesture for Delilah to rise.
She lowered herself slowly to the sand, letting those slender legs — pale as white porcelain — sink into the cool, fine grains. She tilted her head back. Those pale golden pupils reflected Avalon's brilliant, unfamiliar star map — a sky she had never seen before.
Delilah stared at Sophia's back, standing still. The sea wind moved through the thin sleep gown, sketching the line of a slender silhouette.
She came back to herself with a jolt, remembered Willow's earlier reminder, and quickly reached for the cloak draped over a nearby rock.
"Your Majesty, the night wind is cold no matter what. If it wouldn't trouble you, please allow me to—"
The words died on her tongue.
She had looked up — and met Sophia's gaze.
There was no irritation in those eyes at being interrupted. Only a quiet, permitting warmth.
Delilah's breath caught. Her palms grew faintly damp. She stepped forward quickly, crouched on the sand, and with careful, deliberate hands wrapped the broad cloak — still holding her own warmth — firmly around Sophia's slender shoulders.
"Sit," Sophia said, patting the sand beside her. "Keep This Queen company while she watches the sea for a while."
"...Yes."
Delilah settled beside Sophia as though she had been handed the most precious treasure in the world.
She sat with her spine perfectly straight, both hands placed properly on her knees — a silent, motionless guardian of stone.
With that cool, faint fragrance radiating from beside her, and the sound of wave after wave meeting the shore, Delilah's heartbeat was running absurdly fast.
She did not dare turn her head to look at Sophia. She was terrified of shattering this moment — as delicate and breakable as spun glass.
But then Sophia's voice broke the silence — as calm as if she were discussing a routine document.
"Since we arrived in Avalon, why have you been unhappy?"
Delilah's entire body locked up.
The lopsided ponytail gave a violent shudder. She kept her head down, her voice betraying a barely-concealed panic.
"Your Majesty, I — I wasn't — I was rude. I shouldn't have let a poor expression trouble Your Majesty. I am at fault."
"This Queen has no interest in that kind of empty self-accusation," Sophia said.
She drew her gaze from the stars and fixed it on Delilah — that cool, penetrating look that never needed volume to carry weight.
In the moonlight, it made those golden pupils look bottomless.
"If that's all the answer you have, I won't ask again. You'll be a competent sword, nothing more."
The words were several degrees colder than the sea wind. They hit Delilah's chest like a fist, and that terror of being cast aside shattered her defenses in an instant.
"No! Your Majesty!"
Delilah turned sharply, those crimson eyes shining with a confusion and desolation she had never shown before.
"I — I only feel as though I am becoming useless."
She drew a long breath of salt air, and her voice dropped low.
"When we were bringing Orr to heel, I could still charge at the front lines for you — I could cut down the enemy's battle standards with my own hands."
"But on this journey, I've watched how you took Avalon..."
"A few prawn fritters. A little fat. A handful of truths about Vitamin C — and the people who hold power here bow their heads."
Delilah laughed at herself, fingers curling unconsciously into the sand.
"Irene can create machines and light that have never existed before. Daphne can win hearts and heal wounds. Willow makes everything look like a miracle simply by touching it."
"Even Hailey — she's six years old and she records your epics."
"But me?"
"All I have is this — a kind of brute strength that seems to serve no purpose in times of peace."
"I'm afraid... afraid that one day, on this land that is gradually coming to Order, there will no longer be a place for me at Your Majesty's side."
So that was it.
Watching Delilah charge headlong through battlefields, Sophia had often assumed there was room in that head for nothing beyond killing enemies and protecting her sovereign.
She had not expected that this iron-blooded General — the one who could tear a city gate off its hinges with her bare hands — had a heart more sensitive than Irene's.
Who said strength was useless? In this world, without an absolute force like Delilah as the final card in the hand, all my seemingly gentle methods would be nothing but meat drawing hungry wolves. Without that bottom line, everything unravels.
But looking at her now — like a big, anxious Golden Retriever terrified of being abandoned, with that ponytail nearly drooping into the sand — she's unexpectedly... rather endearing.
Sophia did not answer immediately. She reached out and let her fingertips trail idly over the rough weave of the cloak.
The warmth still held in the fabric traveled through her fingertips.
"Delilah — consider this: if you were not standing behind me, there are many moments when I would not dare to move with nearly so much ease or boldness."
Sophia spoke quietly. Her tone carried a rational, steady certainty that admitted no argument.
She drew her gaze back from the distant stars and let it settle on Delilah's eyes — those crimson eyes, filled now with unease and a desperate, aching hope.
In the moonlight, this woman who was ordinarily cold as frost looked, in this moment, as fragile as rice paper — the kind that tears at a touch.
Sophia drew a deep breath of air — salt and pine incense mingled together — and when she spoke, her tone was gentle and unambiguous, every word landing with the weight of something meant to reach a soul.
"Delilah. Raise your head. Look at This Queen."
Delilah shuddered, and slowly lifted her head. The ponytail fell limp over her shoulder.
"First — your read of the situation is far too optimistic."
"We haven't even fully unified the Northern Border yet, let alone beyond it. The old noble factions hiding in the shadows, the foreign Empires whose depths we still haven't sounded — which of them does not require absolute military force to intimidate and subdue?"
Sophia's voice rang clear in the still night air. She was not merely offering comfort — she was laying out a cold, unalterable truth.
"Even if I can pry open Avalon's gates today with Vitamin C and lard — that is only possible because, in the ashes of Orr's collapse, the heat of Delilah's blade still lingers."
"Without the iron foundation you built for me, Irene's machines would only be stolen. Willow's refinement would only be trampled. Daphne's Holy Light would only be imprisoned."
"In a world where only the strong survive, force is always the bedrock of Order."
Delilah sat transfixed, listening. Something in those eyes, which had gone dark before, began quietly to rekindle.
Sophia reached out and placed her hand, gently, over the rigid tension in Delilah's shoulder — her palm resting through the thick cloak. In that instant, the warmth of the Queen of the Land entirely dissolved the cold of the deep sea.
"Even if we take it to its most extreme conclusion — even if the day truly comes when the world is unified, when ten thousand nations are gathered into Mason's fold. When you no longer need to raise your sword to conquer the wilderness. When things have advanced, as Irene describes it, to some lofty state of peace so complete you can govern everything lying in bed—"
"Even then — that would be a good thing. It would mean This Queen's General can finally set down her burden and enjoy the peace she has always deserved."
As Sophia said it, a very faint arc appeared at the corner of her mouth. It was extremely subtle — but it carried a warmth that had no use for boundaries between sovereign and retainer.
"Never believe that without war to fight, you will be cast aside."
"Delilah — to This Queen, you have long since been more than a subordinate who charges into battle, or 'a competent sword' and nothing more."
"You are the back This Queen can see with clear eyes in this strange world. The harbor This Queen can close her eyes and lean on when most exhausted."
"You are a companion. A kindred spirit."
Sophia's voice was quiet, and absolute.
"No matter what shape Mason grows into — you are the one This Queen will never let go of. You are family."
Family.
Companion.
Will never let go.
Those words detonated inside Delilah's mind like the decree of a god.
...Gods above.
Your Majesty — do you know what you just said?
Family. I am Your Majesty's family?
So in your heart, I am not merely a tool that exists to kill.
You don't only need my sword. You need... me. This person.
To be affirmed like this — to be accepted from the very depths of one's soul —
My chest hurts. It feels like it's splitting open. And yet it's so warm.
If this is a dream, please let me dissolve into the tide at this moment and never wake.
Delilah fixed her gaze on Sophia, her breathing completely broken from its rhythm. Inside the furious trembling of that lopsided ponytail, she seemed to hear the sound of her own heart — thundering like a war drum, scalding hot, and yet filled with something that felt like rebirth.
In this atmosphere — suffocating with overwhelming feeling, self-doubt, and absolute loyalty all pressed together — what remained of Delilah's reason was rapidly crumbling under the roar of the waves.
Her heart hammered like a riotous drumbeat, each strike slamming against her ribs. A scorching heat surged from her chest straight to the top of her skull.
Looking at Sophia, close enough to touch in the moonlight — the silk sleep gown barely glimpsed beneath the cloak, those feet of white porcelain sunk in the sand, that silver hair drifting on the wind — Delilah felt a wave of dizziness sweep over her.
A thought, treasonous and sweet as the most potent poison, rose from somewhere unreachable in her soul and refused to be stopped.
I want to — I want so badly to kiss Your Majesty.
Not the kind of reverent kiss placed on a hand or the hem of a robe.
Delilah's crimson eyes were locked on Sophia's lips — pale in the moonlight, impossibly beautiful.
She wanted to take them. Wanted to kiss them hard. Wanted to confirm, once and for all, that this "deity" also breathed and held warmth like a mortal — and more than that, belonged to her, Delilah, as family.
Once the thought existed, it spread like wildfire with no hope of containment.
I am guilty.
How can I think something like this — something so indecent, so wrong — about Her Majesty?
She is the Queen above all queens. She is my salvation. I should be the purest sword in her hands.
But she just called me family. Called me a kindred spirit. Said she would never let go.
My heart is beating so fast it's about to leap out of my throat.
In the moonlight, Her Majesty is so beautiful it is making me lose my mind — making me want to commit every sacrilege, consequences be damned.
Just once. Just one—
No. I can't. I don't dare.
If Her Majesty were to despise me. If these feelings were to cost me the right to stand by her side — I would rather die here on this beach right now.
But I want it so badly.
Her lips... they look so soft...
Delilah's body shook violently under the dual torment of absolute restraint and absolute desire.
That lopsided high ponytail was now trembling at a visible, rapid frequency — like a broken signal receiver.
She drove both hands into the sand, fingers digging until her nails were packed with grains she didn't feel. Every muscle in her body was strung to the absolute limit — a bow drawn to the edge of snapping, unable to release.
A flash of wicked amusement moved through Sophia's pale golden eyes.
She knew Delilah better than Delilah knew herself.
From the General's ragged breathing, the runaway rhythm of her heartbeat, and those eyes that were locked onto her lips with an intensity hot enough to start a fire — Sophia had already read everything.
This iron-blooded General had, in the end, gotten completely and utterly lost in the tender trap Sophia had laid — the one called family.
Watching Delilah on the verge of spontaneous combustion, held together by nothing but sheer desperate self-control, looking for all the world like a wronged puppy on the edge of tears — Sophia felt a thoroughly wicked delight stir in her chest.
She tilted her head slightly to one side, letting silver hair slide down over her shoulder and expose the elegant line of her neck.
In a voice that was cool by nature, yet laced with a deliberate, honeyed intimacy, she asked — and there was no mistaking the mischief in it:
"Delilah — your eyes are telling me you seem to be waiting for something."
"Since we are family — what is it that you want, right now?"
That line — saturated with implication and permission — was the last thread holding Delilah's reason together. It snapped.
"I — this minister — I want—"
Delilah's voice broke apart like a shell worn smooth by the tide.
She was gasping for breath, the cool, clean fragrance still lingering in the cloak's fabric driving her possessive instincts into a frenzy.
"This minister wants — this minister wants to—"
Delilah could bear it no longer. She squeezed her crimson eyes shut, summoning every last reserve of reckless courage, ready to shout the treasonous words — I want to kiss you — and face whatever divine judgment came after.
And then, in the very moment she had her eyes clenched shut and was bracing herself for the earth to crack open beneath her — she heard the soft whisper of silk shifting against skin.
The next second, Delilah felt a warm, weightless body press itself against her.
"Mm—!"
Delilah's eyes flew open. Her pupils contracted to pinpoints.
Sophia's face — beautiful as a carved idol — was inches from hers. One of Sophia's legs had pressed itself between Delilah's slightly parted knees with a naturalness and authority that brooked no question. Through the thin layers of the sleep gown and training suit, Delilah felt, with absolute, devastating clarity, the shape and the startling warmth of Her Majesty's thigh.
Then a cool hand rose and settled, with the gentlest possible touch, against Delilah's burning cheek. Sophia lowered her head and leaned in.
Those lips — carrying the faint, light fragrance of wild berries — pressed, with precise and measured weight, against Delilah's lips, which were trembling almost imperceptibly from the sheer tension.
Time stopped entirely.
Delilah's mind went white. All her force, all her logic, all her fear — all of it ceased to exist in that moment.
All she could feel was the coolness and the softness of Her Majesty's lips. A sensation more sacred than any Holy Light baptism, and more intoxicating than anything that dwelled in the deepest abyss.
To be sought by Her Majesty — to have her reach out and take—
Her heart was no longer simply beating. It was rioting.
Every muscle in Delilah's body locked rigid in an instant — and then went completely, utterly soft. She forgot entirely how to breathe. She let that cool, clean fragrance fill every sense she possessed.
But just as Delilah's instincts surged — the impulse to reach out, to pull closer, to go deeper — Sophia drew back.
A slight withdrawal. Her lips left Delilah's. That single, fleeting contact — and yet it had branded itself into Delilah's soul as something permanent and irrevocable.
Delilah had not yet surfaced from that storm of feeling when she forced her eyes open. Her gaze was dazed, helpless, and soaked with a raw, desperate longing that made no attempt to hide itself.
Like a child who had just tasted something sweet and had it instantly taken away, she looked at Sophia with eyes that had gone faintly pink at the rims.
And in the light of the moon and the oil lamp, she saw it — there, in those eyes that still appeared as cool as ever — something she had never seen before. A glint of triumphant, plotting amusement. The look of someone whose scheme has worked out exactly as planned.
Sophia gently stroked Delilah's cheek — which had gone rigid in an instant — her fingertips grazing over those slightly flushed lips. Her tone was still cool, but something warmer now moved beneath the surface.
"This Queen said it: when it comes to family, This Queen never lets go."
"Is this answer sufficient?"
A long, quiet pause.
"My... God of War."
Delilah stared at Sophia, dazed. She felt the warmth of Her Majesty still pressed between her knees, heard her own heartbeat crashing like thunder, and in the final violent tremor of that lopsided ponytail — she understood at last, with perfect and absolute clarity.
For the rest of her life, she was Her Majesty's person.
And even in death, she would guard everything that belonged to Her Majesty.
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