When the first light of dawn over Avalon Bay illuminated not only the waves but the long line of carriages laden with cargo, Avalon City greeted a morning destined to be written into the annals of history.
Old Pierre had barely slept.
The old merchant sat perched at the front edge of a heavy cargo wagon drawn by four stout-legged coastal horses. His little granddaughter Nina clung to the side of the cart with both hands, her wide, bright eyes overflowing with longing for the world beyond the sea.
Old Pierre's private caravan was modest in size — only six wagons — but every single one of them had been packed to the absolute limit.
At a glance you could see the snow-white crystals glinting in the morning light: dozens of sacks of premium sea salt that had undergone initial dehydration, a strategic resource of extreme scarcity on the mainland. Dried silver fish and top-grade dried scallops, cured until they were bone-dry and exuding a rich, briny fragrance. Pearls packed into specially crafted wooden cases, alongside an assortment of colorful shell ornaments and coral jewelry.
In Sophia's main convoy, alongside the weighty seafood and dried goods, there were far more scrolls of citizen information collected over the past two days — the blueprint for the future identity cards.
As for Avalon City's taxes and Cape Town's taxes going forward, the soldiers stationed at the Mason · Black Rose flagship store would be responsible for transporting them.
The sound of wheels grinding over the gravel road felt unusually heavy in the stillness of that early morning.
Old Pierre gazed at the densely loaded cargo and let out a long, slow breath.
Gods above... the biggest deal I've ever made in my life was hauling salt to an Orr outpost ten kilometers away.
And now here I am, about to follow a Queen who can summon thunder with her bare hands, all the way to the Royal City of Mason — a place people say smells of wheat in the very air.
Looking at this wagon full to bursting, I know — this isn't just wealth. This is the only way out that the Pierre family, and all of Avalon City, has had in a hundred years.
No matter how long the road, so long as I follow that Black Rose banner, I feel more at ease than I ever did sitting in my own home.
As the convoy slowly rolled out through the great gates of Avalon Royal City and passed beneath the immense arch of bleached white whale ribs, a breathtaking sight unfolded.
More than two thousand Avalonian subjects — nearly the entire city — had turned out.
They had not come in their heavy shell armor. They had changed into their finest practical clothes, gathering in dense clusters along both sides of the road.
There was no sorrow. No humiliation of the conquered. In those eyes — eyes that had spent a lifetime weathered by the sea wind — there was only one thing: a fierce, unprecedented hunger for the future.
As Sophia's magnificent black carriage rolled slowly past, the crowd erupted in a rising tide of voices.
"Safe travels, Your Majesty the Queen! Please — bring white flour back with you!"
"Sea God above! Thank you for driving out those bloodsuckers from Orr!"
"Your Majesty! Next whaling season, we'll set aside the finest ambergris just for you!"
"Can't wait for the Black Rose store to open! I'll be first in line with the roundest pearl I can find!"
"May Mason's Order stand eternal! We need that soap that washes away the salt smell!"
"Old Pierre! Don't go getting lost on land — bring your caravan back soon!"
"Glory to the Black Rose! Glory to Her Majesty Sophia!"
Listening to those raw, wild, life-filled cries, Sophia lifted one corner of the carriage curtain from inside. Her pale golden pupils flickered softly in the morning light.
This was the first time she had conquered a small nation — and its people felt not an ounce of fear. Instead, entirely of their own accord, they were already looking forward to the life that lay ahead.
Marlena rode on horseback alongside the carriage.
The new City Lord had not worn her official uniform today. She had changed back into her clean leather skirt, and her bronze skin radiated a faint, delicate fragrance in the sunlight — the lingering gift of the soap she had been given.
She rode with the convoy all the way to the mountain pass at the border between Cape Town and the mainland.
"Your Majesty — beyond this point is what you call the mainland, isn't it."
Marlena reined in her horse. The sea-bred animal beneath her snorted uneasily.
She looked at Sophia, and in her eyes the wildness had dimmed — replaced by a loyalty as deep and still as the ocean floor.
"I will guard this gate for you."
"Once the flagship store's staff are in place, what you'll see when you return will be an Avalon more prosperous and better than the one you're leaving now."
She paused, then added one more line, her tone slightly stiff but utterly sincere:
"And... I will remember to use the soap you left behind. Every day."
Sophia gave a small nod, her expression still cool — yet suffused with the calm composure of someone who has everything in hand.
"Marlena, remember your promise. The next time we meet, This Queen hopes to see an Avalon that looks nothing like the one today."
Hailey sat perched atop the luggage pile at the rear of the carriage, small hand gripping her pen. The jolting of the road made her characters come out wobbly — but they were written with extraordinary force:
Departing Avalon City.
This is a momentous turning point.
When the subjects called out for white flour and the Black Rose, I knew — the shadow of the Kingdom of Orr has been scattered completely.
The most precious thing Her Majesty brought back from this mystery-box journey wasn't the Blue Gold. It was giving this lonely stretch of ocean its guiding purpose.
Looking at Old Pierre — that ridiculous picture of equal parts nerves and excitement — I know: Mason's trade network has now stretched all the way to the edge of the horizon.
The carriage smells a bit like raw fish right now, but I'm sure that once it passes through Willow-jiejie's hands — and the other palace cooks — it will become something absolutely delicious!
As the carriage wheels turned in the deep, rhythmic pulse of the earth, the salt-bitter sea wind was gradually shut out behind the towering mountain pass.
In its place came a breeze that belonged to the mainland spring — carrying the fragrance of soil and the clean freshness of growing things.
To Old Pierre and his granddaughter Nina, that smell was nothing short of a hallucination from another world entirely.
"Grandpa — look!"
"What are those enormous green poles?"
Little Nina was pressed flat against the carriage window, so overwhelmed with excitement that her bright, round eyes were practically touching the glass.
She was pointing at the rows of broad-leafed trees lining the road — full of branches, heavy with tender new growth, bursting with life.
In Avalon, apart from the occasional salt-tolerant scrub and yellowed sea grass, this kind of towering, lush, primordially vital forest existed only in traveling bards' most fantastical stories.
Old Pierre gripped the edge of the carriage. Those hands — hands that had handled countless sea-salt trades — were now trembling faintly.
He stared at the wild meadows spreading across the hillsides like an enormous green carpet, and his throat worked with a dry, labored swallow.
Those lying bastards from Orr!
They used to tell us the mainland was a man-eating swamp. A fire-breathing hell.
And what do I see now?
Did the Sea God personally paint this garden?
These trees — they're thicker than the stone columns of the Royal Palace!
Looking at the way Her Majesty Sophia just sits there without batting an eye — I finally understand.
In her eyes, this kind of miracle is nothing more than the cheapest backdrop in her territory.
What kind of soul must a person have — to rule over a land this alive?
His four workers — two men, two women — had simply frozen in place on the wagon, forgetting to hold their reins. If not for the black musket soldiers of Mason leading the way at the front, this little merchant caravan would likely have ground to a complete, helpless halt the moment they laid eyes on the first flower-covered hillside.
But while the adults stood trembling in wonder, children have always adapted faster.
Hailey, as Her Majesty's appointed court historian, was in theory supposed to sit with dignified poise and record the facts of history. But she was, in the end, six years old.
The moment Nina's curious little head poked out of the rear carriage window, the part of Hailey that desperately wanted a playmate ignited instantly.
With a permissive glance from Sophia, Hailey leaped down from the luggage pile, grabbed Nina's hand, and the two small girls went bouncing and skipping alongside the slowly moving convoy.
"This is a dandelion — if you blow on it, it flies!"
Hailey played the role of knowledgeable little guide, plucking a white puffball and holding it out to Nina.
"Fly? But it doesn't have wings — how can it fly?"
Nina took it carefully, blew the gentlest breath — and watched as the seeds scattered into the air like a hundred tiny parachutes. She burst into clear, completely unguarded laughter.
Old Pierre, watching from the carriage, went white as a sheet. He scrambled down from the wagon and bowed repeatedly toward Sophia's carriage:
"Your Majesty! My granddaughter is young and knows no better — I fear she may have caused an offense to Miss Hailey! This old servant will bring her back at once—"
"Let them be."
The voice that drifted from the carriage interior was Sophia's — cool and unhurried, yet carrying a warmth that smoothed Pierre's panic like a hand easing still water.
"Mason's future has no need to be strangled in its cradle by rigid etiquette."
"Let them run. And while you're at it — let your granddaughter learn what the colors of the mainland look like."
Delilah rode as escort beside Sophia's carriage window. She watched the two children tumbling freely through the meadow, and something extraordinarily rare passed through her expression — a flicker of genuine softness.
Her impeccably straight high ponytail caught the sunlight, gleaming with its usual resolute intensity.
To protect Her Majesty is the duty of my station. But to guard this kind of moment — a moment that gives Her Majesty peace, that is full of life — that is the selfish desire of someone who counts herself as family.
This is the world Her Majesty wants.
No scheming and betrayal. No bloodstained blockades.
Two children from entirely different worlds — laughing over a few wildflowers on land that once belonged to an enemy.
If Marlena could see this, she'd probably regret not surrendering her crown sooner.
When the last trace of sunset was swallowed by the ridgeline of the mountains, Sophia raised one slender finger and tapped lightly on the carriage window frame — its edge inlaid with translucent dark-teal glass tiles.
"Make camp here."
At the order, the carriages that had been moving at a steady pace fanned out into formation with smooth, practiced efficiency — a precision so mechanical it once again struck Old Pierre with a suffocating, almost oppressive sense of Order.
Old Pierre was no fool who had never seen the world. Avalon was isolated, yes — but as a merchant, he had once visited the crude field camps of the neighboring Kingdom of Orr.
Yet the Mason convoy before him completely overturned everything he thought he knew about life in the field.
"Don't just stand there staring! Go help the Mason soldiers with whatever needs doing!"
Old Pierre barked at his two men and two women workers.
Avalonians did know horses — they were rare on the island, but people knew horses needed grass and feed. When one of Pierre's workers picked up a bundle of freshly cut green grass to offer over, however, a Mason soldier politely stepped in.
"Monsieur Pierre — Her Majesty's warhorses, while on the march, must be fed a mixed feed that includes cooked legume powder and other ingredients. Fresh grass is acceptable, but they must also receive some of the formulated feed."
As he spoke, the soldier reached into a sealed wooden barrel at the back of a supply wagon and produced a compressed feed cake — dense, tightly packed — and fed it to the horse with practiced ease.
Because we need to cover ground quickly, feeding only fresh soft grass will make the horses hunger faster and tire sooner. The mixed feed also reduces the risk of illness.
In Avalon, not even all the common subjects could eat ground legume powder every day.
Mason's horses eat better than our guards.
Looking at the lanterns protected by their glass shades — the steady flames impervious to wind — Pierre understood: the level this nation had reached went far beyond simply having enough to eat.
They had already begun pursuing standards. And efficiency.
Watching his own workers move clumsily and awkwardly by comparison, Pierre felt not shame but a deep, visceral fear — the instinctive smallness one feels when confronted by a civilization operating at an entirely higher level.
Before long, Sophia gave orders for the Mason soldiers to share some of the feed with Pierre's small caravan's horses as well.
As night fell, a campfire was lit at the center of the camp.
Sophia sat in a folding chair of dark hardwood, a specially crafted small lamp at her side.
Its shade was made from semi-transparent colored glass — ground to a perfectly even smoothness by Irene's own hand. The warm amber firelight passed through the glass and cast a glow over Sophia's cool features, making her look like a statue in a temple.
Nearby, Willow was quietly busy — she had already assembled a simple folding bracket over which a pot could be hung.
"Monsieur Pierre — bring your family over."
Sophia raised her eyes slightly, her tone cool but gracious.
"This is a marching stew Willow made herself. You should try some."
Old Pierre accepted the wooden bowl Willow offered with both hands, his expression that of a man in awe of a sacred rite.
The bowl held not only thick flour broth but diced salted meat and vegetables — and floating on the surface was a sheen of golden fat.
The aroma was complex and utterly irresistible, and it demolished the last shred of Old Pierre's composure on contact.
He took one sip. The concentrated sweetness and savory richness detonated across his palate, and the profound satisfaction of high-calorie carbohydrates hit him so hard he nearly prostrated himself in gratitude.
Delilah, as always, stood like a silent statue at a slight angle behind Sophia — the picture of a guardian who had not moved in years. Her impeccably straight high ponytail caught the glow of the glass lamp with a sharp, striking gleam.
She had not sat down to eat. One hand rested on the heavy sword at her hip, those crimson eyes making slow, sweeping passes over the Avalonian workers who were gulping their food down with unabashed enthusiasm.
Not a single person present allowed themselves the thought: what a bunch of country bumpkins — because Mason's people had come through their own hard years. They understood.
"Eat slowly. This Queen will see that all of you live well."
Every head that had been buried in a bowl went just a little lower at those words — hiding tears that could not be helped.
---
The following noon.
When the harsh midday sun fell vertically onto the rolling hills, the carriage wheels finally rolled over the last stretch of muddy track and climbed onto a proper official road, its surface laid with flat, even crushed stone.
Old Pierre was practically holding his breath as he craned toward the carriage window, trembling.
At the far end of his view, an enormous gray shadow was rising — slowly, inexorably — from the horizon.
"Is... is that a mountain?"
Nina rubbed her eyes, her small voice carrying a note of trepidation.
"No, child. That is a city wall."
Old Pierre swallowed. His throat had gone bone dry.
In Avalon, the most magnificent structure in existence was the Royal Palace — built from whale ribs and conch shells stacked into something wild and beautiful.
But before the City of Hill — the former capital of Orr — that wild beauty looked so terribly fragile.
Those were massive, cold, immovable slabs of stone — every block cut to perfect right angles, fitted together without a gap, stacked into a barrier more than ten meters high.
Atop the stone wall, Mason's military banners — emblazoned with the Black Rose — whipped furiously in the blazing sun, projecting a fierce, oppressive authority.
This is nothing that shells could ever compare to.
This is what you get when you split a mountain open and rebuild it into something new.
How many people would it take to build something like this?
What level of terrifying Order would be required to make it happen?
Orr used to claim they ruled the mainland. Looking at this now — they were nothing but dust inside the belly of this stone giant.
And right now, the master of that stone giant is sitting in the carriage in front of me, drinking tea.
This gap... it isn't simply a matter of strong versus weak. This is the gulf between two entirely different worlds.
As the convoy approached the broad main gate of the City of Hill, the soldiers standing guard at the checkpoint snapped suddenly to rigid attention.
The moment they recognized the carriage — its curtain fringed with purple tassels, its side bearing the Black Rose emblem — every single one of them moved in perfect unison.
Thud——!
Spear butts struck the ground. The soldiers dropped to their knees along both sides of the road, foreheads nearly pressing against the sun-scorched pavement.
That extreme, fervent submission sent the Avalonian workers scrambling to rein in their horses, barely daring to breathe.
"We welcome the return of Her Majesty the Queen!"
The lead guard's voice rang out — powerful, and carrying a tremor he could not quite suppress.
"City Lord Vasha has been awaiting this moment for some time! She has given strict orders that we receive you here in person — please, Your Majesty, you must stay. The banquet has been in preparation for three full days!"
Sophia did not step out of the carriage. She simply lifted the curtain slightly, those pale golden pupils passing over the guard with a brief, measuring sweep.
"Since Vasha has gone to such trouble, let us enter."
The soldiers rose like they had been pardoned — their movements clean and swift as a gust of wind — and split immediately into two flanking columns, leading the cross-sea convoy into the heart of the city.
As the carriages rolled into the city, Old Pierre's understanding of the world was reshaped once again.
He had expected to find the hollow wreckage of a war-ravaged city. What greeted him instead was a scene of vigorous, industrious labor.
In particular, in front of the City Lord's mansion, vast stretches of open ground had been turned over and leveled completely flat.
There was not a trace of green yet — but the rich, earthy scent rising from that freshly turned, moisture-dark soil radiated a raw, coiled energy, like something enormous gathering itself to spring.
"Monsieur Pierre — are you looking at those fields?"
The soldier leading them was one of the elite troops transferred here from Mason Royal City. He turned his head, a smile on his face that could only be described as the particular pride of someone who belonged to Mason.
"City Lord Vasha planted those herself."
"The precious seeds Her Majesty sent — the City Lord comes to check on them personally three times a day.*
"She says these seeds are the soul Her Majesty has bestowed upon this land. Even without a single sprout yet, so long as Her Majesty's blessing rests upon them, the harvest this autumn in the City of Hill will shake the entire Northern Border."
Old Pierre stared blankly at those neat, uniform furrows of turned earth — and then at the civilians of the City of Hill, their clothes damp with sweat, their eyes burning bright.
Now I understand. This is the most terrifying part of all.
She didn't just destroy Orr's king. She conquered Orr's soul.
He had just heard: Vasha was once a princess of Orr. And yet she was out there tending those seeds like a devoted farmer.
In Avalon, we depend on the Sea God's mercy to catch fish.
Here in Mason, they are attempting to manufacture life itself.
This thing called hope — it is worth ten thousand times more than all the Blue Gold in Avalon.
Delilah kept her horse beside Sophia's carriage window as always. She watched the soldiers of the City of Hill — who, even as they knelt, could not resist stealing glances upward at Sophia — and a sharp, appraising light moved through her eyes.
These were soldiers transferred from Mason Royal City.
Her impeccably straight high ponytail swayed gently in the breeze.
This land has been baptized by heavy fire — but to truly become Her Majesty's garden, it will need more cleansing. More reshaping.
That woman Vasha, though — she learns quickly. Smart enough to use something as unassuming as farming to earn Her Majesty's favor.
The heavy teak doors of the City Lord's mansion swung open with a slow creak in the morning light. Accompanied by the crisp, measured sound of footsteps, Vasha stepped out in a deep-purple gown with gold embroidery.
She had prepared for this moment for two days straight — practically leaping into motion at the first sound of approach.
Every morning she had checked her hair in the glass mirror with meticulous care, confirming it was perfectly arranged. The hands that had once held a scepter — and had since been in the soil — were tended and cared for each day, so that when she presented them in a formal bow, they would be in their most flawless state.
"This minister, Vasha, welcomes Her Majesty the Queen's triumphant return!"
Vasha dropped into a full, graceful curtsy before the carriage, her skirts blooming outward like a purple iris in full flower.
She bowed her head slightly — and yet the corner of her eye could not resist following the lifted curtain upward for a stolen glance.
When she saw Sophia's face — cool and unruffled as ever — the anxiety of managing an entire city alone for weeks dissolved in an instant, replaced by a nameless, settling calm.
She's back... carrying that chill that could freeze the waves themselves.
Looking at this convoy — laden with the scent of sea salt — I know that even the legendary wild sea of Avalon has bowed its head beneath Her Majesty's fingertips.
This past week, I obeyed Her Majesty's decree and drove the flagship store's business to new heights. I tended those seeds of the soul with my own hands.
Everything I did — it was all for this moment of reunion. For a single glance of recognition so faint it might be imperceptible.
This feeling — of being commanded, of being given purpose — it intoxicates me far more than playing the part of a hollow princess ever did.
Will Her Majesty... praise me?
As they made their way into the mansion, Sophia listened to Vasha's brief report.
The City of Hill bore no trace of post-war desolation now. The Mason · Black Rose flagship store had become the entire city's lighthouse — a blazing beacon at the city's heart.
The residents here would cut back on food and clothing if it meant trading for a small bar of Mason-scented soap, or a small packet of shimmering shampoo.
After handling the city's administrative matters each day, Vasha would spend two full hours at the flagship store in person, observing the movement of goods with her own eyes.
In her mind, those shelves were not just commerce. They were the extension of Her Majesty's will.
The stretch of tilled earth in front of the City Lord's mansion was the City of Hill's wellspring of hope.
"No need for such formality," Sophia said quietly.
She looked at this young woman she had not seen for months — and found that she had settled fully into the identity of a City Lord. Both in bearing and in temperament, she had grown noticeably steadier. More mature.
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