The Holy Light at the top of the West Tower gradually faded, and the taut rhythm of magic that had filled the air dissolved, in this moment of triumph, into a stillness as smooth as still water.
Over two thousand meticulously crafted identity cards — precisely made by Irene and charged with Daphne's Holy Light — had been stacked in neat rows inside specially made black wooden cases.
In the shadows, they gave off a faint, ghostly blue glow. Along every card's edge, the intricate interlocking patterns of the Black Rose had been engraved — not as decoration, but as the Mason crown's declaration of dominion over every soul it touched.
Just as the clamor of land-clearing behind the hill began to die down, Old Pierre and his party were urgently summoned to the base of the West Tower.
When Sophia personally placed one of those cool, metallic-blue cards into Old Pierre's hands, this seasoned old merchant — who had weathered more storms than he could count — found his hands trembling so badly he could barely hold the thin, slight little thing.
"Pierre. From this day forward, this is the only credential that will allow you to move freely through Mason and Avalon."
Sophia's voice was as cool and clear as ever, yet to Pierre, it sounded like a divine revelation.
"It records your contributions, and your loyalty to the Black Rose."
Old Pierre bowed his head and looked down at the card.
At its center, amid those intricate blue-and-gold lines, his own name had been engraved — alongside a complex, ever-shifting magical seal that seemed to breathe.
Gods above… so this is the weight of an 'identity'?
In Avalon, we were nothing but grains of sand on the shore. Our names only ever existed as throwaway words on the City Lord's lips.
But here, in Mason — in the hands of this young and wise queen — we have been given this thing called 'civilization.' Carved into us.
This is not merely a piece of metal. This is a covenant.
Carry it, and wherever the Black Rose banner flies, the Kingdom's will shall know that I exist.
Her Majesty isn't distributing cards. She is hammering a 'coordinate' into every wandering soul adrift on the wasteland.
This absolute command over population and resources…
Those two thousand-odd half-civilized fishermen back in Avalon — the moment they get their hands on one of these, they'll probably drop to their knees right there on the beach and worship Her Majesty as a true god.
Little Nina, too, received her own small card.
She pressed it excitedly to her chest, feeling the gentle, warm pulse of Holy Light energy within it. The last faint shadow of fear she'd had toward the mainland vanished entirely, dissolved into that rhythm that said: you are protected.
Meanwhile, the square below the West Tower was already filled to capacity with heavy freight wagons.
Chancellor Valery stood with a manifest in hand, that keen, fox-sharp gleam characteristic of old schemers shining in his eyes, overseeing the loading of the final batch of supplies.
Beyond the two thousand identity cards — enough to reshape Avalon's entire social structure — the wagon beds were packed with daily goods sufficient to render any foreign civilization immediately, helplessly dependent.
Black Rose flagship store exclusives: premium soaps, each one fragrant with a different flower.
Deep-cleanse series: specially formulated shampoo, capable of washing out even the smell of the sea.
The Mason Standard Living Set: snowy white pig-bristle toothbrushes, silky natural tooth powder.
"Sending these over will be more useful than dispatching an army," Sophia said flatly, standing on the terrace and looking down at the enormous convoy about to depart.
What we are sending to the people of Avalon is not just daily goods. It is a habit they will never be able to quit.
Once they grow accustomed to the fragrance of soap, they will no longer be able to tolerate the sticky film on their own skin.
Once they grow accustomed to the clean freshness of brushing their teeth, they will never be able to go back to the rot in their mouths.
Coupled with the identity card system, these Avalonians will dig desperately for treasures, haul in massive catches of fish — all in exchange for a single bar of soap.
Desire drives production. Order governs behavior.
Once that cartload of goods arrives, Avalon will no longer be Mason's dependent. It will become the most industrious production machine under the will of the Black Rose.
Hailey was sprawled against one of the stone pillars in the square, her pen racing across a sheet of parchment, her little face flushed red with the fever of racing thoughts:
Outside the Palace.
Her Majesty has launched a campaign. Its name: bathwater.
Those identity cards are so shiny and pretty! Of course, Hailey also has one of her own.
Grandpa Pierre's face right now looks exactly like a man who's just been handed a ticket to heaven.
Those soaps and tooth powders are bait Her Majesty is scattering into Avalon's sea.
Once the aunties and uncles of Avalon get used to the smell of Mason, they'll realize — that fragrance only stays with you if you follow Her Majesty.
The identity card is the leash that binds them. The soap is the carrot dangled up ahead.
Her Majesty is incredible — she can even turn getting people to bathe into some kind of world-conquering display of dominance.
When the last chunk of salted fish in the Tears of the Sea shop was carried off by a delighted, beaming woman, the row of wooden shelves — once piled high with goods — looked strikingly bare.
Old Pierre wiped the sweat from his forehead and glanced at the several crates stuffed with heavy copper coins in the back room, his eyes shimmering with a sense of achievement so great it almost felt unreal.
The business was done. But for these Avalonians who had crossed the sea, the real 'cultural export' had only just begun.
By order of Her Majesty Sophia, Pierre and his party would return to Avalon alongside Mason Royal City's official merchant convoy, responsible for transporting that precious cargo of identity cards and daily supplies.
But before departure, Pierre made a decision both audaciously bold and shrewdly calculated: he would use his earned copper coins to purchase Mason native foods in bulk.
The news spread like a gust of wind, sweeping instantly through the commoner districts of the Royal City.
Mason's people were no longer going hungry — but this 'having enough to eat' was itself something they had only barely achieved since the start of this year, under Her Majesty Sophia's iron-fisted governance.
The grain stores of every household held no such luxury as old surplus grain going to waste. What they held was hope — a full, brimming hope for the future.
And yet, when word spread that the foreign brothers and sisters from Avalon wanted a taste of Mason, those warm-hearted subjects streamed home and launched into a thorough rummaging of every drawer and corner.
Hundreds of black breads — those twice-baked loaves, hard as stone yet extraordinarily long-lasting — the source of strength for Mason's people.
Coarse wheat cakes, mixed with a little dried wild vegetable and finely ground bran — rough in texture, but carrying an earthy, clean fragrance.
Old Pierre looked at the mountain of wheat products piled onto the wagons, and his eyes grew faintly moist.
He knew perfectly well that these loaves weren't worth much by Mason's standards — but they were what these people, who had only just escaped hunger, had scraped out from between their own teeth. Their 'dignity of civilization.'
And besides, these staple foods were nearly impossible to find in Avalon. The poor people of Avalon lived on nothing but seafood, day in and day out.
Just as Pierre was directing his helpers to package up the coarse grains, Willow arrived at the lodgings, leading a retinue of attendants and pushing two small, light carts covered completely in cloth.
"Mister Pierre, Her Majesty says that black bread alone isn't enough to fill the Avalon sea wind."
"These are the latest military-grade rations from the Palace workshop."
The red silk was pulled back to reveal neatly stacked, glossy cured hams, their concentrated, savory aroma rising in the air — and alongside them, bundles of dried sausages, tied with red cord, wind-cured to exactly the right point.
Old Pierre's soul shuddered. Now this — this was a true Divine Miracle.
In Avalon, meat meant either freshly caught fish from the sea, or those smoked chunks as hard and dry as blocks of wood.
But these hams… look at those marbled veins of fat. Smell that rich, smoky fragrance.
Her Majesty isn't sending food. She is showing those savages of Avalon — those people who've never seen anything but seawater — what 'the pinnacle of the land's bounty' actually looks like.
Once these sausages get back there, City Lord Marlena will probably swallow her own tongue.
This flavor — it will destroy the will to resist among the people of Avalon more thoroughly than any black musket ever could.
Pierre had spent years navigating the seas of Avalon, and the merchant's cunning and humility in his bones had long since become pure instinct.
He not only settled on the spot the full premium price for all the black bread he'd purchased, but also opened the ledger Willow presented and paid, to the letter, the correct trade tax in full accordance with Mason law.
But he wasn't done.
"Lord Willow, please, on this old man's behalf, convey this trifling token of gratitude to Her Majesty the Queen."
Pierre knelt on the ground and held out an exquisite little rosewood box. Inside, to anyone's astonishment, were several luminous night pearls he had secretly set aside — chosen because their shape was uncommonly symmetrical — along with an additional 'gift of tribute' that exceeded even Avalon's tax rates in value.
"This is this old man's prostrate thanks for the shelter of Her Majesty's protection. It is not business. It is merely this old man's small… filial devotion."
The southern gate of Mason Royal City opened slowly in the first faint blush of dawn.
Old Pierre sat at the front of a wagon loaded with black bread, sausages, and blue-and-gold identity cards.
Behind him stretched a full twelve wagons of Mason's official merchant convoy, each one flying the Black Rose banner.
A dozen Royal Guard cavalry, their black muskets on their backs and armor gleaming, flanked both sides — an air of martial gravitas and solemn authority that made this homeward journey feel less like a departure and more like a civilizational expedition.
As the wheels rolled over the smooth stone-paved road, the wagons slowly passed through those black city gates that stood as a symbol of absolute power.
Along both sides of the street, many of Mason's early-rising subjects had paused in their morning tasks.
They didn't shout or leap about the way people in Avalon might — they didn't chase the wagons down the road. Instead, they stood in small clusters of two and three along the roadside.
When Old Pierre's slightly weathered foreign face appeared at the wagon window, those Mason women and girls — neatly dressed, clean and fresh — gently slowed their step.
There was no hostility in their manner. They simply pressed their right hands to their chests and inclined their heads slightly, or extended one arm, letting their fingertips trace a light arc through the air — a farewell that kept its distance and yet was full of gracious regard.
Even the few children who were usually roughhousing at the street corners had been nudged by the adults around them to settle down, stand properly, and give a small wave of their little hands to the convoy carrying 'friendship from the deep sea.'
This was Mason.
In Avalon, farewells came with salt-and-brine embraces and ear-splitting whistles — a release of wild, hot-blooded passion.
But here, even an ordinary subject carried in their every gesture a quality called 'refinement.'
They didn't make a show of it. Yet they were as steady as the very stones that made this Royal City's foundations.
This kind of grace had been slowly watered into them by that young and wise queen — through every loaf of bread, through every law.
I used to think Avalon's unfettered freedom was what life should be. But watching this Royal City — as orderly as a painted scroll, where even a farewell carries the weight of ceremony — I realize… I have already fallen completely in love with this land.
This is no foreign country. This is the ultimate sacred ground of civilization.
Little Nina pressed herself against the window, her big eyes eagerly catching every friendly glance.
She mimicked the older Mason girls she'd seen, attempting a small nod of her own — stiff and clumsy, but accompanied by a shy, tentative little curve of her lips.
"Grandpa, they're so pretty when they smile. Like flowers," Nina murmured softly.
"Even though they don't shout or make a fuss — I know they're wishing us a safe journey."
Old Pierre stroked his granddaughter's head and looked back at that stone city gleaming in the morning light.
Compared to Avalon's easygoing, carefree looseness, Mason Royal City gave him something that went all the way down to his bones: a sense of dignity.
Here, as long as you kept the rules, even a foreign merchant could be treated with the courtesy extended to a gentleman.
"Grandpa, I miss Hailey. When will I get to see her again?"
"Soon. The next time we come to buy goods." Pierre smiled. "Maybe you'll see her next month — how about we bring her some pretty shells next time?"
At that very moment, Hailey was standing near the edge of the Royal City, her little notebook already running crooked across several lines — but her pen tip kept right on dancing.
Her Majesty says the best goodbye doesn't need a sound. All it needs is a single glance.
The look on Grandpa Pierre's face just now was exactly like a Mason person who's lost his soul to this place.
The way he watched those subjects wave goodbye — he was more transfixed than when he'd been staring at all those gold coins.
That's a dimensional crush.
The Avalonians' passion is fire. And Mason's elegance is wind.
When wind passes over flame, the fire burns in the direction the wind blows.
Watching that long convoy, I know — the City of Avalon will very soon have all its wildness swept away by this 'elegant wind.'
At that same moment, from atop the high terrace of the Palace, Sophia was quietly watching as that chain of black dots slowly disappeared into the southern horizon.
Through that faint, almost imperceptible rhythm, she could sense Old Pierre's feelings in this moment — a tangled, surging knot of reluctance, awe, and fervent devotion.
Good.
His lingering attachment to Mason was the most unbreakable lock on this trade route.
Only when he felt in his bones that Avalon was backward, and Mason was something sacred — only then would he spare no effort to carry everything Mason had to offer — from bread to belief — across to that stretch of sea.
No conquering warhorse was needed. Only this one elegant longing. And over two thousand souls of Avalon would, of their own willing hearts, become possessions in the palm of her hand.
The turning of the convoy's wheels echoed across the wasteland — the footsteps of civilization marching upon the primitive.
Atop the terrace, the morning breeze passed through Sophia's silver hair, carrying with it a faint thread of chill.
A light and familiar set of footsteps came to a stop behind her.
Willow walked forward, cradling a thin blanket, moving with quiet, careful steps.
She did not disturb the Queen deep in thought. Instead, with the utmost gentleness, she draped the thin blanket over Sophia's slender shoulders.
"Your Majesty, even though it is already spring, the early morning mountain wind still carries a remnant chill from winter. It is quite cold."
As she spoke, Willow quite naturally smoothed the strands of hair the wind had blown across Sophia's face. When her fingertips brushed against that cool, pale neck, a flicker of tenderness she couldn't quite conceal passed through her eyes.
"If Your Majesty were to take a chill, the sun of all Mason would go out."
Sophia inclined her head slightly, feeling the faint lingering warmth of the Bedchamber's light incense that still clung to the blanket. The coldness that usually held her gaze thawed, just barely — that rare softening she only ever showed in front of a handful of close attendants.
She always has the map of the entire continent in her eyes, and yet she never has room in them for her own body.
Watching that convoy disappear, she is probably already calculating the next game of chess involving grain and salt.
This weight of carrying ten thousand lives — only I, through this thin blanket, can take even the smallest fraction of her cold.
Sophia gathered the blanket more snugly around her shoulders. Her voice was clear and cool as spring water:
"The West Tower — is everything all right over there?"
Willow's hand paused slightly. Her expression shifted into something a little strange. She lowered her gaze and replied in a quiet voice:
"Your Majesty, that is precisely what I needed to report to you."
"Daphne… she appears to have fallen ill."
"When the maidservant went to the West Tower this morning to deliver her meal, she found Daphne curled up in the center of the Holy Light formation, her face flushed red, murmuring incoherently. She appears to have a very high fever."
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