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  Back in Klili's bedroom—repurposed as their strategy room—Matilda stood at the center, briefing a small gathering that looked more restless than tense. Documents, troop deployment charts, and artifact illustrations littered the large table in front of her, half-buried beneath plates of half-eaten meals and goblets of wine. The disorder mirrored the disinterest many felt at the endless administrative work; these were young nobles and warriors, some itching for action rather than sitting around discussing logistics.

  Only a few could focus on the long-winded introduction and the subsequent retellings of their friendship, love, and everything else one would like to ignore.

  Alexander was the former, his tail swishing in barely concealed annoyance as he lounged against the wall. A faint scowl touched his features, and now and then, he ran his tongue against the back of his teeth, still hoping to taste the candy he'd lost—courtesy of his own little fit of aggression that had left a scorched patch on the floor.

  Matilda continued reading her prepared speech, stumbling over certain words as if they'd been written by someone far more erudite than she. She squinted at the parchment. "We are not so…so…Sophiyest? Who is Sophie—?"

  "Sophist," Alexander corrected in a bored drawl. "Someone who can spin arguments cleverly. Go on."

  Relieved, Matilda nodded at him, flashing a brief smile before pressing onward. Alexander couldn't help but think about her specialty and interest, 'Paperwork clearly isn't her calling.' She was a sword and metallurgy enthusiast; her heart was likely craving the clang of steel rather than the shuffle of papers.

  Finally, after a stretch that made Alexander's teeth feel ground to nubs from impatience, Matilda reached the interesting part of her presentation. 'By what is all inside the fucking core—thank you, Orbis Jesus,' the resources that Brutus, her Father and a notable figure of authority, had promised.

  Clearing her throat, she declared, "We will deliver five hundred average gold coins, one thousand one-time-use artifacts, and one thousand soldiers—five hundred Tier 2 and Tier 1. On top of that," she added, throwing two thumbs at herself in a gesture that made Alexander smirk, "you get—this girl!"

  Alexander recognized that gesture as his own; it was a catchphrase he'd once used, and it had apparently caught on enough to become local slang. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, though a part of him found it perversely entertaining to see what kind of cultural oddities he could throw at them and watch them evolve into Orbis's own version.

  Alexander arched a brow, scanning the room to gauge reactions. No one seemed particularly impressed by the contribution. "Good job," he remarked, sounding almost bored as he began a slow clap. The rest picked it up, clapping softly in approval. "I'll send a thank-you note to Uncle with my deepest gratitude."

  Matilda's lips curled into a mischievous smile as she stepped away from the table. "Sure," she said with a nonchalant shrug, "but direct it to Mom. Dad's…not in the mood these days." Her eyes knowingly twinkled as if recalling a private family drama.

  Before Alexander could probe further, Nila O. Nine-Fire stood up. Her sisters offered encouragement—Clara clapped once and teased, "Go get 'em, girl!" while Yvonne grinned widely, adding, "Boss girl!" Nila, however, walked forward alone, keeping her composure despite a faint blush that betrayed her nerves.

  "Nila O. Nine-Fire," she began in a formal tone. "I am here in the name of my"—her blush deepened—"fiancé, Bartholomew, Lord of the Silver-Tail household."

  A hush fell over the room, but no one appeared particularly surprised except Zafiro, who briefly raised an eyebrow. The South's politics were notoriously chaotic, so engagements were often half-known rumors at best; everything only became a real stir once the marriage was finalized.

  Nila drew a breath and carried on steadier, ignoring all customs and immediately getting to the point. "We will provide twenty-five Tier 3 soldiers, along with a discount on certain resources necessary for the operation—building materials and…otherwise." Her gaze flicked over to Alexander, a subtle code passing between them, signaling that otherwise referred to his planned explosives or other contraband they might need on short notice.

  Once finished, Nila approached Alexander, lightly brushing his arm in a way that was both discreet and personal. "This is a gift to a friend," her voice softening. "Not a contract. If you need him—Bartholomew—just say the word, and he will come."

  Alexander felt an unspoken gratitude swell inside. He gave Nila a small, sincere smile. "It's good to have friends."

  Nila nodded modestly, retreating to her seat and sipping her wine—likely to calm the residual nerves of making her engagement public.

  Suddenly, Green's voice rang out from the other side of the table, jolting everyone from their hushed focus. "The Temple provides one thousand healers, ten thousand talismans, two thousand fighters, and twenty thousand potions of all kinds." Her tone was matter-of-fact, her mouth partially stuffed with what looked like a dumpling.

  The room fell silent in a collective pause. Green continued chewing for a moment, seemingly oblivious to the stares. When she finally noticed, she swallowed and gave them all a flat look. "What?!"

  Alexander broke the awkwardness with a shrug. "Nothing." While he and his siblings found this wholly normal, as their closer relatives from the Cold-Snout and Nine-Fire household, due to his Father's position as a Druid, others were more surprised—the Temple historically avoided simple conquest missions unless there were strong doctrinal or theological incentives. Some eyes in the room narrowed in confusion, suspecting hidden motives.

  The first to express displeasure was Zafiro, whose expression darkened slightly; his previously playfully deconstructive facade gave way to open disapproval. "Green, don't you think you're violating Temple agreements by providing so many resources? This is a straightforward conquest—no theological basis to justify your involvement."

  A flicker of tension filled the air; even though the Temple was highly reluctant to engage in any military expedition, there was a tipping point—theological in nature—once crossed, they would zealously engage in combat. Green only smirked, one corner of her mouth lifting in quiet amusement. "Heh."

  A vein pulsed visibly on Zafiro's Temple. "What does 'heh' mean?"

  Green wiped her mouth with a sleeve and leaned back in her chair, making herself comfortable in the lotus position. Her petite frame looked almost childlike, but the atmosphere around her was anything but. "Alex is the son of a Druid," she said flatly as if that explained everything.

  For a beat, Zafiro waited for her to elaborate. When nothing else followed, he frowned. "Are you finished?"

  Green gave a single nod. "I don't need any further explanation. That's all you get." With a casual flick of her wrist, she summoned a carafe of wine to top off her cup.

  Zafiro clenched his fists. "I doubt it," he muttered, voice sharp.

  "I don't care," she replied casually, her smirk growing wider. "Complain to your Father if you want; let him take it up with the Oracle."

  Meanwhile, Alexander watched the exchange with poorly disguised amusement, his thoughts filled with gladness. 'I am one lucky bastard.' Politically, his Father's title rarely gave him tangible sway—unless it involved the Temple. Then, it could shift entire power balances. Being part of the Twin-Acorn branch, which supported the Count more ardently than other branches, only strengthened this advantage. The obvious negative was that he alienated 90% of the Temple against him for apparent reasons.

  His gaze shifted back to Zafiro, who was practically drilling holes in him with a glare. "Alex," he said, more formally than usual, "this level of Temple involvement could trigger a massive backlash. Suppose other hostile nobles see you leveraging Temple assets in a simple conquest. In that case, they might try to form alliances with other branches—who will leap at any excuse to upend Moorgrelian stability and fortify their power."

  Alexander gave a short sigh, his hand automatically moving into the spatial pouch to grab his metal casing filled with candies. Still, he quickly stopped, remembering that he'd destroyed them—evidenced by the giant hole in the floor—his tone became more strained. "Well," he said at last, shrugging with forced nonchalance, "I'm the son of a Druid, an open Temple supporter, and my school grounds basically house a world tree. It's pretty obvious why I receive help from the Temple."

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  "Do you think those trivialities won't placate certain factions?" Zafiro's voice gradually became more exasperated. "We're dealing with internal enemies who'd love nothing better than to see Moorgrelians destroyed," he stood up, his shoulders tense. "You're well aware that certain central Mal-Gil nobles watch us like vultures circling a dead carcass, waiting for a fault—any fault—for us to make any fault and grab more powers."

  Zafiro took a step toward him, and a slight tinge of aura escaped him—authority mixed with severeness—making Alexander flinch. "This is not a fun game, and we can't become the originators of something this irreversible, dragging the sole solace for our spirituality and for our subjects into the political mess—the Temple has to remain neutral."

  Alexander let the tension simmer momentarily before calmly pushing off the wall. "Let's have a private chat, you and me…" He glanced at Green, who stopped using a cup and instead drank directly out of the carafe, her cheeks rosy. "…and the drunk fairy."

  Green lifted her half-empty carafe in a mock salute. "Just say the word," she slurred. "I got your back, Alex."

  Alexander didn't bother responding to her. He beckoned Zafiro toward a built-in wardrobe on the opposite side of the room and tugged its door open with a flourish. "The sushi is delicious, folks," he called to the others as if to distract them from their sudden exit. "Have some!"

  Once inside, he shut the wardrobe door behind them. The enclosed space smelled faintly of fresh linens and the lingering scent of rose sachets. Alexander created thin, dome-like vacuum walls around them and added his mana—another layer to prevent eavesdropping with spells. A few hovering orbs of light bobbed overhead, turning the enclosed darkness into a small makeshift interrogation room.

  With a controlled exhale, Alexander slumped to the floor, arms draped over his knees. "So," he said, eyeing Zafiro, "why are you such an incredibly annoying bastard?"

  Zafiro joined him, crossing his arms as he slid down opposite. "That's…a very broad question," he replied in a light, mocking tone. "Though, I get this very often—could you be more specific?"

  Alexander ticked off points on his fingers. "Inciting idiots from the North to fight in my city. Sending your goons into my underworld—my guys had to beat them up and then conveniently dump them at the Temple's doorstep. Stirring up trouble with Isabella, painting me like some warmongering lunatic. Now you tried to cut out the Temple. Need I go on?" His voice was clipped, equal parts anger and sarcastic amusement.

  Zafiro's eyes glimmered in the dim light. "I would never sabotage you, dear Knight. Perish the thought," his voice laced with mock.

  Alexander's lips curled into a smirk. "I know where your protection artifacts are: wrist, ankle, and finger. All it takes is a flick of my mana, and they're gone," his ears reeled slightly back. "Don't play stupid—I could slice your head off right here and now."

  Zafiro's calm smile didn't waver. "You could try. I have other tricks—"

  Before he could finish, something small clattered ominously against the wooden floor—Zafiro's earring. A flicker of uncertainty crossed Zafiro's face, but it vanished almost instantly, replaced by a rueful laugh. "Ha! Bold of you," he murmured. "You're more unhinged than the rumors suggested. So if I don't comply, you'll kill me? How…peasant-like."

  For a second, Alexander studied Zafiro's impassive posture. No tremor of fear, no spike in breath, no lashing of the tail. Just…acceptance. "You're insane," Alexander finally concluded, oddly impressed.

  "Not as insane as you," Zafiro countered. "You started messing with the Essence Alliance, tore up multiple treaties, armed refugees to invade them—nobody with a shred of common sense would do that." He gave a low, theatrical bow. "Congratulations, no adult or pup has tried something so foolish before."

  Alexander let out a low whistle. "Thanks for the compliment," he leaned back. "If you know, it means the Count knows, but for some reason, I still have my head in the right place; wanna elaborate?"

  Zafiro shrugged. "Because I insisted on trying to guide you instead," he admitted, sounding almost playful again. "I had people infiltrate your networks to keep track of your grand—and often reckless—schemes and test how well they hold. Clearly, your guards are better than I anticipated."

  Alexander narrowed his eyes at Zafiro, but the latter showed no shame, only something like amusement. His voice was filled with frustration, but there was no vitriol, only joy—like he had found a fascinating opponent. 'He's treating this like a game,' Alexander thought, tension coiling inside.

  There were a few types of people he didn't want to meet, and one of them was sitting before him, elaborating on his plan—openly, like discussing a chess game. Unable to detect any lie or deception, Zafiro seemingly didn't care—dangerous. Worse, the Count's son wanted to guide Alexander, whatever that meant.

  Steeling himself, he asked after he was done telling him all the nonsensical details, "Then why the brawl in my city?"

  "Because they deserved it." Zafiro shrugged as though the answer was obvious. "We can say it was to test your guards, simply as the official explanation. And as for Isabella," he added, rolling his eyes, "she sees you as a saint. I see a kid playing politics. And if tormenting the masses worked out in your favor tomorrow, I suspect you wouldn't mind trying it."

  Alexander let out a short laugh. "Hehe, aren't you a peach? So, you simply prepared Isabella for the worst? What if she jumped ship?"

  Zafiro took the earring and fiddled with it, inspecting it mostly, then glanced up. "Something like that. Although I mostly wanted you two to talk sense to each other and understand your unique positions," he showed the earring to Alexander. "Can you restore it?"

  Alexander snapped his fingers, making the earring glow again and function properly. "Happy? What will happen now?"

  "Delighted," Zafiro said, quickly tucking it back into his fur. " If you have a question—spit it out—as the commoner says. Don't even try the [Law] sub-skills of asking cryptic and open-ended questions, just to get unexpected answers."

  Alexander became baffled by Zafiro's arrogance, still not clearly understanding his motives as they seemed all over the place. Something was unsettling about being in a position of uncertainty, making his nerves snap slightly. "Haha," a sudden laughter followed, more hysterical than joyful in nature, as a teenage boy basically owned him—making his roughest side come out. "I obviously mean, if you want to fuck me now or later? Maybe you can do it the whole night, so my asshole can relax for a bit until the next time."

  Zafiro's brow furrowed. "First off," he replied dryly, "Anastasia's teaching you some horrid phrases. Second, you're not my type. But, if we're talking about metaphorical love-making, well…I think you already know the answer."

  A slight grin tugged at Alexander's lips but quickly faded as the uncertainty increased—trusting someone so deeply wasn't something he liked. While he relied on his parents, even though his Mother basically betrayed him, at least she had a reason. It was not her fault as she took an oath to report such things, stopping her investigation immediately after finding out about his severe doings and doing all she could to write letters to everyone for support in the upcoming trial.

  Zafiro was different—an enigma for Alexander, who had some motive that made no sense to him, wholly ignoring the premise of guidance—a stupid notion he couldn't accept. 'I need to be more direct,' he mused bitterly, readying himself to hear deception or how he would become a dog.

  Alexander glanced toward Zafiro, whose expression was inscrutable, a mix of mischief and seriousness. "I would rather not guess," his voice faltered slightly, betraying the nerves bubbling beneath his calm facade.

  "The Temple," Zafiro exhaled, the tense air thickening as they locked eyes. "I understand your worries—believe it or not, I don't want you to be a mere puppet, dancing at my fingertips. I want you to succeed without damning Moorgrel's reputation. Your Father's position and your personal ambitions are a powder keg—one wrong move, and everything blows."

  Zafiro suddenly crawled closer, grasping Alexander by the shoulders. Their eyes locked, and Alexander's pulse skipped involuntarily at the intensity of the stare. "You have to trust me," he said quietly. "Not because of my family name, my influence, or because you feel obliged due to me knowing the secrets not even your parents know—no. But because you know this is the right move, logically and instinctively. Warping Temple neutrality for short-term gains is suicidal in the long run."

  Alexander inhaled slowly, recognizing the truth in those words and his own mistakes, but also that he didn't get a direct answer to his worries, something he had to ignore for now as Zafiro cleverly switched the topic. "Fine," he said, at last, swallowing his pride. "I'll turn down the Temple's official support."

  For the current problem with the Temple, Alexander had to agree entirely with Zafiro—his hubris became too great. There was no need to circumvent any rules or risk a precedent that could become grander than his campaign—simply, a risk not worth the rewards.

  "Good," Zafiro murmured, a victorious, almost predatory smirk playing across his lips. "Clever boy." He leaned in with a quick, teasing lick of his lips, eyes gleaming with provocation. "Ethically—now, we can discuss the other ways you want me to ruin you if you're still inclined."

  Alexander saw the mischief in Zafiro's eyes, but instead of pushing him away, he played along, smiling teasingly and licking his lips. "You can use as much as you want," he leaned forward, his hot breath grazing Zafiro's fluffy ears. "Restrain me, blindfold me, or do whatever messy thing you want. I—am—all—yours~"

  Zafiro gave a playful chuckle and stood up, dusting off his trousers. "You are no fun."

  Alexander rolled his eyes, but as he was about to stand up, Zafiro held a hand up. "You know," he smiled genuinely. "Sometimes you should just trust people."

  Alexander snorted. "What choice do I have?"

  "None whatsoever," Zafiro teased before his tone became earnest again. "In all seriousness, I want Moorgrel to thrive. I want you to accomplish impossible dreams—like in those speeches you give about a better future for everyone in my land. Just…be careful. That's all I ask of you."

  Alexander observed Zafiro, feeling like he was only half-joking. That sense of entrapment gnawed at him, but he let it pass for now. "I'll be careful," he finally said, but something else came to mind. "And I need to show you something in Wolfsteeth later, all right? You may help me since you know, trust 'n such."

  Zafiro raised a brow. "Of course."

  At that, Alexander dissolved the barrier spell. They stepped out of the cramped wardrobe, their eyes adjusting to the relative brightness of the main room once again. If anyone wondered what they'd discussed, no one pried—yet. Green lay sprawled on a chair, half-asleep, and the others glanced over, curious but too polite or too bored to ask questions.

  He took a deep breath, trying to recapture his usual bravado. 'Let's continue.'

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