“The Empire accelerates its advance,” Avery said, his voice edged with something colder than anger.

  Beyond the tall arched windows, the night was deceptively serene. Lantern light scattered across polished stone while music from the ballroom filtered through the heavy walls—the violins and laughter softened to a distant, mocking hum. Here, in the war chamber, only maps and candlelight mattered.

  Lord Hadrian Melborne stood rigid at the long oak table, his armored shoulders casting jagged shadows. Pins marked troop movements along the southern marches—borderlands the Empire had invaded, not merely defended. Fresh ink glistened on the parchment from an aide’s hasty adjustments.

  Hadrian did not look up as Avery continued.

  “Scouts report Thornmarch battalions digging in along the river flats,” Avery said. “These aren't raiders or rebels. They’ve built defensive lines, earthworks, and supply caravans—everything a nation builds when it intends to stay. Their banners are rooted. They are preparing for a siege.”

  Hadrian’s jaw flexed. “Then we strike before winter clamps the fields. Once their supply routes freeze, they will break. If Thornmarch refuses to yield—”

  “Hadrian.” Avery’s voice softened, but the words cut sharper for it. “We started this campaign. They are defending their homeland. Thornmarch fights because we forced their hand.”

  A heavy silence followed. The distant ballroom cheer sounded grotesque against the weight in the room. Hadrian finally looked up, his eyes iron-hard. “The Vaustel Empire expands or it dies. That is how nations survive.”

  “Nations survive through wisdom,” Avery countered, folding his hands behind his back. He gestured at the map and the marks of impending bloodshed. “This is not wisdom. This is an advisor’s whisper holding the King by the throat.”

  The candles guttered as if in agreement.

  “Marr again?” Hadrian growled, the name souring the air.

  Avery’s expression hardened. “That snake feeds fear into His Majesty’s ear like poison. Every strategy blocked. Every diplomatic envoy denied. Every attempt to halt the campaign… suffocated.” He tapped a finger on the map where villages were already marked in red. “This is not defense. This is conquest—cloaked in the language of necessity.”

  “And the King allows it,” Hadrian muttered.

  Avery’s lip curled in rare, open contempt. “His Majesty wallows in comfort. A fool drunk on pleasure, blind to the serpent coiling tighter around his throat.”

  “Can you not assist us more directly, Duke Avery?”

  “No,” Avery responded. “Not openly. Marr would twist any move I make into fuel for his own power. I refuse to bleed House Avery just to feed him.”

  “So losing me means nothing to the throne,” Hadrian said darkly. “But losing you would reveal where the King’s authority truly ends.”

  “It is the way of the Empire,” Avery replied with icy calm. “A throne propped by whispers instead of will.”

  A faint scraping sound broke the tension. From the shadow stretching at Avery’s feet, a figure began to rise—hooded, lean, and nearly faceless in the gloom. The air thickened, turning cold and sharp as tempered iron.

  “Shadow will accompany you,” Avery said. “If Marr intends to bleed your forces thin on Thornmarch soil, I refuse to let the Melborne line fall to political theater.”

  The figure bowed to Hadrian, then melted back into the stone as if swallowed whole.

  At last, Hadrian straightened, his cloak shifting like a drawn curtain. “Very well. Draft the terms. If the Empire insists on war… then war will be answered.”

  Avery inclined his head, his face unreadable. “Iron sharpens iron. Let us hope Thornmarch has nothing sharper.”

  The muffled laughter from the ballroom swelled, briefly drowning out the violins, before fading into the cold crackle of candlelight and the heavy truth of conquest.

  The crowd was still buzzing from the engagement announcement when Ray drifted toward the refreshment tables, trying to appear calm and nobly indifferent. His social battery was in the red, and he just wanted a moment of silence.

  He reached for a crystal glass when a hand shot out from the side—SNATCH.

  The drink vanished, spirited away by a boy in deep burgundy silk. Ray blinked. The house crest on the boy's chest was unmistakable: Vernhard. The boy smirked, taking a slow, performative sip while keeping his eyes locked on Ray. “Ah,” he said, savoring the moment. “Apologies. Were you reaching for this?”

  Two other noble boys stood behind him, trying too hard to look casual. Ray recognized the type immediately. This wasn’t a threat of violence; it was the noble equivalent of kicking dust onto someone’s polished shoes.

  Ray kept his composure, his voice level. “Enjoy it.”

  The bully laughed, a hand resting arrogantly on his hip. “As if your permission mattered, Melborne.” He stepped to the side and—with practiced clumsiness—deliberately trod on Ray’s shoe. It was just enough for nearby nobles to notice.

  Ray inhaled through his teeth. An accident, the nobles would say. Intentional, everyone knew.

  The boy leaned in, his voice a low taunt. “Heir to Lionhall Commandery. Perhaps you’ve heard the name?”

  Ray smiled thinly, his "Internet Warrior" instincts screaming to flame this kid into the dirt. “Can’t say I have.”

  A few nearby nobles gasped. Rowan’s eye twitched. Before Ray could retreat, Rowan "accidentally" brushed past him, his shoulder striking Ray’s chest hard enough to make him stumble.

  “My apologies,” Rowan said loudly. “You should be more careful where you stand.”

  His entourage chuckled. Ray straightened his posture, his gamer instinct whispering: Don’t take the bait. Not here. But Rowan wasn’t finished. He reached out and yanked Ray’s sleeve downward, wrinkling the expensive fabric and pulling Ray off balance again. “Loose stitching,” he mocked.

  Nearby heirs exchanged knowing looks—the kind born from years of etiquette lessons designed specifically to shame mistakes like this. Rowan observed Ray with a smug tilt of his head. “You Melbornes really are… provincial.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Ray’s fist almost clenched. He was seconds away from reverting to his old habits and dismantling Rowan’s ego with a verbal barrage.

  Then, a hush fell. Ray felt the shift in temperature before he saw her.

  Elaine.

  She stood with a small circle of nobles behind her, her blue eyes colder than sculpted ice. Rowan straightened instantly, his arrogance melting into a polite, desperate smile. “Lady Elaine,” he said, bowing low.

  She didn’t bow back. She didn’t even acknowledge his existence. Her gaze swept over Ray once, taking in every detail—the mussed sleeve, the scuffed shoe, the red patch on his chest where Rowan had struck him. Then, she turned her eyes to Rowan.

  Rowan swallowed hard.

  “You should step back,” Elaine said, her voice as cool as frost.

  Rowan blinked, his smile faltering. “I—I beg your pardon?”

  “You are standing too close,” she said, her expression perfectly, terrifyingly polite. “And in my way.”

  A ripple of whispers followed. Rowan stepped aside stiffly, his cheeks burning with a deep, humiliating red. Elaine walked past him as if he were a piece of furniture, stopping at Ray’s side. She reached out and smoothed the sleeve Rowan had pulled—not gently, but clinically, as if she were correcting a flawed line in an engraving.

  “You should fix your posture,” she told Ray. “If you stand poorly, lesser nobles imagine they can push you.”

  Ray nodded mutely. He hadn't expected the "Heroine" to lecture him on his combat stance.

  Elaine looked back at Rowan. “You are dismissed.”

  Rowan’s face twisted, but the social weight of House Avery was absolute. He forced a bow. “As you wish, Lady Elaine.” He turned to leave, but paused beside Ray, his voice a venomous murmur: “We’ll see how you fare at the Academy examinations. No nobles watching. No ladies to rescue you.”

  Ray raised an eyebrow. “Oh? A challenge?”

  “A promise,” Rowan corrected. “We’ll see which of us the Empire deems worthy to stand at her side.”

  Rowan walked off with his entourage, his pride licking the edges of every step. Elaine watched him disappear, a small, amused curve touching her lips—as if Ray had just tripped into a play she was eager to watch.

  “Now see what trouble you’ve attracted,” she said lightly.

  Ray frowned. “He picked the fight.”

  She gave a small shrug, her eyes already drifting back toward the ballroom lights. “I’m looking forward to a good show. This promises to be amusing.”

  Before Ray could respond, she turned away, her attention shifting effortlessly to something—anything—more interesting than him. He stared after her, a strange knot forming in his chest.

  Then, he felt a ghost of a sensation—a cool breath against his ear, though she was already several paces away.

  “Meet me in the garden.”

  Ray nearly jumped out of his skin. The whisper was clear, intimate, and impossibly direct, as if she were standing right beside him. He looked around, but the nobles nearby were still gossiping, oblivious.

  She knows how to use magic? His heart started to race even faster. This wasn't the "enchanted candles" kind of magic; this was precision, a high-level mana transmission. She wasn't like any girl from his gal-games. She wasn't predictable, she wasn't sweet, and she definitely wasn't going to be an easy "route" to conquer. Elaine Avery was playing on a level he hadn't even mapped out yet.

  Good, he thought, a spark of determination igniting in his chest. I’ve always preferred the hard mode anyway.

  The night breeze softened as Ray stepped into the lower garden, where lantern-lit paths glowed like scattered stardust. Behind him, the ballroom thrummed with distant music; here, only the moonlit marble fountains kept watch.

  Elaine stood by the water’s edge, her pale dress shimmering like frost. She didn’t turn when he arrived—she had already sensed him through the same mysterious magic she'd used to whisper in his ear.

  “You’re late,” she said, her tone precise.

  Ray cleared his throat, still trying to process how she’d spoken directly into his mind. “Sorry. I… needed some air.”

  Elaine finally looked at him. Her gaze had a cutting clarity that always made Ray straighten, as if she were reading his source code rather than his face.

  “We are here to discuss your potential,” she said calmly. “My fiancé should be someone exceptional, no? If I am to read your resonance properly, I need to observe the spine. Engravers start there.”

  Ray blinked, the word fiancé hitting him almost as hard as the technical jargon. “Wh—my spine?”

  Elaine lifted a delicate brow, unimpressed by his confusion. “Take off your shirt.”

  Ray choked. Hard. “Here?!”

  “Yes,” she said simply. “The resonance is clearest without the interference of cloth. Don’t be dramatic.”

  Ray fumbled out a weak cough, his face warming to a shade of red that definitely wasn't "nobly indifferent." Don't be dramatic? He thought wildly. In any other world, this is a major CG event!

  “I’m not being dramatic. I’m just—this is—okay. Shirt. Right.”

  He tugged it off, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity and failing miserably. In his past life, "showing skin" was reserved for the beach or the gym, not a moonlit garden under the scrutiny of the Empire’s most intimidating girl. He stood there, feeling the cool night air hit his skin, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

  Elaine didn't blush. She didn't look away. She simply stepped closer, her eyes narrowing as she began to scan his back as if it were a scroll of ancient, complex runes.

  Elaine stepped behind him. Her presence was cold and soft at once. She didn’t touch him at first, but her fingertips hovered so close that Ray felt a strange tension crawl beneath his skin. Then, she made contact.

  Her touch was light and surgical, following the shape of his spine with the delicacy of an artist tracing a diagram. “Your stance is symmetrical,” she murmured. “Your vertebrae align cleanly… unusual for someone your age.”

  Ray tried to flex, which resulted in an awkward, involuntary twitch.

  Elaine ignored him. Her fingers drifted upward until they reached the base of his skull. She tapped it briefly—a soft, rhythmic check of his alignment—before withdrawing without another word.

  “You carry potential,” she said quietly. “But it is… different. Not like the others I’ve seen.”

  Ray’s heart kicked. A special trait? A unique flag? He was so caught up in the "Chosen One" internal monologue that he had to look away to hide his flustered expression. That was when he saw it.

  “Uh… Elaine? Is that…?”

  Near the hedge lay a small gray squirrel, curled and unmoving. Elaine approached it with the quiet grace of a saint. When she knelt beside the small body, something seemed to soften in her eyes. It wasn't sadness—it was a poised, quiet gentleness.

  “Oh…” she breathed. “Poor little thing.”

  She brushed the fur with the back of her gloved fingers—light, controlled, reverent. “We mustn’t leave her here,” Elaine murmured. “Everything deserves… dignity.”

  She withdrew a pale blue silk handkerchief—expensive and elegant—and wrapped the squirrel with ceremonial precision. Ray watched her, feeling a swell of admiration. This is why she’s the heroine, he thought. Not just the beauty or the power. It's the kindness.

  “I will bury her,” she said softly. “Properly.”

  “You’re… really something, Elaine,” Ray said, genuinely touched.

  “Elaine!”

  The sharp voice of Duke Avery cut through the garden. Elaine stood instantly, her composure sliding back into place like a masterfully fitted mask.

  “I must go,” she said.

  “Oh—right,” Ray mumbled, suddenly very aware that he was still standing there shirtless. “Should I—uh—wait?”

  “No,” she replied, already walking away. “We will continue tomorrow. Keep your schedule open.”

  She glided toward the manor, the small, silk-wrapped bundle held carefully in her arms. Ray watched her vanish, waiting a moment to see if she’d look back. She didn't.

  “…She really just left me half-naked in a garden,” he muttered, dragging his shirt back on.

  As he walked back toward the lights of the house, he felt a warm glow of determination. He didn't know much about engraving yet, but he knew Elaine Avery was extraordinary. She was thoughtful, composed, and deep down, clearly soft-hearted.

  He smiled to himself, imagining her finding a quiet spot to bury the little creature. He didn't notice the coldness of the wind, nor did he wonder why a "kind" girl would be so interested in the "resonance of the spine." He just knew he was ready for whatever challenge came next.