"If there is nothing further, I shall ensure the corridor remains undisturbed."
Mikhailis gave a small, respectful nod but couldn't resist a wink. "Ever our guardian angel."
Lira's cheeks deepened a shade. She bowed, ponytail shining like jet, then retreated in measured steps until the doors sighed shut.
A breath of silence, then Elowen laughed softly. "You tease her too much."
"She teases back—in her own silent way." He lifted the cup, sipping. "Mm, perfect."
They soaked until fingertips pruned, sipping tea and sharing quiet murmurs. When the water cooled, Rodion activated a gentle drying spell—warm currents spiraled around them, lifting droplets from skin like invisible silk towels. Fresh robes awaited: hers a pale jade with silver embroidery, his a loose dove-gray tunic.
In the adjoining sitting room, sunlight spilled onto a small round table. Pastries steamed invitingly. Elowen settled first, towel-dry hair cascading over one shoulder, cheeks still pink from heat. Mikhailis flopped into the opposite seat with theatrical hunger.
"Diplomatic strategy," he declared, reaching for a flaky berry turnover. "Conquer pastry, conquer day."
Elowen picked a slice of honey bread, tearing a corner delicately. "Your strategy is suspiciously delicious." She drizzled extra honey, eyes sparkling when he pretended horror at the drips.
He leaned over, thumb swiping a dab of honey from the corner of her mouth. Without thinking, she darted forward, lips catching his thumb. She sucked the honey off with deliberate slowness, eyes never leaving his. His breath hitched; a flush rose along his neck.
"Unfair tactics," he whispered, voice hoarse.
She sat back, innocent expression ruined by the playful tilt of her lips. "All's fair in pastry warfare."
Conversation meandered from palace gossip to ridiculous what-ifs—what if the royal swans decided to unionize; what if Rodion hosted a ballroom dance. Every so often he slid a pastry piece across to her plate in a gesture of covert spoiling; every so often she caught his hand under the table and traced gentle runes over his knuckles, calming, grounding.
When plates emptied and tea cooled to a gentle warmth, a hush fell. Elowen stared at the sun-lit drapes, a small shadow crossing her features. "I wish I didn't have to leave… but the kingdom doesn't govern itself."
Mikhailis shifted his chair nearer, brushing crumbs from her shoulder. He bent, pressed a lingering kiss to the soft plane of her cheek. "And it's a better kingdom because of you."
The compliment lingered between them, filling the room like sunlight. Yet before she could reply, a measured cough intruded. Both looked up to see Vyrelda framed by the open doorway, armor gilded by morning light. The commander's austere poise couldn't mask the hint of fondness in her eyes.
"You must not say that, Your Majesty," Vyrelda chided gently. "The kingdom thrives under your wisdom."
Elowen rolled her eyes with affection. "Yes, yes. Duty calls." She rose, smoothing her robe. Turning, she cupped Mikhailis's face, gifting him one last, unhurried kiss—soft and sure, a promise sealed in honey and breath. "Don't cause too much trouble without me."
Mikhailis kept the ridiculous pose a breath longer, just to be sure Elowen caught one last wink over her shoulder as she and Vyrelda vanished down the corridor. The instant their footsteps faded, the stage lights inside him dimmed. He released the air in his lungs and let his shoulders sink against the chair-back, trading court jester for quiet strategist in a single exhale.
A soft pulse of azure lit the air beside him. Rodion emerged from the wall like a will-o'-the-wisp stepping through silk.<Emotional façade deactivated. Cortisol levels dropping. Shall I prepare your field attire?>
Mikhailis rubbed a thumb across the bridge of his nose. She laughs, the whole room turns brighter, he thought, a fond ache blooming beneath his ribs. Aloud he murmured, "Field attire and stealth route. I don't want the kitchen staff gossiping before lunch."
<Understood. I have selected ensemble Fourteen-B: charcoal tunic, lambskin vest, travel cloak with reversible weave. Minimal embroidery—thirty-five percent nobility reduction.>
"Perfect." He pushed away from the table, snagging the last berry pastry on reflex. Halfway to his mouth he paused, grinned, and set it beside Rodion's hovering shell. "Bribe for silence."
<I possess no digestive tract, but the symbolism is recorded.>
Wardrobe, then world, he resolved, striding toward the changing screen. Fingers worked laces with quick familiarity; silk fell away for rougher cloth that hugged muscles without flaunting them. When he tugged the hooded cloak over his shoulders, the dark weave seemed to swallow palace lamplight, a glamour woven by Serelith for nights exactly like this.
Rodion pivoted in midair, scanning him.<Face recognition risk: moderate if you smile like an advertisement. Recommend a neutral expression or mild scowl.>
"Scowling spoils my wrinkles." Even so, Mikhailis rolled his shoulders, settling into a more subdued carriage—chin lowered, grin tucked away, stride measured but unremarkable. A different man stepped from behind the screen: some anonymous courier perhaps, not the prince consort of Silvarion Thalor.
They left the sitting room via the servant threshold concealed behind an innocuous tapestry. The corridor beyond smelled of lavender polish and shelved parchment. He moved swiftly, boots silent on the rush-mat runner, while Rodion dimmed his glow to the faintest candle-ember.
At the first junction, he heard two maids approaching, their voices hushed and giggly—probably fresh from discussing the queen's radiant mood over breakfast. Mikhailis flattened into a niche lined with linen cupboards. Rodion drifted upward, masquerading as a dormant sconce jewel. The maids passed, oblivious, their chatter about embroidery patterns echoing off marble.
Once clear, he slipped down a narrow stairwell normally used for coal scuttles. Cobwebs brushed his shoulders; the scent of damp stone replaced lavender. At the bottom, iron bars framed a gate locked from the outside— but his fingers found the hidden sigil carved by an architect ninety years ago. A breath of mana, a whispered phrase, and the iron fuzzed from view, replaced by a doorway of swirling shadow. He stepped through into the moon-gardens, though the sun now perched midway up the morning sky.
Mist clung to low hedges of silverleaf, catching prisms of light. A crimson sun-jay flitted across his path, startled by his sudden materialisation. Overhead, great boughs intertwined, forming living bridges that linked tower balconies. Even secluded, the gardens buzzed with distant bells of vendors preparing for market day.
Rodion glided beside him again.<No eyes detected. The west arbor exit leads directly to tradesmen alley.>
"Lead the way." He kept to the shade, cloak flowing around his calves like liquid dusk. At the final gate—a simple wooden postern seldom used—Rodion's limb extended to disable a modest ward. It fizzled like dew on a hot griddle, leaving the latch free.
Mikhailis stepped into the heartbeat of the capital. The air changed instantly: richer, layered with fresh-baked bread, tannin from oak-leaf carts, and the sharp tang of river breeze snaking through root-streets. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in shifting emerald mosaics, dappling faces, stalls, and wagon-tops.
Blend in, he reminded himself, adopting the unhurried shuffle of a man with errands and little coin. Market barkers barely spared him a glance. A child darted past waving a paper dragonfly; Mikhailis sidestepped, ruffling the boy's hair. The act drew only a muttered thanks—the move of any kindly passer-by.
He navigated by subtle landmarks: the herbal-mist fountain shaped like a lotus; the spice merchant who always burned clove incense; the trio of street musicians whose lute kept perpetual minor key. Rodion provided quiet commentary, pointing out pockets of dense foot traffic, recommending detours that shaved minutes.
At a crossroads where two root-bridges met, a trio of city guards chattered about an upcoming tourney. One turned, eyes grazing the crowd; Mikhailis angled his body away, lifting a hand to adjust a nonexistent cuff. The guard's gaze slid off him like rainwater. He breathed easier once the corner swallowed him.
"Report," he murmured into the shadow of his hood.
<No recognition events logged. Probability of exposure: twelve percent and declining. Current time to destination: four minutes.>
The boulevard ahead widened, lined with elder oaks whose trunks rivalled castle towers. Between them, craftsmen had woven shop-fronts of polished root-wood and flowering vines. Banners hung like ribbons, adverts for apothecaries, scriptoria, and tea-rooms. Above, rope bridges crisscrossed at dizzy heights, draped in lanterns even by day.
Makes our marble corridors seem dull, he mused, admiration stirring.
At last, the new building came into view. Unlike its neighbours' rustic charm, this structure gleamed—white-washed timber accented with filigreed copper that caught spears of sunlight. Stained-glass windows depicted stylised phoenix feathers, each pane a burst of jewelled colour. A silk awning billowed above double doors carved with constellations.
A temporary scaffold hugged one side where workers affixed a wrought-iron sign in graceful Valarian script: Lumine Étoile. Beneath, crates stamped with foreign seals waited to be unpacked. He spotted shimmering powders glimpsed through slats, bolts of iridescent cloth, rows of crystal vials that winked like captured dawn.
A thrill of pride rose in his chest. Estella had started with three mixing bowls and a ledger the size of a prayer book. Now she commanded import routes and turned heads across kingdoms. He tugged his hood lower to hide a grin.
Rodion's glow brightened a fraction.<Estella's profit margin from the Serewyn launch exceeded sixty percent. She invested thirty into property, twenty into research, ten into charitable grants—orphans' apprenticeship fund. The remainder remains liquid capital.>
"Charity and expansion," Mikhailis murmured. "She never forgets the ladder she climbed."
His gaze roamed the bustle: a courier handing manifest scrolls to an elven clerk; a dwarf artisan polishing a mirror so pristine it threw rainbows on the cobblestones; young pages arranging velvet display cushions with gloved care.
But makeup is only chapter one, he reflected. Alchemy, adaptive glamours, maybe even protective salves disguised as perfume. The front is beauty; the backbone will be empowerment. S~eaʀᴄh the NovelZone.fun website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.
He imagined travellers buying tonic that doubled as minor ward against illness, nobles wearing powder laced with faint shielding glyphs. Discretion meeting innovation.
Rodion's voice echoed his thought.<Projected societal impact: elevated personal agency among non-combatants, increased economic mobility for artisan guilds, potential political leverage for House Estella. Advisable to monitor balance of power.>
"Which is why we're here," Mikhailis replied, stepping closer to the entrance. Two apprentice greeters in pastel uniforms bowed automatically, assuming he was another supplier. He nodded in return, mind already drafting conversation threads: congratulate Estella, discuss scalability, and slip in mention of Rhea's diplomatic connections with Serewyn's council. All before she noticed the cloak and scolded him for secrecy.
He paused at the threshold, palm resting on the cool brass handle. Sunbeams filtered through the canopy overhead, dotting the white facade with islands of light that flickered like living jewels.
A satisfied smile tugged at his lips, equal parts pride and anticipation. "Estella," he murmured, "you always aim for grandeur."
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