Chương 117: 48-1. Covenant of Handshakes

Dawn arrived reluctantly. When I woke, the light behind the curtains was still thin—as if someone had taken a blade to the darkness and shaved away one careful layer, but couldn't bring themselves to cut all the way through. The room held perfect quiet, the fire in the hearth long since reduced to embers, leaving only residual warmth and the heat still gathered beneath the bedding. The first thing I registered was my hand. Olivia was still holding it.

She slept quietly on her side facing me, golden hair spilled across the pillow and caught by morning light like a thin layer of honey. Those lake-blue eyes were closed, lashes casting faint shadows beneath them. She looked considerably softer than she had the night before—soft enough to make a person question whether the woman who had calmly intercepted me mid-journey and pinned me to this bed with a single would it be all right if we slept together tonight was actually the same person.

I looked down at our joined hands. Then I looked at the blanket. Finally, with genuine scientific rigor, I examined the bedsheets. White. Smooth. Completely undisturbed. The breath that had been inexplicably suspended in my chest finally, slowly, let itself out. Thank the gods. At minimum, I hadn't, in some state of exhausted delirium, done anything requiring House Eisenberg to eliminate me before breakfast.

Which meant I had simply been given shelter for the night, fallen asleep holding her hand, and committed no greater breach of etiquette or self-control. This was excellent news. It confirmed that while my destiny was catastrophically unreliable, my brain still maintained at least one functional emergency latch. I settled back with something approaching religious relief. Then a voice spoke directly in front of my face.

"What exactly are you doing, Cedric?" I nearly launched myself off the mattress entirely. Olivia was awake—still lying on her side, watching me without blinking. Those lake-blue eyes were far too clear for someone who had just opened them. She had clearly been conscious for some time, which meant she had almost certainly enjoyed a complete performance of my hand-blanket-bedsheet inspection routine. I pressed a hand to my chest and lowered my voice.

"…You nearly stopped my heart. Make some noise when you wake up."

"So what were you doing?" she asked again. The same question, delivered with perfect calm. Which made it infinitely more dangerous. I opened my mouth, cycled through several defensive options, and produced something so transparently suspicious even I didn't believe it.

"Your hair is beautiful." Olivia regarded me steadily.

"Cedric," she said, "do you think I'm the sort of woman who can be deflected that easily?"

"I would never presume."

"Then what were you inspecting?" I hesitated, and whatever capacity for deception I might have possessed fled entirely. In the end, I could only offer a deeply guilty:"… I was just confirming something." She frowned first, as if not understanding. Then something clicked—a brief flash of genuine surprise crossed her eyes. Finally, the tension left her face entirely, she turned her head away, and laughed softly. The sound wasn't loud. It was more than sufficient to set my ears on fire.

She laughed for quite a while before looking back at me, amusement still lingering at the corners of her mouth.

"Did no one in your household ever explain things to you?" I frowned.

"Explain what?" Olivia closed her eyes and produced an expression of profound, authentic exasperation—the look of someone to whom fate had just revealed a particular truth: the man she had held hands with through half the night, whose distress had genuinely moved her, had woken up and—rather than being touched, rather than attempting to kiss her, rather than even pretending to sleep—had conducted a forensic examination of the bedding.

"Cedric," she said slowly, "do you know where children come from?" I stared at her, feeling oddly insulted.

"Are you underestimating me?"

"I'm not."

"You are." I mounted a completely serious defense.

"Isn't it simply that a man and a woman lie in the same bed at night, hold hands, and pray to the gods that nothing goes wrong?" Olivia looked at me for two full beats of silence. Then she raised one hand to her forehead and performed a slow, deliberate eye-roll. The gesture was entirely unbecoming of a noblewoman. Also devastatingly beautiful.

"…Please stop talking," she murmured.

"My head hurts." I watched her, caught between wanting to laugh and being unable to, because her ears had actually gone red. Not dramatically, but I noticed. And that tiny betrayal gave her exasperation an entirely different layer of meaning—not simply that my idiocy had given her a headache, but that she hadn't been entirely composed last night either. She had genuinely gathered her courage, genuinely considered possibilities that went considerably further than holding hands.

And I had spent the first half of the night using her as a lifeline, slept like a corpse through the second half, and greeted the morning by auditing the linen. I felt a very specific, very undignified kind of guilt.

"Olivia."

"Mm?"

"I wasn't being cautious about you." I paused, lowering my voice slightly.

"I was worried about you being the one cheated." The hand she'd pressed against her temple went still. The room held quiet—only the faint sound of morning birds outside and the steady warmth where our hands remained joined. I looked at her and realized this was more honest than anything I'd said last night. Not fear of losing control. Not fear of responsibility. I was afraid that the gentleness of last night had been too much like a dream I'd only been permitted after surviving everything else.

Dreams don't observe propriety, and the debts they leave behind when you wake are the worst kind. If I'd done something in a half-conscious state and then looked at her face this morning pretending not to remember—that wouldn't be foolishness. That would be something considerably worse. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. Olivia watched me for a moment, and the amusement in her eyes gradually gave way to something much softer.

"Cedric," she said quietly, "when you say it like that, it becomes very difficult to keep laughing at you."

"Yet you're still laughing."

"Because you genuinely are ridiculous." She said it with such absolute conviction that I couldn't find a rebuttal and simply turned away to stare at the morning light touching the bed canopy. After a moment, Olivia moved slightly closer. She didn't release my hand. She simply used her free hand to brush a stray lock of hair from my forehead, fingertips barely making contact—careful, as if afraid of startling something fragile.

"I was nervous last night," she said. I turned to look at her. She met my gaze without deflecting, calm in the way of someone completing an honest account.

"I was afraid you'd regret staying. Afraid you'd wake in the middle of the night and leave. Afraid you were only holding my hand because you were exhausted, and would pretend not to remember in the morning." She paused, a faint smile touching her lips.

"Instead, you woke up and inspected the bedsheets." My ears burned considerably hotter.

"…I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," she said softly.

"At least now I know you truly slept without worry." That sentence settled everything chaotic in my chest at once. I looked at her, suddenly aware of a tightness in my throat. She must have seen it, because she didn't press further. She simply threaded her fingers more firmly into mine.

"Do you want to sleep a little longer?" she asked. I watched her for several seconds, then said quietly: "If I said I wanted you to stay with me—would that make me seem pathetic?" The warmth in her eyes deepened immediately.

"No. You held my hand through the entire night. Deciding it's pathetic only now seems rather late." I had no response to that and could only let out a low sound of defeat before lying back down. She settled back as well, resuming her position facing me—not too close, not too far, exactly sufficient to see the quiet light in her eyes clearly. I looked at her and, after struggling briefly, failed to contain myself.

"Olivia."

"Now what?"

"You said you liked me last night." I paused, trying very hard not to sound like I was verifying a will.

"Does that still count?" She blinked, then smiled—not the earlier exasperated smile, but something lighter, warmer, like morning sun finally slipping past the curtains.

"It still counts," she said. Whatever had been suspended in my chest finally, truly, came to rest. Ridiculous. I hadn't been this nervous accepting an imperial commission. Yet asking whether she still liked me had my heart hammering like I was preparing to kneel before the throne again. I cleared my throat, aiming for casual.

"Good."

"Good how?"

"Otherwise that entire inspection would have been for nothing." Olivia gave me a look, then finally lost her battle with restraint and laughed as she reached over to push lightly at my forehead.

"Cedric," she said, "you are genuinely the most dedicated person I've ever met at being serious about entirely the wrong things." I caught her hand and drew it back into my palm, this time not letting go.

"Likewise." She looked at me and didn't pull away. The light in the room had brightened further, but under the canopy it stayed warm. Last night's residue—the imperial commission, the south, the Yansha Empire, the private oath, the Empire's calculations—was all still present in my mind, only retreated to a distance that didn't require immediate action. Holding her hand, I realized I could actually sleep a little more. Just before closing my eyes, I murmured: "Olivia."

"Mm?"

"Your hair really is beautiful." She went quiet for a beat, then replied softly: "Coming from you now, it actually sounds sincere." I smiled and didn't reply. Her hand was still in mine, and this time, I no longer felt any urge to check the sheets. When Olivia and I came downstairs, I had optimistically assumed I might at least get a drink of water before confronting the day. One glimpse of the dining room told me how wrong I was. The first thing I saw was Alvira in an apron.

She stood by the table holding a skillet fresh from the stove, silver hair tied back, ear tips concealed in the strands. The unnatural flush across her cheeks made her look exactly like an elf who had woken up wanting to kill someone but had been forced to cook breakfast first. Jessi, meanwhile, was already seated at the table. The moment she spotted me, the corner of her mouth curved upward into a line sharp enough to open throats. Alvira spoke first, tone more aggressive than the oil still spitting in the pan.

"Stop staring and sit down. Breakfast is getting cold." I looked at the apron and found immediate compliance difficult. Alvira's brow twitched.

"Keep staring and I'll use this pan on your face."

"…I'm just surprised."

"By what?"

"That elves cook."

"Do you have some idiotic misconception about elves?" she said icily.

"We live long lives. We don't survive on photosynthesis." I was about to respond when Jessi beat me to it, propping her chin on one hand with the expression of someone who had front-row seats to exactly the entertainment she'd ordered.

"My, my," she said, drawing out the syllables, "sounds like someone had quite an eventful night." Her gaze made a deliberate circuit between me and Olivia, then she elongated her next words.

"Should I be addressing you as my la—oh, wait." She blinked with theatrical innocence.

"Have I been using the wrong form of address?" My eye twitched. Olivia didn't even pause. She simply beckoned.

"Jessi. Come here." Jessi approached with pure, delighted anticipation. Olivia leaned in and murmured something directly into her ear. What followed: Jessi's eyes went wide. Her shoulders began to shake. She clapped both hands over her mouth and slid directly off her chair. She actually rolled onto the floor.

"Young mas—cough—Lord Cedric," she wheezed between gasps, her face practically splitting from laughter.

"You—you actually believe in the stork—PFHAHAHAHAHA—" I stood motionless. Olivia remained beside me, expression composed to the point of innocence, though traces of suppressed amusement refused to be entirely contained. She had clearly taken the morning's bedsheet incident and distilled it into its most precise, devastating, and economical possible version. Wonderful. I hold her hand through the entire night and inspect the sheets at dawn. She immediately sells me to Jessi as breakfast entertainment.

The efficiency of noble affection. Truly impressive. At that moment, Alvira emerged from the kitchen with the final plate.

"What is wrong with you people this early—" She didn't finish. Jessi, still vibrating with laughter, scrambled upright, intercepted the plate, then rose on her toes to deliver rapid intelligence directly into Alvira's ear. Alvira went visibly still. The next instant, her expression cycled through three phases—disbelief, violent reddening of her ear tips, and finally pressing her lips together so hard she nearly drew blood, forcing back something that had been dangerously close to escaping.

She maintained her breeding, at least. She didn't join Jessi on the floor. She did, however, set the plate down with considerably more force than necessary, as if attempting to drive her amusement directly into the wood grain. I stood where I was, reflecting that there had been very few moments in my life when I'd wanted to depart for the south more urgently. At least dragons breathed fire. They didn't laugh like this.

"Wonderful," I said, looking between all three of them, voice perfectly flat.

"So you coordinated bright and early to use me as breakfast entertainment, is that it?" Jessi was still laughing, her entire body shaking with it.

"How could that be, Lord Cedric?" Jessi dabbed at the tears of laughter gathering at the corners of her eyes.

"It's simply the first time I've encountered someone who wakes up in the morning and feels compelled to inspect the bedsheets before anything else." Olivia gave a delicate cough and turned her face toward the window, suddenly finding the view outside extraordinarily fascinating. Alvira, meanwhile, arranged the silverware piece by methodical piece, her expression frozen in perfect indifference—though her ears had gone so thoroughly scarlet that the entire performance was utterly unconvincing.

The more I watched them, the more my irritation mounted.

"Fine," I said.

"Next time, let me return the favor. Especially for whoever's laughing the loudest." That only made Jessi laugh harder. She even had the audacity to give me a polite little wave, as if thanking a performer after a successful show.

"I don't think that would be quite fair, Lord Cedric," she gasped between fits of laughter.

"The stork only makes one delivery per night—it's hardly industrious enough to manage second and third stops just for your sake." That line was the one that finally broke the room entirely. Jessi dissolved into breathless hysterics. Olivia gripped the back of her chair, head tilted away as she fought a losing battle against her composure.

Even Alvira couldn't maintain her glacial front completely—her shoulders gave one small, traitorous tremor before she immediately snapped her expression back into place, assuming the dignified air of someone who had merely been inconvenienced by steam from the breakfast. And there I stood, surveying these three women, struck by the profound realization that life was absolutely overflowing with unnecessary humiliations.

Last night I had been taking imperial orders, signing what amounted to yet another indenture contract on my own soul to the South. This morning, the first thing I encountered upon coming downstairs was a conversation about storks. The most terrifying thing in this world has never been war. It's having someone witness your dawn sheet-inspection ritual—and then helpfully broadcasting that intelligence to the general public.

I closed my eyes for a moment, accepted my fate with the quiet dignity of the condemned, and pulled out a chair. Alvira set a plate of steaming breakfast before me with decisive finality. Her voice was flat as a blade.

"Eat." I looked up at her.

"You laughed just now."

"No, I didn't."

"I saw you."

"Then your eyes work considerably better than your brain," she replied without inflection. Jessi collapsed onto the table again. Olivia finally settled into the seat beside me, her voice barely above a murmur.

"Pay them no mind." I turned toward her. There was still laughter dancing in her eyes, but softer than the others'—softer in a way that was frankly infuriating.

"At the very least," she added in a whisper, "everyone now knows you were perfectly well-behaved last night." I held her gaze for two heartbeats, then lowered my head and picked up my knife and fork. Wonderful. She had just managed to transform my "innocence" into yet another form of public sentencing. This breakfast was going to be absolutely memorable.