Chương 121: 49-3. Embassy Roster

I stood at the table's edge and waited until she finished.

"If you want to say it," I said, "just say it." Victoria didn't look up.

"Why would I scold you?"

"Because I look very much like someone who deserves it."

"You always have," she said mildly.

"That's hardly news." I choked on that. Victoria finally lifted her eyes to meet mine.

"Cedric. Before last night, you were at most a newly legitimized bastard unlucky enough to catch the royal family's attention. From today on, that changes." Her gaze didn't waver.

"You're now someone walking out under a royal mandate. The greatest risk here isn't whether you can complete the mission. It's whether, somewhere along the way, you let yourself be whittled down into nothing more than an instrument in other people's hands." I didn't answer. Because that blade had landed too precisely. So precisely that even I didn't like admitting that was exactly the thing I feared most. She continued:"I'm not afraid of you taking losses. I'm not afraid of you bowing your head in the South.

Outside these walls, lowering your head is sometimes more useful than drawing a sword. What I fear is that you eventually forget why you're bowing at all—and only remember that you have to get things done for the Empire." She stepped closer and straightened my collar with precise, efficient movements. The gesture was small and brief, but it made my throat tighten for no good reason.

"You're not unclaimed property," she said quietly.

"Don't die looking more like it than before." I answered under my breath.

"Got it." She let go and stepped back, her expression sliding neatly back into that distant, unapproachable calm.

"Good." A beat.

"And don't trust Julian's face too much. Things that look like decorative vases sometimes come filled with poison."

"Weren't you calling him useless this afternoon?"

"I'm allowed to laugh," she said without a flicker.

"You're not allowed to believe it." That was perfectly in character. My sister had always had the infuriating habit of ridiculing people mercilessly while also forbidding me from actually underestimating them. Unfair—but useful. I was about to reply when two soft knocks sounded at the door.

"Come in," Victoria said. The door opened a sliver. Alvira stood there, a stack of thin booklets in one arm and a short, dagger-length knife in the other. She looked at me, then at Victoria, as if confirming there were no unnecessary displays of sentiment contaminating the room.

"I'll be brief," she said. Victoria tilted her chin and stepped aside. Alvira came to stand in front of me and shoved the stack of booklets into my hands first.

"Basic terms, taboos, and forms of address for the major southern tribes," she said.

"Don't posture like a capital aristocrat where respect isn't expected, and don't bring your Northern stubbornness to places where you're supposed to bow." She paused.

"And above all, don't carelessly touch anyone's fire."

"Fire?"

"The Dragon Kingdom isn't just saddled with an unfortunate name," Alvira said.

"In many regions, fire represents face, ancestry, oaths—even the marital bed. Say the wrong thing about it and you might accidentally propose marriage. Or accidentally declare war." I honestly couldn't decide whether to thank her first or start praying for my tongue's continued survival. She handed me the other item. It was a very slim knife, the sheathed blade unadorned except for a faint silver leaf pattern at the end.

"This isn't for fighting," she said.

"It's for cutting rope, breaking seals, slitting tents, or—if it comes to the worst—destroying whatever you're carrying that cannot be allowed to remain intact." I took it. It weighed almost nothing in my hand.

"Your gift-giving style is... unique."

"I'm not giving you anything," she said coolly.

"I'm trying to prevent you from dying unprepared." She hesitated then, eyes lingering on my face. For a moment it looked like she had more to say, but when she finally spoke, it compressed down into something even harder:"Don't trust people just because they're attractive. Especially not in the South." I nearly laughed.

"That seems a bit broad."

"Then learn to discriminate," she said, turning toward the door. She stopped at the threshold without looking back.

"And don't ever let Jessi handle negotiations alone. She'll win the deal, but you may not have any clothes left afterward." If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. When the door closed behind her, I looked down at the knife in my hand and couldn't help thinking how much it resembled her—thin, cold, allegedly meant to save lives, yet designed on the assumption that things would go wrong. Victoria glanced at me.

"Keep that blade close," she said.

"Anything Alvira parts with won't be useless."

"I know." That was what I said aloud. What I thought, however, was: why is everyone acting like it's a given that I'll end up in disaster, so the only rational thing to do is prepare the cleanup kit in advance? The irritating part was that they were probably right. Before and after dinner, the entire Blackwell estate shifted into motion around my southern departure. Lucas reworked the compression technique inscriptions into a more memorable format. Matthews took the roster and went hunting for weak links.

Jessi somehow produced two servants fluent in southern black market dialects and was squatting behind the kitchen, cheerfully wheedling information out of them. Victoria went in and out of the study multiple times, likely trimming every loose end she could cut from the capital's side before I left. After dinner, I finally had something resembling free time. I had barely returned to my room when a message came. Not from Victoria. Not from Jessi. Not from Alvira. From Olivia.

I followed the maid to a small study on the west side of the estate. The room was quiet at night, windows shut, lit only by two lamps. Several stacks of paper were already laid out on the desk, along with a long narrow wooden box, a small leather pouch, and a map of maritime routes rendered in intricate detail. Olivia sat at the desk, having changed out of the guest-appropriate dress she wore during the day. In its place, she had on a simple dark outfit, her hair half-tied.

She looked quieter than she had last night, and more like herself. When she saw me, she merely gestured toward the chair.

"Sit." I sat and glanced at the items on the desk.

"You hosting your own strategy meeting?"

"No," Olivia said.

"This is a private briefing." She slid the topmost roster toward me.

"I've marked the people in the South who actually handle money," she said.

"The rest—the ones who dress well and speak prettily—you can treat as background at first." I opened it. The pages were densely annotated. Some entries were ports, some were shipping magnates, some were cadet branches of noble families. Two names had been circled in the faintest ink, just shy of invisible.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"Those two," she said, "don't openly align with Yanxia. Privately, they're very likely reserving cargo space for them. If you notice anything suspicious about southern supply lines, start with them. You won't be far off." Her tone was utterly matter-of-fact. No dramatics, no emphasis. Which only made it clearer how much work sat under those notes. This wasn't something she'd thrown together for me after dinner. It was a network she'd been weaving, piece by piece, over time.

Tonight she was simply, quietly, handing me a section of it. She nudged the small leather pouch toward me next.

"Small private seals and coinage that'll spend in a few key places," she said.

"Not for indulgence. They're for moments when the deputy envoy and quartermaster can't be involved, but you still need a sliver of autonomy." I looked up at her.

"You're teaching me how to misbehave?"

"I'm teaching you," she replied without blinking, "not to document every single life-saving action for Imperial archives first." That landed perfectly. Like a soft slap across the Empire's beautifully made-up face. I tucked the pouch into my sleeve, suddenly at a loss for words. Olivia seemed to notice, because she opened the long wooden box herself. Inside lay a small silver seal—not Eisenberg's formal external signet, but something closer to a personal credential.

The design was stripped-down to the point of austerity.

"If you reach the South and truly have no choice but to borrow trade routes, vessels, or personal favors, take this to the three names at the end of the list." She tapped the bottom of the roster.

"They recognize this seal. And my ledger." My grip on the seal tightened slightly. This wasn't money, and it wasn't pleasant promises. It weighed more than either. Because it meant she had carved off a piece of her own network and put it in my hands.

"Doing this," I said quietly, "you're not afraid I'll drag you down with me?" Olivia held my gaze, her eyes calm and unhurried.

"Cedric," she said.

"Did you really think I brought you back last night just because I felt soft-hearted?" I said nothing. She lowered her eyes, closed the box, and spoke in a voice that was soft but steady.

"I like you. That's one matter." She didn't flinch over the words.

"Helping you is another. If you come back alive from this, you won't just be that bastard the Empire legitimized and then casually shipped south. You'll be someone people genuinely see." She looked up at me.

"And I don't intend to miss that version of you." My throat tightened. This woman was terrifying. She could talk about liking someone and still make it sound like a calculated investment—and the worst part was, every word was true. I looked down at the silver seal in my palm and took my time before answering.

"I spent all day looking at rosters, at escorts, at ledgers, at how everyone plans to use me," I said.

"Now you've handed me all this, and for the first time it feels like this trip isn't only other people gambling with me as their stake."

"It never was," she said. The study fell quiet. The lamplight was steady. The night outside was steady. Only the seal in my hand was cold, as if to remind me that after tomorrow, a great many things would begin to move in earnest. Olivia rose and came to stand before me. She took the seal and the pouch from my hand and tucked them into an inner pocket of my coat with careful, efficient motions.

"These things—the deputy envoy is better off not knowing about at all. The quartermaster only needs half the truth. The guard captain doesn't need to know any of it." Her fingers brushed the front of my coat once, resting there for a heartbeat.

"As for you—" She smoothed the fabric flat, her fingertip pausing over my chest.

"You just need to remember: if the South deteriorates to the point where Imperial words are worthless, there are still a few paths I've left open for you." I looked at her. An impulse rose—to reach out, to touch her, to do something, anything. It stalled halfway and turned into something smaller.

"Olivia."

"Yes?"

"When you do this," I said, "it makes me feel like I might actually make it back." She held my gaze, and the tight control she'd kept on her expression all evening finally loosened by a fraction.

"Then take that illusion with you," she said.

"Sometimes that's exactly what gets you through the first stretch." She withdrew her hand and stepped back, reoccupying that precise, careful distance she always maintained. I sat under the lamplight, looking at the papers she'd already arranged with such ruthless neatness, and it struck me that the entire day had really been the same story—on one side, the Empire preparing to send me out; on the other, these people wracking their brains to make sure I wasn't sent straight to my death.

And Olivia was the quietest—and the sharpest—of them all. She didn't tell me not to be afraid. She simply laid down every road she could find into the night ahead of me. I gathered the rosters, and as I rose, the lamplight flickered once. Olivia stood there, calm as ever, as if tonight had been nothing more than a routine exchange of trade data. But I knew better. What she'd handed me went far beyond that. A measure of personal stake. A measure of courage.

And a way out that was, in its own quiet way, more solid than the King's documents. At the door, I turned back to look at her. She didn't try to stop me. She only said, softly:"Cedric. Once you're back in your room, memorize all of it."

"All right."

"And one more thing."

"Hm?" She watched me, a small, familiar smile tugging faintly at her lips.

"This time," she said, "try not to check the bedsheets first." I stood there for a full two heartbeats. Then I lowered my head and laughed once, finally certain that this woman had never, at any point between last night and now, intended to let me off the hook. And yet because of that, by the time I walked back to my own room with the rosters and the silver seal, the cold knot in my chest that had never fully dissolved since last night had, somehow, truly loosened.