Lucien let out a long, world-weary sigh.
“Well,” he said, rubbing his temples, “this has been productive.”
He straightened, forcing a diplomatic smile as he addressed the still-silent chamber.
“It seems we may have started off on the wrong foot. I appreciate your attendance, your interest in our estate, and the… spirited proposals you’ve all provided.”
The smile tightened. “I’ll be reviewing each of them thoroughly and will reach back to each party in due time. For now, however, I believe it would be best to adjourn. A short break to reflect can often prevent long-term regret.”
He gestured politely toward the door.
“I thank you again. Safe travels back to your lodgings.”
There was a tense moment.
Then chairs scraped as the various representatives began to rise—some in a visible huff, brushing down their cloaks with exaggerated sighs, others silent and tight-lipped as they filed out without a word.
A few, to Lucien’s surprise, even stopped near the exit to murmur half-hearted apologies, more to Vaelira than him, before slipping away with the rest.
And then the room was empty.
Save for the three of them.
Terrin stood still beside the blackboard, arms folded, face unreadable.
He looked between Lucien and Vaelira, then exhaled slowly through his nose.
“I’ll ask plain,” he said. “Why’d you both do that?”
Lucien blinked.
“Do what?”
“Speak up. Risk turning them all against us. Deals’ll be harder now, and fewer. Might even come back to bite us harder than we can afford.”
Lucien didn’t answer immediately.
He looked down at the chalk-stained edge of the table, then back up at the old gardener.
“Then so be it,” he said.
“If that’s the price, we’ll manage something else. We’re not selling the orchard’s soul to men who laugh at the hands that keep it alive.”
Terrin tilted his head slightly, not in disagreement, but not in full acceptance either.
Vaelira stepped forward, her expression cool but firm.
“It’s not just about the orchard,” she said.
“It’s about the kind of business we intend to build. If they’ll mock and dismiss you—someone who works the roots of the Atherveil Reds, who breathes its life every day—then they mock all of us. The estate. Its people. What we’re trying to do.”
Her voice was calm, but resolute.
“I would rather rebuild with honorable ruin than flourish beside jackals.”
Terrin blinked once.
Vaelira allowed herself a small smile.
“And you helped us today, Terrin. You did more than you realize.”
She gave a graceful nod.
“Thanks to you, we now know exactly who not to do business with.”
Terrin grunted.
There was a flicker in his eyes—perhaps pride, perhaps concern.
He scratched at his beard and muttered something unintelligible before ambling off toward the door, leaving muddy footprints behind him without apology.
Lucien watched him go, then leaned back with a groan and whispered under his breath, “He’s right though. We’re going to have a hell of a time now.”
Vaelira looked at him, her tone neutral.
“We’ve narrowed our field of enemies. That’s always a good start.”
Lucien winced.
“Do all good starts hurt this much?”
“Yes,” she said, already walking away.
“But they don’t all end badly.”
The room had settled into a heavy stillness, the kind that lingered in the wake of raised voices and the slow unraveling of hope.
The blackboard still bore chalk scars of Lucien’s diagrams.
The seats were left misaligned, like an abandoned battlefield, and the scent of expensive tea now gone cold filled the silence.
Lucien sat with his hands steepled, eyes downcast as the last traces of adrenaline faded from his system.
Vaelira stood by the long windows, her arms folded, her gaze distant as she traced something across the horizon that neither of them could see.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then, hurried footsteps echoed down the hall.
They turned just as Sir Richardson burst back into the room.
The door slammed against the wall, trembling on its hinges, and the older man stood frozen at the threshold.
His face was pale—far paler than either of them had ever seen—and his chest rose and fell in tight, uneven breaths.
Sweat glistened at his brow despite the morning chill.
Lucien’s voice broke the silence, sharp and wary.
“…What is it?”
Richardson’s eyes darted to Lucien, then Vaelira, and then back again.
He opened his mouth, but no words came out for a heartbeat.
Then, finally, he swallowed thickly and spoke.
“They… They were waiting.”
Lucien blinked.
“Who was?”
“The Everwind representative.”
That name alone shifted the air in the room like a sudden storm front.
Richardson licked his lips.
“They stayed behind. Didn’t enter. Didn’t speak. Just waited for the others to leave.”
Lucien stood slowly.
His joints screamed in protest, but he barely heard them.
“They said,” Richardson continued, voice trembling slightly, “that if you’re not too tired of charlatans and dramatics… they’d like a word. That is, of course, if we wish to listen.”
A long pause.
Vaelira turned her head toward Lucien.
Her expression didn’t change, but her fingers had curled tighter around her sleeve.
The silence stretched.
Lucien exhaled, then reached for the back of his chair and steadied himself.
***
A knock—measured, deliberate—cut through the thick silence of the room like a scalpel.
All three inside jolted.
Lucien nearly knocked over his tea.
Vaelira’s eyes flicked sharply to the door, her body tensing ever so slightly.
And Richardson, poor Richardson, twitched as if someone had fired a crossbow bolt past his ear.
The voice that followed was calm, even pleasant, but unmistakably firm.
“Permission to enter?”
Lucien blinked, glancing at the others.
When no one moved, he cleared his throat and raised his voice.
“…Granted.”
The door opened without a sound, revealing a figure standing just beyond its frame.
And she—was nothing like any of the preening, perfumed vultures who had just vacated the premises.
She stepped inside with the quiet confidence of someone used to walking into unwelcoming rooms and not giving a damn.
Her boots were mud-slicked and worn at the edges, the heavy leather creaking faintly with every step.
Her trousers were tucked in tight, durable and dust-stained.
A dark green coat hung from her shoulders, reinforced at the seams and shoulders with what looked like travel padding—no frills, no silks, no pretense.
Everything about her spoke of function, not form.
Her shirt was simple, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms lined with faint calluses and a few old, pale scars.
A leather-bound notebook rested under one arm, and a multipurpose satchel clung to her side with metal clasps shaped like tiny gears and locks.
There were ink stains on her fingers and a foldable surveying scope clipped to her belt.
The only ornament she bore was the small silver pin affixed to her left shoulder—a dragon’s head in profile, mouth closed, horns curling back.
Polished, but not gaudy.
A quiet declaration.
She stopped a few paces in, gave them all a respectful but brisk nod.
“Thalia Fey. Junior Inspector, Everwind Trade Association. Assigned regional analyst for the Western Orchard Belt.”
Her voice had the precise cadence of someone used to being misunderstood and correcting people before they even spoke.
Then she looked between the three of them, her expression polite—but focused.
“I believe we have some business to discuss.”
***
Thalia Fey stood poised in the now-quiet chamber, the door clicking softly shut behind her.
The scent of ink and dust followed her in, mingling with the fading aroma of over-steeped tea and tension.
She didn’t waste time.
“The delegation originally assigned to this visit was awaiting the formal affirmation from the D’Claire administrative office,” she began, voice as precise as her posture.
“However, due to the… premature arrival of the local merchant factions—none of which informed us of their intentions, I might add—we were forced to act quickly.”
She adjusted the strap of her satchel.
“As I happened to be conducting a topographical and yield decay analysis near the Velden Strata region, I was the closest certified agent able to respond within the required observation window.”
Lucien’s eyes twitched slightly at “yield decay,” but she continued.
“I should clarify that while I have handled trade negotiations before and possess the necessary authority for interim agreements, my primary designation is in land and resource valuation. Geographic diagnostics. Soil, climate, crop potential, mineral throughput—those are my particular specialties.”
A slight pause.
“So if this arrangement seems substandard for your expectations, I extend my formal apologies.”
She gave a short, practiced bow—not one of submission, but protocol.
Lucien blinked.
Then blinked again.
“Oh, no, no, not at all,” he said hastily, standing straighter and waving a hand as if brushing away the notion.
“That’s… perfectly understandable. We’re honored you made the time. No need to apologize—we’re not offended.”
He turned, subtly, toward Vaelira and Richardson.
Vaelira had on her court-perfect smile—serene, controlled, and colder than a banker’s heart.
Richardson, on the other hand, looked like a man who had spent the last hour scrubbing metaphorical vomit from the walls only to be told the Emperor was coming for dinner.
His eye twitched.
Twice.
Lucien coughed once into his fist.
“No one. Offended. At all.”
Vaelira inclined her head by exactly three degrees.
Richardson nodded like his neck was under duress.
Thalia’s eyes flicked between them, not missing a beat.
She said nothing—but her gaze lingered for just long enough to confirm she had, in fact, noticed everything.
“Then,” she said with an almost imperceptible raise of her brow, “with your permission, I’ll begin my assessment with a few clarifying questions about the estate’s projected restoration timeline, resource flow, and existing labor structure.”
Lucien smiled, forcing confidence into his aching bones.
“Of course, Miss Fey. We would be happy to assist.”
He glanced at the others.
They were going to need stronger tea.
***
Lucien, with an attentive nod and the faintest spark of relief in his eyes, gestured for Thalia Fey to proceed.
Finally—finally—someone who spoke in structured sentences and didn’t demand bespoke jasmine-honey-rosemary-pumpkin-spiced tea or try to turn his orchard into a strip mine disguised as a cider brewery.
Her words were clear.
Her outfit was practical.
She hadn’t sneered once.
This was progress.
He straightened his aching back and tried to mask the wince as the vertebrae protested like rusty piano keys being stepped on by a goat.
Unbeknownst to Lucien, this was the precise moment his two companions—Vaelira and Sir Richardson—arrived at utterly opposite but equally incorrect conclusions.
For Lucien, Thalia was simply a breath of fresh air in a sea of smug-faced economic predators.
He had, of course, heard of the Everwind Trade Association—if only vaguely.
In the visual novel, they’d been background dressing.
Mentioned once or twice in a flavor text panel.
Probably a guild or something, right?
He didn’t know about the contracts that bent kingdoms.
He didn’t know about the silent collapses of noble houses who “partnered” with the Everwinds and were later found muttering in abandoned vineyards about logarithmic interest rates and clause 43B-7.
He didn’t know any of that.
But Vaelira did.
At least, some of it.
Enough to understand that having anyone from the Everwinds appear personally was not a minor courtesy—it was like a glacier politely knocking on your window.
And Richardson?
Richardson knew everything.
The moment Thalia Fey had said her name, he had, internally, drawn up a prayer to every forgotten god and a retirement plan involving a cabin, a goat, and a 5.8 meters long rope.
The fact that Lucien was smiling and conversing with her like a perfectly reasonable human being—and not the harbinger of fiscal annihilation—was giving him chest palpitations.
And so, from these incompatible facts, the two clawed toward understanding.
Vaelira observed Lucien with a glint of new respect.
Not even a twitch.
No cold sweat.
No stammering.
‘So,’ she thought, ‘he has faced power before. His time in the capital must have hardened him. Perhaps I might have underestimated him.’
Meanwhile, Richardson stared, slack-jawed and pale, as Lucien complimented Thalia’s field experience and asked about her topographical readings.
His thoughts?
‘He’s possessed. That’s the only explanation. Or he takes after his mother. Stars preserve us.’
Lucien, of course, was entirely unaware of all this.
He was just happy not to be explaining the concept of apple grading to someone who thought ‘orchard’ was a fancy word for ‘apple-themed casino.’
“Miss Fey,” he said, full of diplomatic earnestness, “you have no idea how refreshing it is to speak to someone who actually knows what the hell they’re doing.”
Vaelira folded her hands, smiling gently.
‘He’s unshaken. Composed. Even confident. Impressive.’
Richardson swallowed hard.
‘He’s going to sell the estate to them for a silver coin and a bag of dirt.’
Thalia, for her part, merely adjusted her satchel and replied, “That remains to be seen, sir.”
Lucien beamed.
The others twitched.
And so the scene was set: one man blissfully ignorant, two companions trying not to faint for completely different reasons, and a dragon-pin-wearing surveyor wondering why her arrival was making the air so dense with unspoken horror.