(A/N: this chapter is long enough I suppose)
By the time the group arrived in the capital, the sun was dipping low on the horizon, casting long golden rays across the rooftops and towers. The sky had turned a soft gradient of pale crimson and amber, its last light diffused through drifting clouds. The city's cobbled streets were already falling into shadow, the lamplighters beginning their rounds, and a gentle wind carried the scent of distant hearths and fresh bread through the alleys. The capital was alive, but quiet in its transition from day to night.
According to the most recent letter, Roswaal was waiting for them at a building he had arranged beforehand—something he had apparently done well in advance. It wasn't surprising. Roswaal always preferred to be ten steps ahead of any game.
The moment Ram and Rem heard the destination, they exchanged a glance and took the reins with unspoken understanding. They remembered this area from a previous visit and knew exactly where to go. Without hesitation, they guided the carriage through the maze of city streets, their movements fluid and assured.
Inside the carriage, the mood had settled into a calm stillness. Subaru leaned slightly to the side, glancing toward Emilia in the dim light that filtered through the curtains.
"Mili," he began softly, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb Beatrice, who was dozing soundly against his shoulder. "Where exactly are we headed again?"
Emilia looked over at him and gave a small, knowing smile. Her voice was soft, almost nostalgic.
"Do you remember when we came here to rally support for my candidacy? That night we spent in the city? We stayed in the same building we're headed to now. Roswaal owns it—or at least has kept it in reserve. I doubt anyone else has touched it since."
Subaru nodded slowly, his gaze turning to the window for a beat. The orange glow outside flickered across his face. Then he turned back to Emilia, his expression slightly more serious now.
"When we get there... would you go on a walk with me? Just for a bit. Just us."
Emilia blinked in surprise, tilting her head curiously. "Hm? Of course, Subaru. I'd actually love that. We barely had time to just talk lately. But… why the sudden interest? Did something happen?"
Subaru gave a gentle shrug, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. "Nothing happened. Or rather, nothing yet. I just… want to have a quiet moment with you before things possibly get messy tomorrow."
Emilia's expression softened. A faint blush colored her cheeks, and her smile, though shy, was radiant. "Then it's a promise. I'll hold you to it."
Moments later, the carriage came to a stop before a modest but elegant building tucked behind a wrought iron gate and a short stretch of tiled garden path. The fading light gave the place a nostalgic glow. As they approached the entrance, a tall, colorfully dressed figure stood waiting with folded arms and a familiar smirk.
"Ahhh... what a pleasure to see you all once again," came the unmistakable theatrical drawl. "Welcome back... Emilia-sama, Beatrice, Puck—and of course, Subaru-kun~"
His mismatched eyes glinted under the lantern light. Roswaal's voice still carried its usual playfulness, but underneath it was a subtle shift—something a little more grounded than usual.
The group disembarked. Ram and Rem moved efficiently to unload their supplies, their coordination seamless as ever. Emilia carefully shifted Beatrice from Subaru's shoulder, gently rousing her with a whisper. Beatrice grumbled but stirred. Puck hovered nearby in his spirit form, looking equally sleepy but alert.
Subaru, as he stepped down, took a long glance around the area. The exterior of the building was just as he remembered—eccentric, in a Roswaal sort of way—but well-maintained. Inside, the entry hall retained its odd decorations and dim candlelit ambience. The scent of lavender and old paper lingered faintly in the air.
Just as Subaru was brushing some road dust off his sleeves, Roswaal's voice echoed once more from further inside the hall.
"Subaru-kuuun~ We have something very... very important to talk about, you and I. Matters most delicate and pressing."
There was a lightness in his tone, as always, but this time it was tightly coiled around something heavier. Subaru's chest tightened slightly. He could feel that this wasn't just Roswaal being dramatic—there was weight behind the words.
"What are you plotting now, Roswaal..." Subaru muttered under his breath.
He turned toward Emilia, who was now fully focused on him, her violet eyes reflecting the warm light.
"I'll be back soon, Mili," he whispered, just loud enough for her to hear.
She gave a soft nod and a reassuring smile. "I'll be waiting, Subaru~ Don't take too long."
With that, he followed the sound of Roswaal's footsteps deeper into the halls of the strange, familiar building—toward whatever truths waited for him inside
Subaru drew in a deep, steadying breath as he started down the corridor toward Roswaal. The air in the stone hallway was cool and still, and each of Subaru's footsteps echoed like whispers of something inevitable. The weight of whatever conversation lay ahead pressed against his chest with growing intensity.
"Roswaal never says something is important unless it actually is... and that usually means trouble," he thought grimly, his eyes narrowing slightly.
At the far end of the hallway, Roswaal stood waiting like a figure out of a painted scene—still, composed, and ever the enigma. His mismatched eyes, vibrant and unreadable, followed Subaru's approach with quiet calculation. When Subaru finally came to a stop, Roswaal's lips curled into a faint, theatrical smile as he spoke:
"Subaru-kun... Tomorrow, I would like you to give a speech."
Subaru blinked. Of all the things he'd expected, that hadn't made the list.
Roswaal continued, his voice mellow yet carrying a decisive undertone: "You see, the mind behind such revolutionary inventions, those clever systems and forward-thinking ideas... can't remain hidden in the shadows forever."
He folded his hands behind his back as he paced a step forward, eyes still on Subaru: "During my previous discussions with the nobility, I refrained from mentioning your name. I had hoped to keep you somewhat anonymous. But... the situation has changed. I believe it's time you received proper recognition."
Subaru stared at the ground for a moment, his brows furrowing in concentration. A storm of emotions flickered behind his eyes—self-doubt, surprise, apprehension.
"I'm... terrible at public speaking," came the echoing thought, clear and merciless.
And just as that anxiety threatened to dig deeper into him, a familiar voice stirred in the back of his mind. Cold, sharp, and yet unwaveringly calm:
"Repeat only what I've taught you, Natsuki Subaru. They cannot challenge truths that aren't yours." Flugel. Always watching, always waiting. That voice was not one of cruelty—it was a mantle of strength.
Subaru's shoulders relaxed slightly. He dipped his head—not out of submission, but quiet resolve. His voice, when it came, was steady and clear: "I accept, Roswaal. I'll do my part. I'll speak, and I'll mean every word of it. But... I have one condition."
Roswaal arched a brow, intrigued, a spark of mischief returning to his tone: "Oh my~? And what might that be, Subaru-kun?"
Subaru folded his arms over his chest, standing a bit taller now. His dark eyes met Roswaal's directly, no trace of hesitation in them:
"When Emilia's camp is presented tomorrow... I want you to emphasize something specific. This isn't just a political force. We are backed by not one, but two of the five Great Spirits in the world."
He let the words hang in the air deliberately before continuing:
"That fact alone will shift the mood in that hall. It'll cause a stir. We should be ready to make that stir work in our favor."
Roswaal's expression froze for a heartbeat. Then, in a much quieter voice, he asked: "Subaru-kun... We all know Puck is a Great Spirit. But... is there another one?"
Subaru gave a small, almost teasing smirk. There was pride in it—sharp and hard-earned:
"I've made a temporary pact with Beatrice. She's agreed to support our cause. So when we speak of the Emilia camp, don't talk about ideals alone. Talk about the power that stands with us. The magic that will change the future."
Roswaal's theatrical mask cracked ever so slightly. His eyes widened, just a bit. Surprise flickered in his gaze like the brief glint of a knife under light.
"Beatrice's chosen one... could it truly be this boy?" he wondered silently.
But speculation could wait. The moment demanded action. He gave a small bow, respectful and sincere:
"Understood, Subaru-kun. I shall proudly present that fact tomorrow. It will... certainly leave an impression."
Then, with a dramatic swirl of his coat, Roswaal turned on his heel.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I must prepare~"
He drifted away down the hallway, his steps almost soundless, vanishing like a ghost swallowed by the building's shadows.
Subaru watched him go, exhaled softly, and let a dry chuckle escape his lips. The tension in his chest was still there—but it had changed. Less dread, more anticipation.
He made his way out of the building, into the night air.
The breeze was brisk, laced with the scent of old stone and blooming flowers. He glanced around quickly, his eyes searching for one person—and finding her immediately.
Emilia was walking slowly along the cobblestone path, her hands folded in front of her, her expression peaceful. The flowers climbing the garden walls swayed gently in the wind beside her, and a bench sat just ahead, kissed in silver light.
Moonlight spilled over her hair, turning it to threads of shining silver. The night air wrapped around her like a soft shawl, painting her figure with a kind of quiet majesty.
Subaru's breath caught briefly at the sight.
"Tomorrow... everything begins," he whispered. And with new purpose, he took his first step toward her.
Subaru sat down beside her quietly, only a few steps behind, his presence folding into the soft quiet of the evening. The night was still, save for the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant call of a nightbird.
"I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long," he said gently, his voice barely rising above a whisper.
Emilia shook her head with a calm smile, her amethyst eyes drifting toward him, catching the shimmer of moonlight.
"No... But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious about what Roswaal had to say." She gave a small, knowing grin and added, "Your face gave away a little more than you think."
Subaru exhaled, a half-laugh slipping through his lips. He gave a small shrug as if to say you caught me, then looked down at the stone path. "He wants me to speak at tomorrow's gathering."
Emilia blinked, her eyebrows rising in surprise, and for a moment, the air around her seemed to brighten. "Really? That's amazing! We've achieved so much thanks to you—I think people deserve to hear it from the one who helped make it happen."
Subaru lowered his head a little, a modest smile touching his face, though his expression was shadowed with hesitation.
"But standing in front of all those people... it's not something I've ever been good at. That feeling when everyone's eyes are on you, waiting to hear something profound—it's terrifying. My voice might crack, my hands might shake..."
Then, after a moment's pause, his gaze lifted, more resolute now.
"But I can't run from it. Not if I really believe in what we're doing. If I'm part of your camp, then this burden is mine to carry too."
Emilia's smile softened, tinged with sympathy and something deeper—understanding. Her expression grew more serious, her tone more intimate.
"You know, Subaru… I feel the same. Not just about speaking. About everything. Everywhere I go, I feel eyes on me. I hear the whispers. The nobles never stop judging, especially when they see me—a half-elf. To them, I'm just a reminder of something they fear or hate."
Subaru's hands curled slowly into fists. He looked directly at her, voice unwavering.
"They might see you as a shadow of the past. But I've seen the light you bring. I know how bright your future can be. And tomorrow, we're going to show them. We won't just tell them who you are—we'll prove it."
Emilia's lips parted slightly, her breath catching. There was a flicker of astonishment in her eyes, but it gave way to a deep, glowing trust.
"Tomorrow's not just another speech. It's the moment every candidate defines what they stand for. Their dreams, their vision… their truth. And we'll share ours."
Subaru gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"And what we'll show won't just be promises sewn from pretty words. We're offering real, tangible change: A system that can double the yield of farms, Windmills that harvest the power of the sky, Machines that stitch fabric faster and better than hands ever could.
We're not just dreaming of the future—we're building it."
His eyes darkened slightly, and his voice grew quieter, more personal.
"And there's more, Emilia. Innovations that will touch every corner of life here. But... some of it isn't ready to be revealed. Not yet. That time will come, and when it does, we'll be ready."
A long moment passed in silence, filled with the hush of night. The petals on nearby flowers swayed gently in the breeze, brushing against the stone walls. Somewhere far off, the cry of another nightbird echoed softly.
Subaru finally broke the quiet.
"Emilia… no matter what happens tomorrow, I'll be there. Even if they don't understand you, I will. Even if they doubt you, I'll believe in you. Not because of what you represent—but because of who you are. You can change this kingdom. Not someday. Now. Just by being you."
Emilia turned to him slowly. Her gaze shimmered as emotion welled up behind it, her voice barely above a breath.
"The way you always defend me, without hesitation... it makes me feel stronger than I ever thought I could be."
Subaru smirked playfully, the mood lifting slightly.
"Then I guess that means I've already won tonight."
Their laughter was soft and fleeting, yet full of sincerity. They lingered in the quiet that followed, shoulder to shoulder.
Above them, the moon had risen high, casting its silver light over the gardens and the figures sitting close beneath it.
And though no more words passed between them, something deeper did—a quiet, steady current of understanding, trust, and warmth.
By morning, a quiet tension had taken hold of the mansion.
Sunlight crept through the grey stone walls of the royal capital, slipping into the rooms like soft fingers. Within, a flurry of preparation filled the space with an unspoken urgency. Time seemed to press down on everyone like an invisible weight.
Ram stood silently behind Emilia, carefully tending to her gown. Her fingers moved with practiced grace, smoothing out the final fold in the satin fabric. The iron let out a soft hiss as it erased the last wrinkle. Golden morning light filtered through the window, casting gentle shadows across her face. Her expression was focused, yet her eyes held a quiet pride — the kind that came from standing beside someone she truly respected.
The room was filled with a warm silence. The gentle hiss of steam mingled with the rustle of fabric, forming a rhythm as soft and steady as a heartbeat.
Meanwhile, Rem stepped forward slowly, carrying a striking yet elegant outfit in her arms. She held it close to her chest, almost protectively, as if trying to preserve its warmth. Her footsteps were inaudible on the carpet. Her eyes flicked from Subaru's hands to his face — a flicker of vulnerability glinting in their blue depths. It wasn't fear, but a quiet earnestness only possible when something was made from the heart.
"Subaru-kun..." she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Thanks to the sewing machine you made, I was able to sew this for you. I hope you'll like it."
Her smile wasn't rehearsed. It wasn't the practiced courtesy of a maid or the politeness of duty. It was a smile born from pride — the kind forged in sleepless nights, in careful measurements, and stitches sewn with unwavering care. Her shoulders relaxed slightly as she smiled, and a faint glimmer at the corner of her eyes betrayed the openness of her heart.
Subaru looked down at the vivid outfit. He took a deep breath before reaching out and brushing the fabric with his fingers, and something warm stirred within him. The cloth was soft, yet it held a firmness — the elegance of a warrior's mantle.
The jacket was predominantly black, but orange embroidery shimmered gently in the sunlight. The patterns danced like flames or leaves caught in the wind, as if painted by an artist who understood Subaru's soul. The stitching on the sleeves carried the crisp lines of a soldier's uniform, while the subtle trim and practical pockets gave it a refined functionality.
It was like a modern echo of Reinhard's formal attire — evolved, yet tailored for a story only Subaru could tell.
It was, in a word, breathtaking. "Thank you, Rem," Subaru said, his voice thick with emotion. "You put so much care into this. I... I'm really touched."
There was more gratitude than joy in his voice — the quiet kind that came when someone showed you you mattered, without needing to say it aloud. This wasn't just clothing. It was a vow.
Rem, her cheeks now tinged with pink, responded gently.
Her voice wasn't focused on herself — it moved only toward Subaru, and the moment they now shared.
"I-it's nothing, Subaru-kun..." She drew in a small breath. "But I'd be happy... if you wore it."
Subaru took the outfit in his arms, holding it as if it were something precious.
"Of course I'll wear it! I'll be back in just a minute," he said, stepping out of the room.
As he left, Rem took a silent step forward. Her feet made no sound, but her intent was clear. Her gaze turned to Beatrice, who sat near the window. The girl wore her usual expression of aloof detachment, shoulders squared as she gazed outside. The pale sunlight caught in her golden hair, turning the strands into threads of light. Beyond the window, the early autumn sky shimmered. Birds chirped, and a gentle breeze stirred the curtains — a quiet prelude to the day ahead.
Rem approached Beatrice gently,: "Beatrice-sama, I made this outfit for you as well."
In her hands was a garment that shimmered subtly under the ambient light—a dress crafted from black and orange fabric, woven so finely it seemed to breathe. She extended it carefully, as though it were a sacred relic. The dress was tailored to suit Beatrice's petite frame, its short sleeves trimmed with fine lace, the hem fluttering with delicate tulle frills, and every inch adorned with meticulous, glittering embroidery. It looked both ceremonial and charming, like something that belonged to a child of royalty—or a young guardian of ancient power.
"It was designed to complement Subaru-kun's outfit... Roswaal-sama was very specific in his instructions. Please, Beatrice-sama, wear it for today's important meeting."
Beatrice's large eyes narrowed slightly, her gaze shifting from the dress to Rem's expression. Her small fingers reached out and brushed the fabric gently. She examined the embroidery with a scholar's curiosity and an artisan's appreciation, her fingertips tracing the orange patterns that danced like firelight upon the dark canvas.
The colors—black like a moonless night and orange like flickering flame—spoke of contrast, but also of harmony. Light born in shadow.
"Hmph..." she muttered, the sound part resistance, part reluctant approval. "Betty will... try it on, I suppose. For the sake of your effort."
Her tone was frosty, but it wavered—only slightly—at the end. To anyone else, it might seem dismissive. But to Rem, who had grown to understand the rhythms of Beatrice's emotional defenses, the subtle shift was unmistakable. It was gratitude—real and wordless.
Rem smiled, a quiet, warm smile that didn't seek acknowledgment. She bowed her head slightly, as if sealing an unspoken promise between them. She asked for nothing more.
At that very moment, the door behind them opened with a soft creak.
Subaru stepped into the room.
The outfit he wore was sharp and striking—black trimmed in vibrant orange, tailored to his form like it had been conjured for him alone. The fabric clung just right to his shoulders and fell in clean lines to his boots. The palette matched his raven hair and dark eyes, highlighting his every movement with subtle flare. He looked dignified, even elegant.
But his face—his eyes—still held that faint fragility. A ghost of doubt. A shadow of all he had endured.
Rem's gaze softened. She took a few careful steps toward him. Her hands rose slowly and reached his collar, smoothing a small wrinkle with a precision that seemed almost ceremonial.
"It suits you very well, Subaru-kun..." Her voice came like the gentle hum of a lullaby. "But you need to be mindful of your collar. No matter how brave the heart, a wrinkled collar can betray the spirit."
Subaru chuckled under his breath, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. He met her eyes with quiet affection, his body still under her touch. There was something deeply grounding in that moment—a shared calm before the storm.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. Her fingers moved with care, as though she were memorizing his presence, piece by piece.
Rem moved around him slowly, inspecting the alignment of the outfit. Her eyes took in every seam, every drape of fabric. She adjusted the folds falling from his shoulders, ensured the orange stripes at his cuffs were symmetrical, and realigned the lines that flowed down to his boots. Her movements were precise, reverent.
Now, the ensemble was no longer just neat—it was immaculate.
Rem finally stopped in front of him. Her gaze met his. For a moment, nothing else in the world mattered.
Subaru took a deep breath. The warmth of her fingers still lingered on his skin, a memory that hadn't yet faded. He straightened his back, standing taller—not just because of the outfit, but because of her.
And in that breath of silence— Arms wrapped around him.
It was gentle, unexpected, but unmistakably familiar. Rem had stepped forward, embraced him, and drawn him into a warmth he had once feared lost forever.
It wasn't a stranger's hug. It wasn't forced. It was remembrance.
"Thank you, Rem," he whispered. His voice cracked, as if words alone weren't enough. "This... means more than I can say."
He returned the embrace, his arms folding around her in a motion so natural it felt inevitable. His eyes closed, and deep inside, something broke—something old. A quiet ache, buried under countless regrets, stirred and fractured.
In that past life… Rem had awakened, yes. But her eyes were vacant. She had forgotten him entirely.
He had called her name. She had looked at him with silence.
But now—
Here. In this quiet room. In this embrace. There was something. A spark. A whisper in the soul. Something that still knew him. Something that still cared.
Rem's hold grew tighter. It was an answer beyond language. A vow forged in silence, echoing with loyalty that defied time itself.
They stood like that for a long moment. The world slowed.
And then— "Will the two of you stop hugging already and help Betty, I suppose!!"
Beatrice's sharp voice cut through the air like a blade slicing silk.
Rem jumped, startled, her cheeks blooming with sudden color. She let go quickly and scampered over to Beatrice with flustered energy, her previous grace momentarily replaced by frantic motion.
Still blushing, Rem assisted Beatrice in slipping into the dress.
The transformation was almost magical. The black fabric shimmered like the midnight sky, and the orange motifs seemed to pulse with enchantment. The lines of the garment, flowing from her shoulders to the floor, gave Beatrice an imposing presence—elegant, noble, and subtly menacing.
She looked like a young queen of shadows, clad in flame-touched mystery.
Rem stepped back, admiring her work. Beatrice turned, inspecting herself in the mirror with a small, reluctant nod.
Final preparations were complete.
Without even glancing in the mirror, Beatrice strode toward Subaru. Her eyes flicked to him now and then, watching for a reaction with almost imperceptible anticipation—but she'd never admit it aloud. Her footsteps were light but purposeful, the hem of her gown fluttering like a whisper of magic.
Subaru turned as she approached, and the moment their eyes met, a gentle smile formed on his lips. "You look amazing, Beako," he said warmly. "We're officially a matching pair now." His voice carried a sincere gravity, the kind that softened hearts. "I'm sure no one will miss the fact that you're the most enchanting spirit in the room tonight."
He knew her well—Beatrice longed to be seen, to be acknowledged. And by offering her that affirmation now, in this quiet moment before the storm, he gave her a gift of unspoken grace.
Beatrice inhaled delicately, a small but satisfied sigh escaping her lips. "Betty is always magnificent, obviously," she said, raising her chin with pride. But there was a subtle warmth in her voice, a softness tucked just beneath the bravado that didn't go unnoticed.
With a mischievous glint in his eyes, Subaru stepped in and—despite her protests—lifted her effortlessly, setting her gently onto his shoulder.
"What do you think you're doing, I suppose!? Put Betty down this instant!!" she protested loudly. Her tone was sharp, dramatic—but not truly angry. It was the high-pitched whine of a child demanding justice, not a real reprimand.
Subaru gave a long, theatrical sigh, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Beako, you and I need to stick close during the meeting. As my contracted spirit, you'll be the center of attention. We might as well lean into it."
Beatrice didn't answer immediately. There was a pause, a brief stretch of silence where her expression betrayed a flicker of emotion. Then she spoke, voice lower now: "Hmph... It would help if you stopped treating Betty like a child."
Yet she didn't move to get down. On the contrary—she shifted slightly to get more comfortable on his shoulder. Her acceptance was quiet but telling.
From across the room, Rem stood silently, her presence gentle but clear. Her eyes held a soft gleam, and the corners of her mouth lifted in a fond smile. She chuckled under her breath and tilted her head with quiet affection.
Just then, the door creaked open.
Emilia stepped inside. She was radiant.
Draped in a gown of pale blue and white, her dress flowed like morning mist around her, trailing gently across the floor. Blue crystal embellishments twinkled like frost kissed by sunrise. The colors harmonized perfectly with her silver hair, and with each step, the light seemed to follow her.
For a heartbeat, no one dared breathe.
Subaru's gaze locked on her—captivated. "Mili... you look incredible," he said, voice hushed and reverent.
Emilia offered a gentle smile, her eyes flitting between Subaru and Beatrice perched on his shoulder. "You look quite handsome yourself, Subaru." Then, with a slight purse of her lips and a glint of mischief, she added: "But don't you dare talk to any other girls at the meeting. It might... end poorly for you."
Her tone was teasing—but there was a spark beneath it, half playful, half protective.
Subaru chuckled lightly. "Understood. My loyalty will remain with my spirit companions," he said, winking toward Beatrice.
She snorted and turned away—but not before a rosy hue crept up her cheeks. Her silence was an unspoken approval.
Time moved forward. The moment to leave had come.
Roswaal had requested their presence in the courtyard, where the transportation awaited.
What stood there was no ordinary carriage.
An ornate, spellbound chariot awaited them—drawn by two colossal Earth Dragons, their scales shimmering with ancient strength. The carriage itself gleamed with silver-trimmed wood, its wheels carved from polished crystal. Magical runes glowed faintly along the sides, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Roswaal stood by the vehicle.
At first glance, he appeared unchanged. But a closer look revealed subtle shifts: his makeup was thicker, carefully applied; his garments darker, more somber—deep violets and shadowed grays embroidered with arcane patterns. He looked less like a jester, and more like a lord heading into war.
This wasn't a typical day for him either. And everyone knew it.
Today… the order of the world would tremble. The balance would shift.
Emilia, Subaru, Beatrice, and Roswaal each climbed into the carriage. Though their hearts beat to different rhythms, their destination was the same: The capital's council chamber—a place where history spoke through silence, and futures were forged with words.
At the front, Rem took her place, gripping the reins with quiet determination. Before signaling the dragons, she glanced over her shoulder.
"Subaru-kun," she said softly. Her voice carried warmth—but also something else. A quiet sorrow. "Nee-sama and I won't be attending the meeting. But... we'll be rooting for you. All of you."
Beside the carriage, Ram stood straight, her gaze fixed on Roswaal like a hawk. "Roswaal-sama, I wish you success in the council." Her voice was calm and formal—but her eyes burned with pride, fierce and unwavering. She looked like a knight seeing off her king.
With a firm pull, Rem guided the dragons forward.
The earth trembled under their steps.
Stone met claw with deep, echoing resonance. The sounds of movement grew—a rumble, a whisper of something vast and looming.
Silence blanketed the world for a moment.
The creaking wheels and scraping stone reverberated through the air, each turn of the axle a declaration of destiny.
And beneath it all… hearts pounded, quickening with the weight of what was to come.
At the end of the long cobbled path, where morning light bathed the ancient stones in gold, the royal palace loomed in quiet majesty. It was more than a building—it was a monument carved by time itself, bearing the weight of centuries within its silent, unmoving walls. Golden-gilded gates stood proud and imposing before them, tall as towers, gleaming in the early sun.
The royal guards flanking the entrance were lined up like silver statues, armor catching the light in sharp flares. Faces emotionless. Bodies unmoving. But their eyes—those told stories. Observing. Judging. Calculating.
As the Emilia camp neared the palace, the crowd that had gathered outside began to shift, not with noise, but with quiet intensity. Murmurs passed like invisible winds, and attention drew like a magnet.
Inside the ornate carriage, Subaru hesitated, then reached out to part the side curtain ever so slightly. Through the narrow gap, he scanned the growing sea of faces.
Some of them stared at Emilia—faces fixed, eyes shaded with suspicion or unease. Her silver hair, pale skin, and flowing blue-and-white dress made her appear otherworldly. And to many, that wasn't just appearance. That was history.
"A half-elf…" Their gazes seemed to murmur, whispers wrapped in silence, laced with memory and fear.
Other eyes landed on Subaru. A young man, plainly not noble. Not marked by title or blood. But standing—no, riding—beside royalty.
"Who is he?"
"What right does he have to be here?"
And then, others turned to Roswaal. Theatrical, deliberate. His presence drew its own kind of attention—part amusement, part caution.
Subaru closed the curtain again, exhaling slowly as he shut his eyes for a brief moment. "This is it."
The carriage rolled to a smooth stop.
Roswaal stepped out first. His robe shimmered with deep purples and silver-threaded embroidery, rippling like a banner in the gentle breeze. He bowed, just slightly—a precise, rehearsed gesture. Just enough to appear cordial, but never subservient. His smile was painted on, as always: charming, eerie, unreadable.
Then Emilia descended.
Her dress caught the sunlight and glowed like a snowy mountain beneath a clear sky. The hues of pale blue and white blended with her natural beauty, crafting an image somewhere between royalty and myth. Her eyes moved across the crowd—not with fear, but a poised calmness that surprised even her.
She drew in a breath. Deep. Centering. But not shaking.
"This is your time," she told herself inwardly. "This is where you show them who you really are."
Subaru followed, stepping down with restrained energy. His clothes were fine—tailored, decorated—but not armor. His armor was elsewhere: in the fire behind his gaze, in the quiet strength of his stance.
He wasn't here to protect himself. He was here for others. For her.
Beatrice came last, stepping down as though descending from a shadow. Her appearance drew a different kind of attention. Her black-and-orange dress clung to her small frame like a cloak of command. She looked young, almost childlike, but the sensation that followed her was anything but innocent.
Among the mages in the audience, a whisper stirred. An old tale. A shiver.
"Is that… the Keeper of the Forbidden Library?"
Some mages turned their heads away. Others stiffened. Power recognized power—and it unsettled them.
Subaru felt the shift immediately. The eyes. The tension. The unspoken reactions. The aura around Beatrice was like a ripple across still water.
"The stage is set," he thought. "All eyes are on us now."
Still, Puck was nowhere to be seen.
Subaru chuckled inwardly. "Spirits and their flair for the dramatic… Puck wouldn't miss this for the world. He's just waiting for the best moment to show up."
He lifted his eyes to the towering palace doors. No fear. No doubt. Only clarity.
Today wasn't just about Emilia's royal candidacy. Today was the next page in his own story.
A heavily armored guard stepped forward and unraveled a scroll with practiced precision. The parchment crackled in the hush that had fallen over the scene. His eyes scanned the names as though deciphering sacred code.
Then came his voice. Loud. Clear. Trained to echo.
"By the official declaration and sponsorship of Roswaal L. Mathers…" He paused just enough to let the weight of the name settle. "...the Royal Candidate Emilia-sama and her delegation shall enter."
From beyond the great gates, a sound stirred—a chorus of whispers, gasps, even the subtle scrape of shoes shifting on marble floors.
Subaru couldn't yet see the faces inside, but he could feel them.
The attention. The weight. The judgment.
"They'll show what they carry in their eyes when the names are called."
The guard continued, more deliberate now: "Emilia-dono, Natsuki Subaru-dono, Great Spirit Beatrice-dono…"
He halted. A pause stretched longer than necessary. As though space had to be made for the final name. And then— "…and Great Spirit Puck-sama."
The name cracked through the silence like thunder over snow.
The gathered nobles and onlookers shifted in unison. A ripple. shiver. wave of recognition.
Puck's name meant something.
A protector.
A warning.
And with that, the great doors slowly began to open
Subaru could barely focus. The murmurs weaving through the grand chamber echoed like half-forgotten dreams, but a few fragmented whispers stood out, cutting through the haze of tension thick in the air:
"Did they say two great spirits...?"
"Puck? The Beast of the End? Here?"
"That girl... is she the half-elf? The silver-haired one?"
"And who is that one beside her? The one with those eyes... so unnatural, so piercing."
Each murmur, though quiet, carried weight—a cocktail of fear, awe, and curiosity. They were being watched, dissected by the eyes of nobility and power, judged before a word had even been spoken.
Roswaal turned his head with a slow, deliberate motion, his every movement soaked in dramatic flair. The way he inclined his head toward Emilia was less a gesture of respect and more a performer's bow to his co-star before the curtains parted. That ever-unsettling smile played on his lips.
"Shall we make our entrance, Emilia-sama?" he asked, his voice thick with excitement—as if he had waited years for this very moment.
Then, just as casually, his mismatched eyes flicked to Subaru. That faint glimmer in them—mocking, amused, conspiratorial—lingered for a heartbeat too long.
"The play begins now~"
With a deep groan, the doors to the throne room began to open.
They weren't merely doors. They were monuments—massive wooden wings, engraved with the sigil of the dragon, polished to a regal sheen. They swung outward slowly, almost ceremonially, revealing a corridor of light that spilled across the marble floor like a divine spotlight.
The grand hall lay revealed.
Within its opulent confines sat two lines of spectators, each more imposing than the last: nobility draped in finery, mages cloaked in ancient tradition, advisors hardened by years of counsel, and royal officials who bore the weight of generations in their posture.
All eyes turned. All conversations died. The room held its breath.
They had arrived.
In the heart of the hall, beneath the towering emblem of the Dragon Wall—a symbol of unity, of history, of power—stood the stage upon which destinies would unfold. The very air seemed thick with expectation. A crown was at stake. A throne stood waiting. And history, ever-hungry, sat poised to devour the next chapter.
Subaru took a step forward. One footfall—and yet it echoed like a hammer blow, loud and definitive. This wasn't just the start of a walk. It was the carving of a name into time itself.
To his right, Emilia walked with grace befitting someone unaware of the weight she carried. Behind him, Beatrice hovered, eyes sharp and suspicious beneath her puffy sleeves and eternal pout. And above them all, Roswaal loomed—not in stature, but in presence—a shadow both protector and manipulator.
Together, they were the Emilia Camp. No longer a name whispered on the fringes, but a force standing boldly in the light.
As their steps echoed into the chamber, the silence was no longer empty. It was full—of tension, of wonder, of the stirring winds of change.
The curtain had not fallen. It had risen.
[Crusch Karsten's Perspective]
Ours was the first camp to arrive at the royal council chamber—the Crusch Camp, under my leadership. This was no coincidence, nor some convenient accident of timing. It was deliberate—meticulously planned, in fact.
In politics, arriving first is not simply a matter of punctuality. It's an assertion. A silent declaration of confidence, stability, and intent. Even a few extra minutes spent in the chamber, under the watchful eyes of nobility and council members, can reshape perception. It's enough to make you seem more reliable, more grounded, more... destined.
And I intended to use every second of that advantage. To enter first was to assume the unspoken role of host—not by title or decree, but by presence. A kind of authority that doesn't need to announce itself. It simply exists. It settles into the air.
The chamber was still cloaked in a subtle morning dimness. Sunlight drifted lazily through the high windows, catching on floating dust motes, casting elongated beams of gold and ivory onto the stone floor. The banners hadn't been fully unfurled. The court's scribes were still taking their places. And yet—we were already here. Even the ornate molding on the vaulted ceiling, with its intricate depictions of Lugnica's founding, seemed to watch approvingly. Crusch Karsten had arrived.
These things may seem small. Insignificant. But in the world of nobility, symbols are currency. And I deal in symbols with the precision of a banker.
Not long after, the second camp entered—the camp of Anastasia Hoshin.
At its front strode Julius Juukulius, the knight proudly known as the "The Finest Knight." There was a discipline to his gait, an almost ceremonial precision to his posture. His uniform—spotless, perfectly tailored—moved with him like it had been sewn into his very skin. He carried the weight of a kingdom's trust on his shoulders and wore it as naturally as breathing.
Behind him followed Anastasia Hoshin herself, youthful head of the Hoshin Company. She was clad in pristine white—an outfit that at first glance seemed to be composed of two distinct pieces. But a careful eye would notice the tailoring: seamless, sharp, deliberately deceptive in its design. It hugged her petite frame tightly, exuding both elegance and strategic modesty. The aura around her was not one of inherited nobility, but of constructed eminence—one built on commerce, calculation, and charisma. There is nobility born, and nobility made. Anastasia belonged to the latter. And that distinction? It matters.
Their entrance wasn't grand. No fanfare. No loud declarations. In fact, it was almost subdued. But there was an artistry in that quiet. It sent a clear message: We don't need spectacle to command attention. And in that message, I recognized strategy.
And strategy… deserves respect.
Our eyes met—Anastasia's and mine. A shared glance. No more than three seconds. But in that stillness, entire chapters were exchanged. Then, in tandem, we dipped our heads in mutual acknowledgment. No words spoken. None needed. The gesture was enough.
Tradition forbids open conversation between candidates before the session begins. But silence? Silence can speak volumes.
Still, there were cracks in protocol where dialogue could bloom. If approached by nobility, camp leaders were permitted to engage. And that, precisely, was where opportunity sprouted.
Nobles drifted from group to group before the meeting. They sought answers. They sought alignment. It was our chance to plant whispers—our beliefs, our priorities, our vision. A flicker of dialogue here. A nod of agreement there. Politics isn't built in declarations. It's built in murmurs.
"My grandfather used to say, 'A whisper travels farther than a shout.'" Today, I would once again prove him right.
"Crusch-nya~ why do you think some of the nobles are so curious about your love life~?"
The voice that chimed in behind me was light and melodic, laced with a theatrical sweetness. Its owner: Felix Argyle. Feline ears twitching playfully, he wore the same knightly garb as Julius, but with a far more whimsical flair. Felix had a unique ability. He could change the atmosphere of any room by merely existing in it.
His smile was a playful veil—but his eyes? Sharp. Focused. Behind the laughter, the mirth, the flirtation... there was always calculation. In the theater of politics, those who entertain often hide the sharpest blades. Felix's were hidden behind his cerulean eyes.
I exhaled slowly, just enough to let him know I'd expected the question. "Influence, Felix," I replied, steady and deliberate. I tilted my head gently, allowing a wry smile to touch my lips. "You already know. I am both a candidate for the throne and the head of House Karsten. That kind of speculation comes with the territory."
It wasn't just an answer. It was an exposition. I am watched, I am weighed, I am measured. The higher one climbs, the more visible their shackles become. Even marriage—once the language of affection—becomes another tool on the strategist's board.
Felix's ears perked upward. The mirth in his expression faded, replaced by a rare, fierce sincerity. He leaned in slightly, voice soft, but steeled with intent.
"I'll chase them away," he said.
And whether he meant it as jest or vow, I felt my lips curl into an involuntary smile. That was Felix. Equal parts mischief and loyalty. Cat and shield.
And sometimes, even the gentlest words reveal the weight of the devotion behind them.
After a brief exchange of conversation, the grand door opened once again with a slow, deliberate motion, drawing attention like the first notes of a dramatic overture. This time, the one who entered the hall was none other than Priscilla Barielle, making her trademark entrance—fashionably late and unforgettably ostentatious.
She didn't simply walk into the room; she conquered it. Each step she took was a calculated expression of superiority, pride radiating from the tilt of her chin and the sway of her hips. Her movements were imbued with such theatrical flair that it felt as if the entire room had been waiting just for her to begin.
The brilliance of her outfit alone could have silenced the chatter. Draped in rich crimson and gold, her dress shimmered like a living flame, the fabric catching the chandelier's light and scattering it across the marble floors. The embroidery told its own story—elaborate, defiant, regal. Nothing about her look was traditional, and that was the point. Priscilla Barielle's beauty wasn't framed by etiquette or culture; it was a declaration of war against convention. A short, ornamental cape rested on her shoulders, suggesting royalty, rebellion, or perhaps both. She looked as if she were about to ascend a throne, not just enter a political gathering.
There was no mistaking her identity—not in that room, not in the entire capital. Whispers followed her like a second shadow. She was the infamous "Black Widow." A moniker not earned by flamboyance, but by fate—or at least the version of fate woven by gossip. Each of her past husbands had met an early, unfortunate end. No evidence ever tied her to these deaths, and yet... the pattern spoke louder than facts. It was tragedy cloaked in elegance.
And where tragedy lived, rumors thrived. The nobility spoke of her in hushed tones, some out of fear, others from fascination. Some believed she was cursed. Others said she wielded the curse herself.
Her origins traced back to Volachia, where she had once been a princess, though now she was exiled, cast out by politics or scandal—no one could say for sure. But she never carried herself as someone discarded. On the contrary, she behaved as if her exile had merely expanded her dominion.
She often spoke of her unrivaled luck. But to Priscilla, luck wasn't a whim of the universe—it was destiny's submission to her will. She placed herself high above others, believing she stood just beneath the gods, towering above mortals with a kind of divine entitlement.
And yet, despite her composure, I couldn't help but think—if her pride were ever truly broken, she would not know how to rebuild. She was built for dominance, not defeat. Her collapse wouldn't be a stumble, it would be a cataclysm.
These reflections occupied my mind as I watched her glide across the floor, her knight, Aldebaran, following closely behind. He was a contrast in every way—his peculiar garb, face concealed by a helmet, exuding a readiness for conflict that made him appear perpetually on edge. His silence was heavy, almost brooding. Yet even with all his mystery, he remained an accessory to her grandeur.
Almost instantly, a coterie of elegant women gathered around her, forming a protective orbit of admiration. They clung to her aura as though her charisma could shield them from the realities of court life.
The men, by contrast, kept their distance. Not out of disdain—but caution. The nickname "Black Widow" wasn't just tabloid sensationalism. It was a silent threat. A warning etched in rumor and coincidence. She was beautiful—but fatal.
And I… I remained at a distance. Observing. There was something about her presence that felt almost gravitational. You could feel her pride, not just see it. It pressed down on the space like an invisible force.
But make no mistake—her pride was not baseless. It was born of a piercing intelligence, a near-psychic instinct for social maneuvering, and an unyielding self-belief. Her speech—layered, intentional. Her posture—performed, yet effortless. It wasn't arrogance for arrogance's sake. It was strategy dressed as spectacle. And I was certain: this woman would evolve into something far more dangerous than any of us anticipated.
And then, like fate flipping a coin, the atmosphere turned on its head. The great doors opened again, more swiftly this time.
A sudden stillness fell over the hall. The air thickened with tension, and every gaze snapped to the entrance. The Felt camp had arrived.
At the head of the procession was a man whose very name could alter the course of nations—Reinhard van Astrea. Crimson hair like a banner, eyes sharp and piercing, he exuded quiet might. He didn't need armor to command respect—his presence alone was enough to silence a room. He was the Sword Saint, the strongest man in the kingdom, and his loyalty was not given lightly.
With him, the Felt camp was not merely another faction. It was a tidal wave. His lineage alone carried more weight than most noble houses combined.
Reinhard's steps were graceful, yet somehow monumental, like every pace adjusted the balance of power in the room. And behind him came the girl herself—Felt.
Rough edges and rebellious fire, she looked nothing like nobility. And yet… There were whispers. Faint murmurings that she bore the distinctive traits of the royal bloodline. Eyes, hair, mannerisms—all scrutinized with hushed intensity. It had started as idle gossip, but now even the Council murmured about it in shadowed corridors.
I glanced over at Mchanon. His brows were furrowed, lips pursed in concern. He studied her features intently, then shifted his focus back to Reinhard. He was thinking what we were all thinking. If Felt truly carried royal blood, then her candidacy wasn't political—it was prophetic.
I found myself whispering a silent plea to the gods. Let it not be true. Let her be a false heir, a pretender. Because if she was real—if she was the rightful heir to the throne—then all of this, all of our maneuvering, debates, alliances... It would mean nothing.
There would be no election. Just inevitability.
And any truth you refuse to confront… Eventually turns into your downfall.
[3rd pov]
Reinhard stepped into the hall with his trademark composed expression, his features a calm mask that revealed nothing. His gaze swept across the vast room like a disciplined sentinel, absorbing every flicker of movement, every nuance of posture and intent. No detail, however minor, escaped him.
Trailing behind him was Felt, her presence in stark contrast to his serene demeanor. She walked stiffly, her discomfort palpable with each step. The ornate gown she wore—a masterpiece of noble tailoring—seemed to weigh heavily on her, both physically and symbolically. Her movements lacked the grace expected of royalty; muscles in her arms and legs twitched sporadically, betraying her unfamiliarity with the expectations of high society. She looked like a wolf forced into silk.
Yet she kept walking. She didn't run, didn't retreat. She moved forward—awkwardly, yes, but also defiantly. And that alone spoke volumes. Reinhard hadn't brought just anyone into this arena. Felt's mere presence at his side made her more than a participant; it made her a statement.
Rom was nowhere to be seen. And Felt's eyes, sharp and restless, betrayed the concern gnawing at her. His absence was not simply noticed—it was felt. She remembered how he had told her he wouldn't attend. Said it was too risky, that a man of his background wouldn't be welcomed among nobles. She had accepted it then, not questioning the logic. But now, standing here in a hall teeming with scheming aristocrats, that choice echoed hollow in her mind.
Unasked questions, like unhealed wounds, had a way of festering.
Only moments remained before the official commencement of the meeting.
The room buzzed with a subdued but unmistakable tension. Conversations were hushed, movements measured. McHanon, the official presiding over the proceedings, stood at his post beside the grand dais, occasionally glancing toward the table reserved for the fifth camp—still unoccupied. Regulations were ironclad: all candidates and their factions must be present in full. Failure to comply could invalidate an entire candidacy.
The realization rippled through the room. Eyes turned. Whispers began.
Crusch sat composed, her presence commanding. Her gaze drifted from person to person with methodical precision. She was not just observing—she was storing data. Cataloging attire, posture, expressions, and the subtle choreography of alliances. Every detail mattered. This was more than a meeting; it was a battlefield. And Crusch was preparing for war.
Anastasia, surrounded by advisors and merchants, spoke fluidly of her newly formed trading company. Her confidence was not feigned; it was practiced and real. Her words hinted at larger strategies, veiled beneath commercial jargon. She wasn't just campaigning—she was laying economic foundations.
Priscilla Barielle, in her typical theatrical aloofness, lounged with casual disdain. Her red eyes flitted across the room with the impatience of someone accustomed to being the center of every stage. She whispered something to her knight, Al—soft, likely scathing. Her expression carried no intrigue, no urgency. She radiated sovereign boredom.
Felt, meanwhile, remained disconnected from the polished performances around her. Her eyes moved constantly, scanning the hall with increasing urgency. Her restlessness wasn't political. It was personal. She was waiting. Searching.
Despite Reinhard's steady presence beside her, the unease she felt was visible in every line of her face.
The absence she felt—of someone she needed—was like an echo in an empty room.
"Reinhard," she whispered, leaning in slightly. Her voice trembled with tension, though the words were earnest. "Subaru… he's with the half-elf girl's camp, right?"
Reinhard paused. For a moment, his eyes closed in thought. Then he nodded, calmly. "Yes, my lady. A young man named Natsuki Subaru is aligned with Lady Emilia's camp. And… I believe they should be arriving shortly."
A subtle transformation washed over Felt's face. The tightness in her jaw eased. Her shoulders slackened.
"He was the one who saved me that night," he murmured. "At the tavern. Natsuki Subaru. She stood up to the Bowel Hunter. She fought without hesitation. Just to protect the rest of us..."
Her voice faded to a near-whisper, but the weight of her memory hung heavy. That night, once buried beneath confusion and pain, had crystallized into something profound.
Reinhard inclined his head slightly, his voice low. "If you speak of the boy who lay bloodied on the floor… yes, my lady. He inflicted a serious wound on the Bowel Hunter. From what I observed, he and Rom managed to force her into retreat."
A flicker of doubt clouded Felt's expression.
"Then… why didn't healing magic help him? I mean, when I saw him afterward, his wounds were still there. Isn't that strange?"
Reinhard's gaze turned inward, thoughtful. Silence hung briefly before he responded. "He may be cursed. The first time I laid eyes on him, I sensed something dark… something unnatural clinging to his soul. If you permit it, I can examine him when he arrives."
Felt's eyes lit with sudden intensity. "I'd really like that, Rein."
Reinhard smiled—just a faint curl of his lips, but genuine. He'd seen this side of her before. Felt only shortened names when she let her guard down. When she felt safe. Or when she was truly happy.
And in that smile, there was more than knightly duty.
There was warmth. There was trust. Perhaps even the fragile beginnings of something like friendship.
The grand double doors of the royal hall creaked open, not with urgency but with the slow, deliberate weight of formality. The sound echoed through the vast chamber like the toll of a bell, drawing the attention of every noble, knight, and attendant present. A stillness swept over the room, not silence exactly, but the kind of quiet born from curiosity and tension, the kind that made every breath and heartbeat feel too loud.
All eyes turned toward the source.
The first figure to step through the threshold stood in stark defiance of tradition. Cloaked in a striking combination of jet black and vivid orange, the contrast of his garments against the opulent whites and silvers of the royal court made him look like an ember flaring against a winter's snow. There was nothing timid or hesitant about the way he moved. His shoulders were squared, his chin held high, and the faint curve of defiance on his lips spoke louder than words.
This was Natsuki Subaru—the unofficial knight of Emilia, recently declared and even more recently scrutinized. His arrival had been a matter of whispers and disbelief. Yet here he was, announcing himself not with titles or ceremony, but by sheer presence.
Trailing just behind him was a small girl with long, golden ringlets that caught the light like strands of sunlight. Her stature was diminutive, easily mistakable for that of a child, and yet her demeanor held a composure and gravity that defied such an impression. The air around her shimmered subtly, dense with arcane energy.
This was Beatrice—a guardian spirit of ancient power and pride, whose strength could be sensed in the very pressure of the atmosphere around her. Magic users in the hall instinctively stiffened, some even recoiling faintly, their instincts warning them that this girl was no simple companion.
Subaru's outfit alone marked him as an outsider—nonconforming, rebellious. In a chamber where every knight wore the gleam of polished armor and traditional regalia, his black-and-orange ensemble was nothing short of a challenge. Not only to convention, but perhaps to the very idea of what a knight was supposed to be.
Reactions were immediate.
Priscilla Barielle lifted a single, unimpressed brow, as though the very presence of something so uncouth demanded her royal patience. Julius, ever the discerning observer, narrowed his eyes—not hostile, but watchful. Anastasia gently pressed her fingers to her chin, her lips curled into a knowing smile that flickered and faded.
Across the hall, Crusch Karsten watched carefully, not with disdain, but with analysis. Subaru's boldness, the confidence that clung to him despite his lack of pedigree, intrigued her. And the girl walking beside him…
"A great spirit—or something even rarer?" she wondered to herself. The sheer magical pressure radiating from Beatrice was unlike anything she had sensed before in such a setting.
Subaru walked forward unflinching, his eyes locking with each stare he encountered. It was not arrogance, exactly, but an unshakable resolve that carried him. As though he were walking not toward a table, but into destiny itself.
Beatrice maintained her usual stance—arms crossed, head slightly tilted upward in royal disdain. Her steps were small, yet every movement seemed calculated, graceful, purposeful. Each pace left behind an invisible trail of unease among the sensitive mages in the hall. This girl was not just a companion—she was a message.
Emilia followed behind them, radiant as ever. Her silver hair flowed like moonlight over water, catching every glint of illumination in the room. Her face was composed, though hints of tension remained in her eyes. Roswaal, striding beside her, wore his customary smirk—neutral, detached, and unreadable.
Though Emilia's presence brought with it a breath of elegance and warmth, it was clear who had captured the room's full attention. Subaru had stolen the spotlight before she'd even crossed the threshold.
Because unlike the others, Subaru had not entered this game by invitation. He had walked in and rewritten the rules.
As the four approached their designated table, the murmurs grew louder, turning into a river of whispers and sidelong glances. Words passed from ear to ear—half speculation, half condemnation.
One phrase stood out among the tide, carried just loud enough to sting:
"She doesn't even try to hide that she's a half-elf…"
Subaru's ears caught it immediately. Without hesitation, he turned sharply in the direction of the voice. His gaze locked onto the speaker—a gaudily dressed nobleman whose rings seemed to outweigh his courage. Under Subaru's sharp stare, the man froze, visibly wilting under the pressure.
A second later, Subaru felt a pinch on his arm.
"You're drawing too much attention, I suppose," Beatrice whispered with dry exasperation.
Startled, Subaru blinked and nodded. Wordlessly, he extended his hand toward her—an unspoken apology. She glanced at it briefly, and remembering their earlier talk at the mansion, took it without further comment.
Hand in hand, they continued onward.
Behind them, Emilia had heard everything. She had noticed Subaru's reaction, the way his jaw had clenched, and the flash of fire in his eyes. But now was not the moment to scold him. She kept her pace steady, gaze forward.
Roswaal, meanwhile, was fielding the inevitable stream of questions from those they passed.
"Who is that boy? The one in black?"
"Why is he leading them?"
"Is he truly her knight?"
After repeating himself for the third time, Roswaal's patience frayed. He offered only vague answers, his tone increasingly dismissive, and quickened his pace to rejoin the group.
Finally, all four members of the Emilia camp reached their seats.
A new silence descended over the room—not the awkward quiet of confusion, but the heavy stillness of anticipation. Dozens of eyes remained fixed on Subaru, their gazes weighed with judgment, curiosity, and veiled challenge.
And then, at last, the silence broke.
A single, deliberate cough echoed through the chamber as McHanon, master of ceremonies, stepped forward.
The meeting was about to begin.