The words left on the stone pavement still seemed to be drifting in the air. "That's not what I'm asking." Just as he was about to say that, Godeau's voice came down from above, cutting the conversation short. After that, Celes said nothing. Leon didn't pursue it either. They returned to their rooms in silence down the inn's corridor, and the doors closed. That was all. The three of them gathered in front of the main gate of Greyfeldt Castle when morning mist still clung to the ground. The mornings in Vassen County were colder than in the royal capital, and the breath they exhaled turned white and dissolved away. The castle was built of gray stone, with two four-story towers rising from the fog. The darkness of the stone's color spoke to its age—one hundred eighty years old. Leon Crowford looked up at the iron-barred gate, still in formal dress. It was the same clothes he'd worn at the eve festival the night before. The warmth lingering in his arms had already faded. Godeau stepped forward. In both hands, he held the leather-bound ledger and an abacus. His spine was perfectly straight, his one-hundred-eighty-two-centimeter frame standing imposingly in the morning mist. Two gate guards stepped forward, spears in hand. They wore breastplates bearing the Vassen County crest. Their eyes were sharp. "Who goes there?" the gate guard asked. Godeau slowly opened the first page of the ledger. Without a word, he held it out before the soldier's eyes. The page was filled with tiny numbers, starting with this morning's breakfast costs, the expenses for boarding and alighting from the carriage, the distance walked across the stone pavement before the gate, and even an estimated cost assessment for shoe sole wear and tear. The guard peered into the ledger. First line, second line, third line... his face went rigid. "Uh... well," the gate guard stammered. "I am Godeau, financial advisor and apprentice steward to the esteemed hero Leon Crowford," Godeau said. Godeau closed the ledger and bowed. It was a perfect motion. The guard looked at the other guard. The other one shrugged. "...Please, come in," the gate guard said. The iron-barred door swung open from inside. Leon approached Godeau in a low voice. "How did that even work?" Leon asked. "No one argues with numbers," Godeau replied. "What the hell is shoe sole wear and tear cost?! The only reason they couldn't argue is because nobody calculates stuff like that!!" Leon protested. Celes was walking slightly ahead. She didn't turn around. Only her white fingertips rose to her mouth and stopped there. Her shoulders moved faintly. She was holding back laughter—and not her usual calculated smile either. This was the kind you tried to suppress but couldn't. Leon saw that moment. It was different from the "smile that didn't reach her eyes" he'd seen on the eve festival night. This was faster, closer to her true self, just a fleeting expression. (Ah, this person... she actually laughs normally.) The moment he thought that, Celes turned around. She was already back to her seductive expression. The timing was too perfect—she might have noticed he was watching. The three of them stepped into the entrance hall, where an expressionless steward bowed. Behind him stood a figure. Friedrich Vassen, the Count. Mid-fifties, short hair with white streaks, sharp gray eyes. True to his epithet of "the nobleman who never smiles," neither his mouth nor his eyes moved. Just standing there seemed to lower the temperature of the air. His gaze measured Leon, measured Celes, gave a brief glance to Godeau's ledger, then returned forward. "...What business does a hero have in the borderlands?" the Count asked. --- The tea gathering in the great hall was like a time of crossing blades while tilting cups. Morning light streamed through the windows, casting long shadows on the stone floor. Tea and pastries were arranged on the table, but the Count hadn't touched a single bite. He leaned lightly against the backrest, arms crossed, staring intently at Leon. The moment Leon opened his mouth to speak, it happened. Celes's hands gently clung to Leon's arm. Her fingers were delicate. Even through the fabric, he could feel her body heat. The scent of sandalwood suddenly intensified. Celes tilted her chin toward Leon's shoulder, leaning against him at just the right angle. The motion was so natural, so swift, that Leon couldn't say anything. (Ah, this is an act. I know that. I know it, but...) His thinking slowed. Like sand dissolving in hot water, gradually. "The stars brought us together," Celes said, smiling at the Count. Her voice was low, calm, with only a hint of sweetness. The performance of a fiancée. It was perfect. Leon managed to nod along. In that instant, Celes's hand rested gently on top of Leon's hand, which lay on his knee. Cold, delicate fingers. It was a sensation he'd felt countless times during training, yet the weight felt different now. Perhaps the tension of being before the Count made her body heat stand out all the more. (This is bad. My heart rate is off.) "Current contact surface area: equivalent to four gold coins," Godeau said. The sound of Godeau writing something in his ledger came from where he stood by the wall. Leon's eyes went wide. He looked at Godeau. Godeau was working his abacus without changing expression. (What is that guy doing?!) He was about to say it out loud. Celes's fingertips gently pressed the back of his hand. Her lips moved silently. "Look at the Count," Celes whispered. Her breath grazed his ear. It was less a whisper than a voice on the verge of becoming sound. The moment it reached his ear, Leon's gaze reflexively returned to the Count. Not by his own will—his body moved first. The Count's expression had changed slightly. The muscles around his eyes relaxed by a millimeter. The "nobleman who never smiles" had let down his guard, just for an instant. At the end of the meeting, the Count said quietly: "...I shall permit you to tour the mansion." Godeau added one more line to his ledger: "Advancement of request objective, evaluation: proceeding as planned." --- Midway through the tour, Celes requested to see the library. It was then that the three of them separated for the first time since the journey began. Leon was led by the steward to walk through the first floor in order. Godeau remained in the corridor beside Celes. The library was on the third floor, at the back—a windowless stone room. Shelves were packed tightly together, filled without gaps with parchment-bound volumes. Celes confirmed the collection as if reading flowing water. Her fingertips slid along the shelf's edge. There was no hesitation in the movement. It was the motion of someone who knew what they were looking for. Godeau observed from the gap in the library door. Holding his ledger to his chest, leaning against the wall, appearing to do nothing in particular. Celes's hand stopped. A single parchment-bound research record. The spine bore a small emblem—a star and crescent moon. Celes pulled the record from the shelf. She checked the cover and turned the pages. Midway through, her movements stopped. The final page. There was writing. A date was inscribed. A date from three weeks ago. Celes's expression fell away. The seductive smile, the calculated composure—all of it vanished, leaving only a stone-like blankness. She took out her own notebook and compared the emblem on her notebook with the one on the record. Her hand trembled slightly. Godeau witnessed that trembling from the corridor. Godeau, unusually, drew his ledger closer to his chest. He stopped moving his abacus. Still leaning against the wall, he made a thinking face for just a moment. Then he opened his ledger and wrote briefly: "Requester's true objective: time cost until disclosure incalculable." He gazed at what he'd written, then slowly closed the ledger. --- Deep night. When the mansion's lights had mostly gone out, Leon traced the route he'd memorized from the daytime tour, walking down the corridor. His footsteps echoed on the stone floor. He walked as close to the wall as possible. The stone steps leading to the fourth floor were old; the third step creaked, so he avoided it. He'd confirmed this during the day. The fourth floor of the tower. A door at the end of the hall. A rusted padlock hung on it. (Celes could open it in a minute, but I can't.) Leon gripped the hilt of the Dragonslayer. The long sword—white-silver in its radiance, known across all continents for having cleaved through the scales of a Grand Scale—he carefully placed its pommel against the padlock's metal fixture and applied force. A single point breakthrough. With a dull clang, the lock gave way. A narrow stone chamber lit only by moonlight. The window was small with a grate fitted over it. Stone walls, stone floor, stone ceiling. The only furniture was a bed and a small desk. A girl sat at the edge of the bed. Silver-white hair. Skin so pale it seemed translucent. Bathed in moonlight, she was like stone or a sculpture, perfectly still. She looked up. Heterochromatic eyes—left gold, right silver. Eyes that reflected no emotion, holding the same temperature as stone. Iris Valda. Leon took a second to meet those eyes directly. "I've come to help you," Leon said. Iris's gaze turned toward him. "Who sent you?" Iris asked. Her voice was low and calm. Not so much devoid of emotion as unaccustomed to expressing it. "A person named Celes Vera. In exchange, she's clearing all my debts," Leon said. There was nothing heroic about his words. Just facts. Iris fell silent for several seconds. (Did I mess up? Should I have said something more fitting?) Leon felt a moment of internal panic. But he couldn't take it back. There was no point in lying. "...At least you don't lie," Iris said. She stood up. Slowly, but without hesitation. She moved to the window grate and touched it, looking out into the darkness beyond. "I have no reason to leave here. Go back," Iris said. "What do you mean by 'no reason'? I'd like you to explain," Leon said. Iris turned around. It was a question she hadn't expected. Her eyes said so. Not a command, not a plea—just a question. That question made her gaze pause. Leon sat down on the cold stone floor, still in his formal dress. There was no particular deep thought behind it. It just felt more natural to be there than to keep standing. "Tell me. There's no rush," Leon said. Iris watched him for a while, then looked back out the window. Leon began to talk. From the day Celes first spoke to him, to the dance at the eve festival. The morning when Godeau came running with his ledger at full speed. The times during the fake fiancée training when he'd stepped on her feet. Today's meeting when "contact surface area: four gold coins" was written in the ledger. Iris listened, still facing the window. The corner of her mouth moved for just an instant—the width of a needle's point. Leon was watching. With the eyes that had faced down a dragon in 2.17 seconds. With the eyes that had watched Celes's profile for four full seconds on the eve festival night. He caught that instant clearly. "You almost smiled just now," Leon said. "I wasn't smiling," Iris said. The answer came instantly. Less than a second. But in that second, her gaze shifted slightly away. Silence returned to the stone chamber. Moonlight drew the shadow of the grate on the floor. Iris's white skin held a sculptural stillness in that light. The same temperature as stone, the same stillness—but something had moved just now. "Hero, overtime pay will be billed separately," Godeau's whisper came through the corridor, penetrating the stone walls. Clear, crisp, emotionless. Iris's expression moved for a full second this time. Her mouth moved. Her eyes softened. Then it was gone, but for that second, it was unmistakably there. Leon held up one finger to