Last night, with her face buried in her pillow, the heiress had sworn: "I'll make it a perfect score no matter what." And the next morning at exactly seven o'clock, she was sitting in a chair in the grand dining hall, Saal Lumière. Her spine was perfectly straight. Her hands rested neatly on her lap. Her golden eyes gazed out at the Grao River beyond the window. From every angle, it was the picture of a flawless heiress at breakfast—except that inside, a strategy meeting was happening at tremendous speed. (Today's the day. Yesterday I tried to praise the whole meal and caused a total disaster. So today, just one dish. Just the bread. Modest. Quiet. Just one little word.) Margarethe, the head servant, placed a basket of fresh-baked bread on the table. The scent of butter and wheat drifted up. It was the kind of dinner roll that Kurt, the head baker, insisted on making fresh every morning—crispy outside, fluffy inside. Emilia ate it every day. For thirty years, she'd eaten that morning bread without ever telling anyone what she thought of it. She tore off a bite-sized piece with her hands instead of a fork. Put it in her mouth. —It's delicious. Really, every morning it's delicious. A deep breath. "[gentle]…This bread is delicious." Her voice was quiet. Not loud, not forced. Just her thoughts, spoken aloud as they were. Margarethe, who had been standing at attention by the wall as a servant, went completely still. One second. Two seconds. Margarethe bolted from the room at incredible speed toward the hallway. —What? Before Emilia could even process her confusion, she heard sounds from the direction of the kitchen—multiple people collapsing. Thud, thud. And low sobbing. After a while, Alto entered the dining hall with quiet steps. His silver-short hair was neat, his butler's uniform buttoned precisely—exactly as always. Except those ice-blue eyes glanced once toward the kitchen before returning to Emilia. "[sarcastic]I must report, my lady. Upon receiving word that you have praised the bread this morning, the head baker Kurt collapsed on the kitchen floor, sobbing, 'Twenty-two years… I waited twenty-two years…' The sous chef dropped his whisk. Two apprentices covered their faces with towels. The remaining four are crouched against the wall with their hands braced. Eight people in total." "[surprised]E-eight…!?" "[sarcastic]Yesterday we had damage to the dishware. Today we've progressed to human casualties. Whether to call this progress or tragedy, I find myself uncertain." "[angry]I only praised it!? Just that and—!" "[serious]Kurt's tenure is twenty-two years, it seems. In all that time, he has never once received a word from you. Well, considering that, perhaps his reaction was reasonable." Emilia ran out of words. Twenty-two years. The person who'd been baking that bread for her every morning. All that time. Without a single word. (Because I… stayed silent…) A sensation spread through her chest. Not quite regret, not quite apology—something more complicated. Emilia took another bite of bread. It was still delicious. But this morning, that deliciousness tasted just a little bit bitter. Incidentally, the next morning's breakfast would feature twelve experimental new bread varieties from the kitchen, born from a burning desire to "create even better bread for the young lady." But that's another story. Only three of them were actually edible. ──── Ten in the morning. Emilia was heading toward the training grounds behind the annex of the ducal mansion. She never came here normally. Past the rose garden and vegetable garden, where the stone pavement turned to gravel, there was the open training ground. Protective barriers, wooden targets, bundles of wooden swords. A much more rustic space than the stone courtyard. The words Alto had spoken yesterday kept echoing in her mind. "Breathing the outside air is also a duty of a young lady." Whether it was sarcasm or not was unclear—just a single remark. But for a heiress who'd spent her whole life indoors, it had caught on something. The Weissring Guard—the Solvaredo Duchy's exclusive protection unit, eighteen members with silver-white armbands on their left arms—were in the middle of their morning sword training. The sound of wooden swords clashing, feet treading on gravel, rough breathing. The smell of sweat, the scent of a living space. Emilia stood half-hidden in the shadow of the pavilion, watching the scene for a while. The guards were strong. Their movements had no waste, and even to an untrained eye, they were clearly well-trained. Did they train like this every day? These people who protected the mansion? For eighteen years, she had never really looked at what they did. She steeled herself and stepped out from behind the pillar. "[gentle]You all are working hard, aren't you?" The training ground froze. The wooden swords stopped. The feet stopped. All movement halted at once. Sixteen guards slowly turned around. Every single one of them had the expression of someone who couldn't believe what they were seeing. Whispers ran through them. "The young lady…?" "At the training grounds…?" "For the first time in eighteen years, isn't it…?" "She was watching us…?" And then, the next instant. Bang! Someone drove a wooden sword into the ground. "[excited]For the young lady! I can die!!" "[excited]I can die more!!" "[angry]Don't presume to tell me! I noticed first!!" "[excited]To prove my loyalty to the young lady! A match!!" Training ceased to exist. In its place, a mysterious one-on-one tournament was about to begin to determine who had the most loyalty to the young lady. Wooden swords were raised, all their faces were burning with fervor. They looked ready to shout "With the young lady's name as our banner!" at any moment. Boom. The ground shook. "[angry]All of you! Two hundred push-ups, now!!" Captain Gustav Helder roared in a voice like stone. Mid-forties, sun-darkened face with deep wrinkles, the silver-white armband on his left arm glinting. The moment he raised his voice, all sixteen guards who'd been about to jump snapped to rigid attention. Military-fast. "[angry]To show such disgrace before the young lady during training. Get down. One, two, three—!" Sixteen bodies hit the gravel. Push-ups began. But—they were all smiling. Yelled at by Gustav, faces flushed red, they were grinning while doing push-ups. Emilia didn't know what to say. (Why… just one word…) "[sarcastic]To give both reward and punishment simultaneously with a single word—quite an efficient form of governance." Alto had appeared behind her at some point. Arms crossed, surveying the training ground. And his mouth—Emilia didn't miss it—was slightly, very slightly, relaxed. "[cold]…You're smiling, aren't you?" "[serious]I am not smiling. I am observing." "You were smiling just now." "[sarcastic]It must be an illusion on the young lady's part." Emilia closed her mouth. Two hundred push-ups were progressing steadily in the training ground, and everyone's faces were still grinning. She didn't understand. Not at all—but somehow, it didn't feel bad. ──── Three in the afternoon. The library on the second floor of the main building was quiet as always. Among nearly eight thousand volumes with their spines aligned, Emilia had opened a book on etiquette by the window seat. Not "Emotional Management for Upper-Class Young Ladies" today, but a debutante's guide to protocol. She'd remembered this morning that documents for her presentation at the grand ballroom of the Hofburg Imperial Palace in half a year—where she would be received by His Majesty—were stacked on her desk. But the pages weren't sinking in. The morning's events kept circling through her mind. Kurt's sobbing. The chaos at the training ground. The guards doing push-ups while grinning. And the way Alto's mouth had relaxed. —It wasn't my imagination. He was definitely smiling. Then footsteps came. Measured, quiet footsteps. The door opened silently, and Alto entered. He was carrying a tea set. Without a word, he placed a cup on the table. Steam rose. It smelled good—Darjeeling or something similar. Emilia kept her eyes on the etiquette book, confirming his actions from the corner of her vision. He'd done the same yesterday. Without being asked, tea would appear. Drinking it while reading the etiquette book had somehow become her afternoon habit. In just one day. (Today, I'll say something.) Emilia picked up the cup. Took a sip. Warmth spread through her mouth, then down her throat. The aroma passed through her nose. "[gentle]…This tea is delicious." Alto's footsteps, heading toward the bookshelves, paused for one beat. He didn't turn around. Keeping his back to her— "[serious]Of course it is. I brewed it." His tone was slightly lower than usual. Emilia realized. From Alto's neck, along the edge of his ear—there was a faint blush. A redness that would disappear in an instant, but she definitely saw it. (What?) She tried to check again to make sure she wasn't mistaken, but Alto had already resumed organizing the shelves. Only his back was visible. —That man's ears were red. Emilia lowered her eyes to the etiquette book. The text wouldn't enter her head at all. She decided not to think about why it wouldn't. Thinking about it would only make things more confusing. A quiet time flowed between them. The sound of pages turning. Alto replacing books on the shelves, a faint sound. The distant whistle of a cargo ship on the Grao River. Strangely, it felt comfortable. ──── Four in the afternoon. In the hallway, Emilia encountered one of the guards. Ulrich—third year in service, twenty-two years old, a sun-darkened guard with a good-natured face—was just coming from the other direction. His arms were still visibly trembling faintly, even from across the hallway. Emilia, continuing the honesty strategy she'd been pursuing all morning, opened her mouth quite naturally. "[gentle]Thank you for your hard work in training today. Because you all protect the mansion, I can spend my days in peace." Ulrich froze. Emilia continued. Just speaking what she truly felt, as it was. "[gentle]…And also, take care of Alto. He's part of the household too." "Y-yes!" Ulrich stood at attention, nodded with a clear expression. Emilia continued down the hallway. —At that moment, Emilia didn't know. She didn't know what kind of fire that single remark would ignite in the mansion hours later. When Ulrich returned to the guards' quarters and reported, "The young lady! She spoke about the butler! She said to take care of him!!" the atmosphere in the barracks plummeted. The young lady was showing special favor to a commoner-born butler. That man, who'd only been here three days, was being regarded more highly than us. What did this mean? Starting the next morning, guards began bumping shoulders with Alto in the hallways. Reports to the head butler's office went missing. Coordination between the kitchen and Alto began to show strange friction. Each incident was small. But steadily, gradually, the air in the mansion began to change. ──── Six in the evening. The time when the lighthouse across the Grao River began to light up. Emilia had come to the octagonal pavilion deep in the rose garden. White pillars with climbing roses entwined around them, and from the railing, a full view of the Grao River. The lighthouse's orange light wavered across the water's surface. She'd continued the honesty strategy all day. She'd made the baker cry. She'd sent the guards to do push-ups. She'd made Alto's ears turn red. And then—there was something that felt caught in the mansion's atmosphere. She couldn't grasp the cause. But something was slightly, just slightly, off. Emilia placed both hands on the railing and gazed at the river. Somewhere in the rose garden, flower petals swayed faintly in the evening breeze. One hundred twenty-seven varieti