The two of them walked side by side through the capital city, their steps unhurried, their shadows stretching long beneath the lantern glow.
Though it was night, the city shimmered as brightly as day, drenched in amber light that pooled along cobbled streets like liquid sunset. Laughter rose and fell in warm currents. The capital did not sleep—it merely changed costumes.
Crowds pressed along the avenues as always. Merchants called out their final bargains. Children darted between adults like sparrows between carriage wheels.
Somewhere, a musician plucked at strings, the melody weaving through the noise like a silver thread stitching chaos into something almost harmonious.
Noa slowed his steps, his gaze drifting toward a particular corner of the street. Vionette followed his line of sight without question.
Paper lanterns swayed gently above a semi-permanent wooden booth wedged stubbornly between brick and stone, as though it had claimed its territory by sheer will. Their soft light painted the stall in warm oranges and reds. Smoke drifted upward into the cool night air, carrying with it the perfume of charred meat and sizzling oil—a scent that wrapped around the senses and tugged at something ancient and hungry.
"Fresh! Hot! Last batch!" the vendor roared, his voice slicing through the street like the opening beat of a festival drum.
The oil answered him in sharp applause—pop-pop-pop—while a knife struck the cutting board in steady rhythm. Tak. Tak. Tak. A heartbeat made of steel. The sound seemed to pulse beneath the city's skin.
"Let's go there," Noa said, already reaching for Vionette's hand before the suggestion had fully settled between them.
Wait—what?
Her thoughts stumbled, but her fingers were already caught in his. His grip was warm, firm, and entirely shameless.
The stall owner—a broad-shouldered, middle-aged man with an apron stained heroically with layers of sauce and victory—grinned wide enough to count as a business strategy. His eyes sparkled with the seasoned confidence of a man who had seen countless confessions happen under lantern light.
They sat on two narrow stools before the counter.
Noa hopped onto his seat with boyish ease, the wooden legs creaking in mild protest. Vionette lowered herself more slowly. This time, she did not sit like a ruler presiding over a council chamber. She did not straighten her spine into ceremony or fold her hands with calculated poise. She simply sat—knees together, shoulders relaxed, dress gathered lightly at her side.
Even so, it was beautiful.
The vendor's grin deepened the second he saw them settle side by side.
"Ahhh, young couple?" he teased, turning skewers with effortless flair. "Extra spice makes memories!"
"Two small skewer plate sets, please!" Noa replied brightly, flashing a cheerful smile that seemed dangerously close to confirming the accusation.
Vionette glanced at him, and despite herself, a smile formed—soft and unguarded.
We're not a couple, you know?
The vendor's hands moved like practiced magic. Skewers turned over open flame, their glaze bubbling and caramelizing. Dumplings hissed in oil. The knife continued its rhythm. Smoke curled around them, softening the world into something smaller, warmer—like a secret pocket carved out from the grand machinery of kingdoms and politics.
"Here you go."
He slid two small wooden plates across the counter with pride swelling in his chest.
"Fresh off the fire! Four skewers each—no burnt edges!"
Steam rose in delicate spirals from the lacquered meat, the glaze catching lantern light like polished amber.
"Eat while it's hot!" he insisted, nodding with satisfied authority.
"Hum!"
Noa wasted no time. He leaned forward and took a bold bite, as though he had been waiting four years for this exact moment. The taste struck him—sweet, smoky, spiced with memory. His eyes widened, then shimmered.
It had been four years.
Four years since he had tasted something so ordinary. So alive.
As he chewed, tears gathered in the corners of his eyes—not from spice, but from the strange ache of nostalgia returning like a long-lost friend.
Vionette noticed.
Lantern light reflected in her crimson eyes as she watched him. Something in her chest shifted—softened.
She lifted her own skewer delicately. The glaze gleamed, glossy and treacherous, like a promise with hidden conditions. She took a measured bite.
For half a second, nothing happened.
Then—
Her cheeks flushed scarlet. The tip of her nose turned pink. Even the edges of her ears burned red. Sweat beaded at her temples. Her eyes widened, shimmering with unshed tears as heat exploded across her tongue like a dragon waking from slumber.
Her eyes did not blink.
"Kyahh! Hot! Hot! Hot!"
Noa turned toward her, his expression melting into quiet delight.
"Heheh~ you're not good with spices?"
"Hahah!" The vendor laughed heartily and handed her a glass of water. "It happens sometimes."
Vionette, tongue out slightly as she fanned her mouth frantically with both hands, snatched the water with royal desperation.
Gulp-gulp.
After draining half the glass, she placed it down with controlled dignity—though her cheeks remained puffed adorably.
"It's not that hot," she insisted, glaring at Noa. "I was just surprised."
Noa didn't laugh loudly this time. Instead, he held her gaze with a small, warm smile—one that didn't tease, but admired.
"You were cute."
Her mouth parted slightly in surprise.
At the same time, Noa shot the vendor a serious side-eye. The vendor returned it with equal gravity. Their expressions hardened like generals mid-war council.
Then, without a word, both men smiled and gave each other a thumbs-up beneath the counter.
Thank you, my guy!
I got you, brother!
Noa looked back at Vionette as though nothing had transpired.
"I'm sure the first one was spiced a little too much. Try the others—they should be good."
Mmmm…
Vionette's eyes narrowed with suspicion.
"…Okay."
She carefully set the previous skewer down and lifted another, approaching it like a cautious scholar examining a cursed relic. She took the smallest bite possible.
Chum.
The meat yielded tenderly. Oil burst softly against her tongue, but this time the heat was balanced—spices woven seamlessly with sweetness and smoke.
Her eyes widened again—but differently.
"Mmmm~"
One hand drifted to her cheek as she lifted her chin slightly, eyes closing in bliss. A smile curved her lips—genuine and bright.
For Vionette Crimvane, queen of a rising kingdom and a woman born with a silver spoon on earth, this was her first time eating a street skewer.
"Hey, this is good!"
"Right?"
"Mmm-hmm." She nodded, eyes glowing like lanterns.
They each lifted another skewer and extended their hands instinctively toward one another. The skewers crossed in midair like blades meeting in a playful duel.
"Let's eat," they said at the same time.
The vendor, already turning more skewers over the fire, smiled knowingly. He did not need to ask for their next order.
***
"C'mon!"
"Grip stronger!"
"Hold! Hold!"
The gambling house smelled like alcohol and victory debt.
It was a place where hope was wagered in coin form and pride cracked louder than bones. Wooden tables reinforced with thin metal plates bore the scars of years of desperate champions slamming their triumphs—and failures—into them. Chalkboards lined the walls, listing current champions. Names had been crossed out.
Kaelen sat first.
He placed one foot forward, elbow resting upon the reinforced metal plate as though he had been forged alongside it. His posture was straight but relaxed—the posture of a man who understood exactly how much strength his body could produce without wasting a single ounce.
His black coat sleeves were rolled up once—not as a display of confidence, but as preparation.
Across from him sat a bald, muscular man whose arms resembled tree trunks and whose knuckles bore white scars like badges of former victories.
The man grinned.
"You look too calm for someone about to lose."
Kaelen said nothing. He flexed his fingers once, slow and deliberate, then set his hand down for the grip.
"Ready?!" someone shouted from the crowd.
"Break his arm!"
"Use more strength!"
"Don't let the pretty guy win!"
From their back, coins clinked and changed hands.
"All to the blue hair!"
Lucien smiled tightly as he placed his bets, still dressed in noble attire that seemed almost theatrical in this den of chaos.
"You're losing this one, boy!" a gambler barked while placing his own bet.
Thud.
Lucien and the man bumped heads in heated rivalry, teeth gritted.
"Oh yeah, old man? Just watch then!"
"Three… two… one—"
Drop.
The match began, and the crowd exploded.
"PUSH!"
"BREAK HIM!"
Rose stood nearby, clutching their coin pouch dramatically against her chest like a mother shielding her child.
"I should work here instead of the castle," she muttered. "Get the hell out of here, baldy—you're going to lose." Then, shouted.
...And the money will be ours. Heheh~
She squeezed the pouch against her cheek lovingly.
Kaelen's grip tightened. Veins surfaced along his forearm like drawn bowstrings. His opponent's arm trembled first.
Then, slowly—agonizingly slowly—
The muscular man's hand descended.
Thud.
It touched the table.
Silence fell for half a second.
Then the gambling house detonated in noise.
"HE BEAT HIM?!"
"The last champion was defeated!"
"Pay up! Pay up!"
---
Meanwhile—
Spades King is gone. A Jack was placed last round. All they have left in spades are two sevens, the Queen, and a nine. That idiot locked his Queen as the last defense. Which means—
Vionette placed her card—a Spade Jack—over the pile of Clubs Ten, Spade Seven, and Diamond Queen.
Thud.
I win!
"Win: Vionette Crimvane."
"Damn…"
"Princess won again?"
"My moneeeyy!"
In this game, before the match began, a player selected a suit. That chosen suit—and the opposing suits—became royalty and nobility within the round. This time, Spades reigned supreme. No matter the rank, only a spade could defeat another spade.
Vionette had calculated every card already placed—and every card yet to appear. She built her victory not as a hammer blow, but as a trap.
Unlike Kaelen, she did not win overwhelmingly. She won narrowly—intentionally—so challengers would continue lining up.
Noa sat beside her, leisurely enjoying wine served by attentive staff. They had not bothered to hide their identities. Freedom did not wear masks.
Wearing disguises to protect reputation was not freedom.
And as Vionette had told Noa the day they first met, she did not wish to build a kingdom that imprisoned her beneath the chains of image and expectation. She wanted a kingdom she could enjoy.
They occupied the second floor—reserved for the wealthy and reckless. Below them, Kaelen, Lucien, and Rose celebrated loudly, unaware that their queen sat only one ceiling above.
"I hear so much sound from the first floor. Is something going on there?" Noa asked, lifting his glass.
"How would I know?" Vionette shrugged lightly. "I think we should be going now."
"Yeah. My reward comes first." Noa set his wine down smoothly.
What the hell is this reward?
Suspicion flickered across her expression as they descended the staircase as gamblers bowed respectfully.
---
At the bar near the side wall, Lucien sat in the middle, Kaelen to his left and Rose to his right. Alcohol flowed freely.
DHUM!
Lucien slammed his cup down.
"…I know, right? They're always like 'do this, do that.'"
"I had to assist that walking catastrophe," Rose complained, spreading her arms dramatically. "That idiot looked like a saint at first. Then suddenly—Satan's disciple."
"Go pay with your salary to stay in a tavern, he said," Kaelen muttered, forehead pressed against the table. "Like what do you mean? It's a mission for the dukedom. Why would I waste my money?"
Rose nodded solemnly. "Then the whole salary is gone again after finishing it, right? I know the pain."
"I didn't even say proper goodbyes to my girlfriend," Lucien mumbled.
Noa and Vionette passed by behind them, facing the other direction. They heard the voices—but didn't recognize the speakers.
"Why do I feel personally attacked?" Noa muttered through gritted teeth.
"I know, right? Their voices sound familiar too." Vionette crossed her arms as if chilled.
"Nahh~ we probably drank too much wine." Noa waved dismissively.
"By the way, where are we going?" she asked.
He had promised a reward—and that reward somehow involved her—but he had refused to elaborate.
"A good place."
"…Ah-huh."
She turned her head slowly toward him with a deadpan stare.