The chance came immediately after lunch—or rather, the queen ensured that it did.

  This time, she did not come alone. Her youngest insisted on accompanying her, small fingers firmly hooked into her hand, eyes bright with curiosity. Some of the heroes, his friends, were clearly surprised but wise enough not to comment, led them not toward the wards or the drawing rooms, but back to the chambers where they had slept.

  The room was warm, sunlit, and faintly smelled of herbs.

  On the bed lay the person in question, propped up by an excessive number of pillows as though someone had attempted to defeat gravity through sheer cushioning alone. Beside him was a large number of books. His right leg was stretched out, uncovered, and currently under siege.

  Apothecary Donovan stood beside the bed, humming cheerfully as he poked, pressed, and prodded the limb with the enthusiasm of a man discovering a particularly interesting mushroom.

  The patient winced. Then winced harder.

  “Stop poking it!” the boy snapped. He grabbed a book with his left hand and tried to swat the apothecary with it. “I already said I can feel that it hurts!”

  “I am a healer, I am poking it because I am curious as to why it hurts,” Donovan replied lightly, pressing again—just to be certain. His tone suggested curiosity, but his eyes gleamed with unmistakable amusement.

  The boy growled low in his throat, a sound entirely unbecoming of someone who was in pain.

  The queen cleared her throat.

  Both men froze.

  Donovan turned first, blinking in surprise before bowing deeply. “Your Majesty.”

  The boy followed a heartbeat later, attempting to sit up before clearly deciding that was a terrible idea and settling for an awkward half-bow instead. “Oh. Uh. Hi. I’d grovel at your feet but, I can’t.”

  The queen raised an eyebrow at the blatant response and stepped closer, studying him with a practiced eye. He was larger than she expected—broad, soft, undeniably ill at ease in his own body, yet not weak. There was something alert behind his expression, even now, even in pain.

  “Are you well?” she asked.

  He considered the question seriously before answering, “I feel like I woke up in the wrong anime, but I suppose I should just go with it.”

  That earned a pause as his male friends behind the queen snickered. Her youngest tilted her head, staring unabashedly. Then she giggled.

  “You’re fat.”

  The room went very still. The boy blinked once, then looked directly at her youngest. “You’re weird.” He followed that with a perfectly exaggerated imitation of her giggle, high-pitched and mocking.

  Her youngest gasped, scandalized, then crossed her arms and pouted with all the righteous indignation a child could muster.

  They stared at one another.

  Then—almost at the same time—they both smiled.

  “Well,” the boy said, the edge in his voice softening into something warmer, “looks like we’ll get along just fine.”

  The queen watched the exchange in silence, something thoughtful settling behind her eyes. She found herself pondering why her husband had singled him out as interesting. From her perspective, he seemed scattered—or chaotic.

  After an—interesting—meeting, the queen found herself once more in the great hall. Supper was imminent. The servants moved with practiced efficiency, and yet her mind lingered elsewhere, circling back to the events of the afternoon whether she wished it to or not.

  In the Empire, she had learned early that appearances were among the least reliable measures of worth. For men, power; for women, beauty. Those were the Empire’s chief currencies, traded openly and without shame. Everyone knew the price of things, and everyone pretended not to.

  But this was not the Empire. This was the Kingdom of Aravan. Here, anything that could grant an edge over one’s rivals would be seized and sharpened. By that logic, while appearance and power certainly played their parts, the most reliable measure of worth were cunning and intellect—though few were willing to admit it aloud.

  To do so was to confess vulnerability.

  She herself had never placed much stock in appearances. When Lord Vi proved to be fat, much like his brother, it troubled her not in the slightest. Flesh was an accident of circumstance which told her nothing she cared to know.

  What did trouble her was something far more subtle. She could not place him. That, more than anything else, unsettled her.

  When set beside his brother and the others, he did not fit neatly into any of the familiar shapes her mind was accustomed to using. He defied the quiet taxonomy she had built over years of court and council. He was a puzzle that resisted every attempt at categorization, its edges shifting just as she thought she had found purchase.

  She replayed their interactions in her mind as she watched the hall fill.

  With his friends and the youngest among them, his remarks veered unpredictably—from clever wit to biting sarcasm, from statements that bordered on the absurd to moments of startling seriousness. There was no steady rhythm to him, no obvious mask she could learn to read.

  At times, he appeared almost childlike in his focus, fixating with an intensity that excluded the world around him. Yet at other moments, he carried himself with an air of sharp, uncanny perception, as though he were seeing things others missed—or choosing to ignore.

  It was not inconsistency that disturbed her. It was the sense that every version of him was genuine. And that, she thought as supper was announced, was far more dangerous than pretense.

  Before she was unsure, now though she could admit to herself that there was something beneath the surface—a subtle rhythm, an intelligence that she could not immediately define.

  During dinner, the queen’s thoughts inevitably shifted back to her true purpose. Understanding the heroes.

  It was not mere curiosity or idle observation that drew her attention—it was the matter of the spy, the one who had fled. Trust was a fragile thing.

  Even among the most loyal servants or those who profess themselves loyal, even those who had proven themselves over the past cycles, there was no certainty. They had known the spy for three cycles now, and only then his true intended purpose was clear.

  The queen could only begrudgingly admire him.

  The heroes were recent arrivals, strangers who had only been part of their world for a short while, yet already they carried influence. Even now, the rumors of their presence, driving away evil, were spoken of nearly reverently. Soon potential, and power will come naturally to them.

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  And naturally, that would attract unwanted attention. That is why to fully rely on anyone would still be risky. They needed to clean house after all, to ensure that no hidden threads of betrayal lingered.

  So, the solution, in the queen’s mind, was simple—if she could not fully trust anyone native to this world, then she would place her trust in someone not of it. Someone who had no reason to betray them, whose motivations were aligned by need and circumstance rather than ambition or greed.

  That meant either one of the heroes themselves or the adults who had accompanied them.

  But as she observed the summoned, she realized none possessed the aptitude she sought. They were all fundamentally good people, kind-hearted, even honorable—but that alone was not enough. Some were guided by desire, others by curiosity, things that could be exploited or misdirected. Such traits, she thought, were far from what she truly needed to ensure stability in the face of threats like the spy.

  Her gaze drifted, almost unconsciously, to the table before her, where the day’s meals had been served. Even as her mind wrestled with questions of loyalty and strategy, she considered the food, the act of preparing it—a different kind of problem-solving.

  Tonight, because of her niece’s condition, she had requested something light: soup.

  Lady Anna had agreed, though her brow had furrowed slightly in hesitation. She said that she was still not familiar with the ingredients to this world which was understandable, but she said she would do her best. It was no small challenge to cater to tastes and needs in a world so foreign to them, but it was admirable for her to do so.

  Only after consulting with her eldest son did she come up with a solution. The results had been extraordinary. Two soups had emerged from the kitchen. A rich, comforting Chicken Gnocchi, and a vibrant, garlicky Spinach Soup. Both were crafted with care and dedication, flavors balanced in a way that pleased even the queen’s discerning palate. She had tasted them earlier and found herself pleasantly impressed.

  As she sipped the Chicken Gnocchi soup now, the warmth spreading through her, a thought sprouted in her mind. Maybe, the smallest acts like the preparation of a meal, the thought put into its composition—could reveal a person’s intelligence, creativity, and reliability just as clearly as any skill in battle or politics.

  Perhaps, she mused, it was in these details, these unexpected insights, that she would find the allies she could truly trust. The queen smiled to herself, a subtle glimmer of amusement and mischief in her eyes.

  A test, then.

  She observed carefully as Celestia, who had the cloth tied loosely around her face earlier had now removed it entirely and was chatting animatedly with the girls. The queen noted how well the princess interacted with both Reika and Shizuku, their camaraderie was effortless, natural even. One more thing to tell her sister, she thought.

  “Celes,” the queen called from the king’s table, her voice carrying just enough for the hall to turn. All heads snapped toward her. Even the heroes, who had been quietly chatting, fell silent.

  With calm authority, she continued, “With such wonderful food aiding in your recovery, when can we expect you to start teaching our guests?”

  Her gaze swept the group of summoned strangers, lingering on each in turn. There was curiosity, deference, and, in some cases, barely contained excitement in their faces. The queen allowed herself a small, knowing smile.

  “Yes, Highness,” replied her ever-enthusiastic niece, her voice brimming with energy. “I only need tomorrow to complete my recovery and gather things for my lecture. The day after tomorrow, I will begin my lecture on their stats and skills. After that…” She paused, eyes twinkling, “…it will be time for practical lessons.”

  The queen’s smile widened slightly.

  Not because of Celestia’s reply, but because of the excitement that swept around the heroes.

  A quiet sense of satisfaction settled over her. Perhaps, just perhaps, in this unexpected gathering one of these strangers from another world—could become an asset she could truly rely on.

  Once dinner had concluded and the court had retired for the night, the king and queen remained awake in their chambers. The hour was late, yet the table between them was still crowded with parchment—matters of state laid bare.

  Politics, economy, border security, national security, even petty grudges between nobles that spiraled so much that the matters reached the two royals. Ordinarily, such concerns were delegated to ministers and councils, filtered and softened before ever reaching the crown.

  But these were not ordinary times.

  With the attacks escalating and the looming threat of demons pressing ever closer, the final decisions had been left to them. Every choice carried weight, and neither of them was spared the strain. It had given both more than a few headaches—and far fewer hours of sleep. Fortunately, the effects of Lady Anna’s skills were taking effect.

  A soft knock came at the door.

  “Enter,” the king called.

  Four knight captains stepped inside, armored but unarmed, helms tucked beneath their arms. Each saluted, fist to chest, in unison.

  “Evening, Your Majesties,” Captain Aldric said. “You called for us?”

  The king gestured toward his wife.

  The queen did not immediately look up. Her attention remained fixed on the letter in her hands, its edges worn from rereading. The seal bore the markings of the southern refugee camps. Her sister’s hand was unmistakable—urgent, frayed. A plea for aid. Questions about her daughter. About the choice she had made and if there was already a man she had chosen to stand beside.

  The captains waited patiently in silence.

  At last, the queen exhaled softly and set the missive aside. When she looked up, her expression was composed once more, her full attention settling on the men before her. The captains straightened instinctively.

  “Good evening,” she said. “This concerns the spy who infiltrated the castle. Have you discovered anything further?”

  “Nothing conclusive, Your Majesty,” Captain Aldric replied. “We questioned the individual who recommended him, but there was no clear evidence of wrongdoing.”

  “Dame Mina stated she had known him for nearly two years prior to her employment in the kitchens,” Captain Godwin added. “During her time as a free-blade. He was a free-blade and traveling cook, offering his services wherever he could find work. When Dame Mina secured her position here, he asked almost immediately whether there was an opening.”

  Mina from Alessa—one of the castle’s maids. The name lingered in the queen’s thoughts.

  “How thoroughly did you question her?” asked Captain Gendry, folding his arms.

  “As thoroughly as one can without leveling a direct accusation,” Godwin replied evenly.

  “She could have lied,” Captain Rondry said.

  “Yes,” Godwin acknowledged, “but we have no way of proving that she did—or did not.”

  “We’ve sent inquiries to the free-blade central guilds,” Captain Aldric added. “As you know, their responses take time.”

  The queen nodded slowly. She understood delays born of bureaucracy all too well. Time, however, was the one resource they could least afford.

  After a few more questions, the queen bade the captains good night. They withdrew as formally as they had entered, the door closing softly behind them.

  Silence settled over the chamber once more.

  With roughly half of their work finally complete, both monarchs allowed themselves a moment reprieve. The candles had already burned low, wax pooling along their bases, and yet neither of them reached for new ones. There was no illusion that rest truly awaited for them. Whatever progress they had made tonight would be undone by tomorrow’s demands, doubled by new reports, new threats.

  For now, though, they turned to conversation—not as rulers, but as husband and wife, partners who had weathered a great many storms together.

  Now that they had both met the summoned heroes, it seemed natural to compare their impressions.

  “For me,” her husband said with a small smile as he leaned back on his chair, “Lord Arthur, Lord William, Lady Shizuku, and Lady Reika stand out. For a fifth, Lord Haruto as a wild card.”

  The queen raised an eyebrow, studying him with faint amusement. It did not take long to discern his reasoning. In three of the four cases, the explanation was obvious. It was because of their exceptionally high stat ratings. Raw potential that even a cursory glance could not overlook.

  And as for Lord Arthur—

  She laughed softly.

  “The knight,” she said. “Of course.”

  The king offered no denial only a chuckle. He had always favored the class, and the addition of a hero’s jobclass only made it impossible for him to remain impartial.

  “For my part,” the queen replied, “Lady Shizuku and Lady Reika caught my attention as well. Their wit, especially when dealing with Lord Vi, is… refreshing.”

  The king nodded. He could see that.

  “And among the men?” he asked.

  “Lord Yuuto.”

  The king blinked, surprise breaking through his weariness. “The one marked as Suspicious of Women?”

  “Precisely because of that,” the queen said calmly. “Depending on his temperament, he could be useful. He observes carefully. And men who distrust easily tend to notice what others overlook.”

  The king sighed. He did not like the implication—but he understood it. In times like these, necessity outweighed comfort.

  “And lastly,” the queen finished, “Lord William.”

  The king paused, then inclined his head. “We seem to agree there.”

  They shared a quiet understanding. Different reasons, perhaps, but the same conclusion. Both suspected that Lord William possessed a potential not unlike his brother’s—one that had yet to fully reveal itself.

  When the conversation turned to Lord Vi, they found common ground once more.

  “He’s witty, yes,” the king said thoughtfully. “But beneath that, I think he holds those closest to him very dearly. And his humor—perhaps greater than any of the others.”

  The queen considered this in silence. Slowly, a smile curved her lips—not the measured expression of a ruler, but something warmer, more intrigued.

  The king watched her carefully. “And what do you intend to do?” he asked.

  She met his gaze, eyes gleaming faintly in the candlelight.

  “Do not worry, dearest,” she said softly. “You’ll find out soon.”