The tension slowly began to dissipate, like smoke lingering after an explosion. Amanda still stood at the center of the chaos, with Randall on one side—his hand now gently but firmly holding her fingers—and Roxana on the other, her face having regained its mask of control, though a trace of lingering shock remained in her eyes.
It was in that moment that Amanda caught something odd out of the corner of her eye. On one of the service tables lined against the wall, a massive silver platter heaped high with chickens roasted in honey and herbs suddenly… twitched. Then it rose smoothly, a mere inch above the surface, and began to glide away from the main table—slowly, solemnly, as though carried by an invisible waiter toward a grand dinner—before vanishing behind a heavy drapery.
Inside, Amanda’s heart lurched, then trembled with suppressed laughter. *Ah, you old sly fox… Torglin’s sneaking food in the confusion!* This absurd, mundane detail amid all the passion and intrigue struck her as impossibly hilarious. The corners of her mouth twitched beneath the mask in a barely contained smile.
That instant of ridiculous relief became a turning point. The panic receded, giving way to a strange, almost fatalistic resolve. *Well then,* she thought. *Since I’m here, and since they’re so desperate to keep me…*
Randall, sensing the tension ease in her hand, leaned closer.
“Please,” he said again, and in that single word lay a whole world of meaning—apology, plea, promise.
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Roxana, catching the shift in her posture, seized the moment. Her voice regained its light, persuasive cadence, now stripped of its former bite.
“The duchy has yet to show you even a tenth of its hospitality, Guardian,” she said. “Allow us to make amends for this… unpleasantness. At the very least, with dessert. Our master pastry chef is a true wizard.”
Amanda slowly turned her head, her red eyes gliding from Randall’s face to Roxana’s beneath the mask. She allowed herself a theatrical pause, savoring the way these two most powerful young aristocrats of the duchy held their breath, awaiting her verdict.
“Dessert, you say?” Her voice sounded pensive. “Very well… Perhaps I shall grant you one more chance.”
It was not surrender. It was mercy. And they accepted it with eager gratitude.
Randall did not merely escort her back to the table. He firmly claimed the position beside her, his shoulder now constantly brushing hers, as though he feared she might vanish again if he lost physical contact. Roxana, on the other side, immediately launched into an animated description of the intricacies of local confections, weaving a light, casual backdrop that helped dispel the lingering awkwardness.
The Guardian’s return to the table was met with a collective, almost tangible sigh of relief. Conversation gradually resumed, but now it flowed with reverence, caution, and frequent furtive glances in her direction.
Amanda sat, sampling the airy dessert offered to her, feeling a mingled sensation of triumph and utter, absolute surreality crawl up her spine. She—Yamada Light—had just thrown a tantrum, shattered the heir’s engagement, forced his entire family to beg her to stay, and was now eating cake while, somewhere behind the drapery, an invisible gnome gorged himself on stolen roast chickens.
This was not just a new world. This was the maddest performance of her life. And it seemed she had no choice but to play the leading role all the way to the end.