I grabbed the towel Clara was holding out like some sacred offering and scrubbed it across my dripping face. She was fidgeting beside me for some reason, like a guilty kid waiting for a scolding.

"What is it?" I asked, because clearly she wasn't going to spit it out unless I pulled it out of her throat myself.

"I want to know your schedule for the rest of the day," she said, voice just a little too careful. "I know Lord Everard asked you to submit the detailed report of your plan of action by evening…"

She hesitated.

"…I was wondering if Lady Sylvia and Lord Orion can help too," she added, her eyes darting like a thief caught with her hand in the pantry.

I stared at her, deadpan. Miss Obvious strikes again. "They wanted to hold a meeting and sent you to ask me?"

She nodded. Once. Twice. Thrice. Like a pigeon pecking rice.

I sighed. "They do realize this extra work is because of them, right?" I muttered, wiping the last of the water off and handing Clara the towel.

She lowered her head. "So… is that a no?"

I glanced at her once. "I'll join them. Where are they?"

Her face lit up instantly. "Conference room."

Of course. Where else?

On the way, I glanced at Clara. "So… what did you decide about the Savant Orb?"

Her face, which had been glowing like a lantern a second ago, dimmed as if someone threw a wet cloth on it.

"My apologies, young master… I still think the same. It will be wasted on me."

I sighed. "Seems like I'll have to convince Father to make you use the Savant Orb then."

Clara, still looking like she was at her own funeral, said, "Lord Everard will find a better use for it."

"We'll see," I replied, giving it a nice, challenging edge just to remind her this conversation wasn't over.

Then she gave a faint little smile and said, "Lord Hugo… if possible, could you ask Miss Seraphina to appoint me near the corridor of your room after you become duke?"

That innocent face of hers could probably convince angels to commit fraud.

Just take that fucking orb and get stronger, damn it!

On the outside, I smirked and said mockingly, "Nope. I'll transfer you out of the castle."

I could sense a pout behind me.

Clara pushed the door open, and I stepped into the so-called "conference room." A bit too grand for just four people if you asked me—felt like we were about to draft a treaty instead of cleaning up house business.

Inside, Orion and Sylvia were seated side by side, hunched over documents that looked like they had been shuffled, restacked, and abused half a dozen times already. Judging by the tired neatness of their desks and the way their shoulders sagged, they'd probably been camped out here since the morning's little fiasco.

The moment I entered, both their faces lifted. Orion straightened, and Sylvia's calm gaze found me immediately. I walked in casually, the door clicking shut behind me as Clara stepped in and positioned herself behind me like an ever-reliable shadow.

"Good evening, Lord Hugo," Orion greeted, all polite and steady as usual.

"Good evening to you too, Lord Orion," I replied, dropping into the chair opposite them like I owned the place. Because, well… technically, I sort of did.

Sylvia quietly offered a graceful bow from her seat. I gave her a small nod back. "Seems like most of the meeting is already sorted."

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Orion let out one of those faint, diplomatic smiles that said everything and nothing at the same time. "It's our fault this mess is happening. We'd like to help as much as we can."

"Of course not, Lord Orion," I said smoothly. "Moles are moles because they're hard to find. If anything, I'm thankful to Lady Sylvia for telling me about her suspicions beforehand." I leaned back, comfortable, making sure to drop the right amount of emphasis on Sylvia's part.

From behind me, Clara stood still as a statue, but I caught the look on her face. The kind of look that translated to: Good acting, young master.

***

Sylvia's PoV:

I glanced down at the documents me and Father had compiled since morning.

Neatly stacked sheets, charts, and annotated ledgers filled with what felt like endless calculations. They contained the product forecast we intended to push next month — grain consignments to the southern ports, surplus ironworks for the Elvian capital, and a trial allocation of alchemic tinctures for the Elvian mage districts. Alongside those were balance sheets, estimated demand indices, and margin notes regarding tariffs and warehouse depreciation.

I passed them across the table to Lord Hugo, seated opposite me.

"These are the documents concerning the products we intended to release next month," I said, smoothing my voice so it sounded professional rather than tired.

He accepted the stack and began to read — or so I thought. His eyes moved swiftly, too swiftly. He gave the first page no more than ten seconds, the second even less, and by the time he reached the fifth, only three minutes had passed.

I froze. Did he… skim them?

My grip tightened slightly in my lap. These weren't idle papers; Father and I had been refining this structure since dawn. The tables listed which products absorbed the largest portions of the loan, how to offset them against projected exports, and the ratio of liquid assets versus goods in transport. All of it was crucial.

Was he undermining our effort? No… he didn't strike me as the type to dismiss other's efforts so lightly. And yet, I could not help but feel a faint ember of irritation.

I locked eyes with him, unable to keep silent.

"Lord Hugo, that data is critical. It outlines which product absorbed which portion of the loan facility, and it's designed to cross-check with the quarterly returns against actual market yield. It isn't something to be brushed through in minutes."

He looked up, calm as ever, and smiled faintly. "Of course. I truly appreciate how detailed the report is."

I blinked, unsure how to take that answer. So I leaned forward slightly, testing him. "In that case… may I ask one thing? The figures under grain export show a 12% forward contract coverage, but the risk table suggests you considered only two-thirds of the hedge. If we proceed, how do you intend to buffer against the remaining volatility?"

For a moment, silence hung between us. Then his reply came, smooth and deliberate. "The two-thirds hedge ratio is actually ideal, Lady Sylvia. It leaves us liquid enough to seize sudden spikes in demand, but still keeps us covered against common fluctuations. If practice follows the numbers, I'd be grateful for it. The margins you accounted for under bonded storage will serve as the cushion against that remaining volatility."

I felt my lips part ever so slightly. He hadn't only read it — he had absorbed it.

Lord Hugo leaned back, his fingers tapping lightly against the armrest as if he were measuring the weight of his words against the weight of numbers.

"We will be using the same performance metrics when we launch our products," he said evenly. 'And the "when" will depend on how well salted pork performs in the market two months from now."

I blinked, tilting my head slightly in confusion. "Two months? Did we not agree on four months from now for the salted pork launch?"

His lips curved into the faintest hint of a smirk though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "That would have been the case, Lady Sylvia. But the loans Father took from the Association of Capital do not exactly carry generous interest rates. Paying only the interest without monetizing our stock is..no matter how sizable the duchy's treasury may seem on the outside, an unsustainable strain."

He looked up at the ceiling, and Clara immediately moved to serve him a drink.

"My intention is simple" he continued.

"Use salted pork revenue to cover interest payments and shave a fraction off the principal itself. Once we roll out the larger product line through contracts, we will redirect salted pork income back into reforms and growth, instead of bleeding it into debt servicing."

I found myself staring for a moment before asking softly, "You are going to sell the products on a contract basis?"

"Yes," he answered without hesitation, sipping his drink. "Since our product lists are already circulating — assuming, of course, the moles embedded in our administration have done their jobs efficiently — our competitors are not in the dark. A third hand from the local associations, however, provides leverage. If I can tie the larger merchants who contract salted pork into also taking our other products on pre-arranged terms, then we bypass the volatility of retail performance entirely."

My eyes widened a fraction at the elegance of it. "That… is a very sound strategy," I admitted, unable to suppress the small spark of admiration that crept into my tone.

He glanced at me briefly, almost amused at my reaction, then added with studied casualness, "Except, of course, that the range of negotiation for pricing narrows considerably. Contract obligations, floor-price clauses, advance margins, all of it tightens our room to maneuver."

I lowered my gaze, lips pressed together. I cannot help but feel he deliberately inserted that reminder—not for necessity, but as if to quietly point back toward us saying "its your fault we will be selling contract based."

And yet, even as the guilt stung, I could not deny the brilliance of his solution.

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