Anya raised her right hand.

"Two slices of bread every day!" she declared loudly, holding up two fingers with a deadly serious expression.

Karska froze. His eyes widened slightly.

"Huh…?" His breath caught. "That's… just that?"

Veska cut in reflexively, her tone rising without meaning to. "What— only two slices of bread?"

Anya immediately turned toward her, lips puckering into a pout. "For my whole life," she replied, sulking as she emphasized every word.

Silence followed.

Veska stared at her blankly, then let out a short breath. "…Idiot," she muttered. Leaning forward slightly, she added, "Kid, think again."

Before she could continue—

"Silence!"

Matruska was still crouched in front of Anya, but now she shot a piercing glare at Veska. Her gaze was hard, utterly intolerant.

Veska froze instantly. Her mouth snapped shut. She straightened and dipped her head slightly. "My apologies."

Matruska turned her attention back to Anya.

"Two slices of bread every day," she repeated softly, as if confirming it. "And that is what you want?"

"UN!" Anya nodded firmly. "Good bread!"

Lucas covered his face with one hand.

"…I just received a noble horse," he muttered under his breath, "and the guardian of tomatoes field just asks for two slices of bread."

Silvara turned her face away. Her left shoulder trembled faintly.

Geralt stood stiffly, his expression a mix of embarrassment, confusion, and the urge to kneel and beg forgiveness—yet his feet refused to move.

Matruska let out a slow breath.

"Very well," she said at last, her tone still formal. "That request… can be granted."

Anya lit up instantly. "Really?!"

"Really," Matruska replied curtly. "Two slices of good-quality bread, every day."

Anya clenched her small fists. "YES!"

Karska closed his eyes with a faint smile.

Veska stared up at the sky, clearly regretting her life choices. Silvara finally failed to hold it in—the corner of her lips lifted.

Lucas could only stare blankly ahead.

Matruska straightened.

"Then we shall take our leave," she said calmly. "Sir Geralt, Anya—you will be escorted back properly."

Geralt bowed deeply. "Thank you for your consideration, Lady Matruska."

As the attendants moved to prepare—

"Please wait a moment, my lady."

Geralt turned his head and glanced at Lucas.

"Young Master," he asked carefully, "will I be working again tomorrow?"

Lucas looked at him, then nodded without hesitation.

"Yeah. Sure, old man," he replied. "As you should be."

Geralt froze for half a second—then broke into a broad smile. He nodded firmly.

"Understood."

Anya immediately started hopping in place.

"Anya will patrol again during harvest time!" she declared proudly. "So I can get my second wages from Young Master!"

Lucas nodded again, still processing. "…Right."

He looked mildly confused, but said nothing.

With that, they departed.

---

Inside the moving wagon—

Matruska sat by the window. Veska and Karska were seated across from her.

Veska stared ahead in silence, her thoughts tangled.

Second wages…?

Guardian of the tomato field?

Work…?

She slowly turned her gaze toward the window.

Are those rumors about Lucian Voss actually true?

If he were really as rotten as the stories claimed… why did that little girl look so cheerful in front of him? Why did the old man look genuinely happy when told he would be working again?

It made no sense.

Veska exhaled quietly.

Someone that vile couldn't possibly have an uncle-like manner like that.

Beside her, Karska was deep in thought as well.

Tomatoes.

Produce of that quality.

An "alchemist genius"—Geralt's words echoed in his head.

He lowered his gaze.

If that were true… could he create a potion strong enough to cure my sister?

The thought lingered. He said nothing.

Matruska, meanwhile, let out a heavy breath.

She looked out the window.

Sighed.

Leaned back and stared at the wagon's ceiling.

Sighed again.

Folded her arms.

Another sigh.

Lowered her head, eyes closed.

Yet another sigh.

Veska and Karska exchanged confused looks.

Finally, Veska spoke up.

"Lady Matruska," she asked carefully, "is something the matter?"

Matruska rested her fingers against her chin.

"I very much wanted to take that child home with me," she said frankly.

She paused, then added, almost to herself, "Raising someone that cheerful would surely be… delightful."

Veska and Karska looked at each other.

They shared the same thought.

She needs to get married.

-----

Silas sat by the table, calmly sipping the tea Lilia had prepared.

"Are you worried about your friend?" he asked casually.

Lilia nodded. "Yes, Sir… that bandit attack—"

"Relax," Silas cut in smoothly. "There's already new information. Everything is secure now."

Lilia released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "That's… good."

Silas remained seated near the window, his gaze drifting outward as steam rose from the teacup.

But his mind was elsewhere.

Why was Lucian Voss able to fight like that?

The image resurfaced uninvited—

Lucas wielding a hoe, clashing head-on with the Blade of Rosevelt. A regional knight. Not someone an ordinary noble youth should even survive against.

Silas knew better than anyone.

Without the Crownblade's intervention, Lucian Voss would have died.

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

A Forged Seal…?

That was dangerous.

Very dangerous.

It seems I'll need to increase security across my trade routes, he thought grimly.

His hand slipped into his coat. He pulled out a folded contract and glanced at it.

"…Damn it."

His fingers tightened around the paper.

Now how am I supposed to seize that tomato field?

---

Behind the brothel in Voss Town, under the harsh light of midday, Liria stood in silence.

Sunlight spilled across the rear courtyard, outlining her mature, full figure beneath a fitted dress clearly designed to sell temptation, not comfort. Her arms were crossed beneath her chest, posture stiff with irritation rather than allure.

"…That idiot young master," she muttered.

How did he can be that tough?

"Tsk."

Her expression darkened.

Aldric… You!!! Criminal!!!

"Damn it…"

This was bad. Truly bad.

Income had already been slipping. Regular clients were cautious now, whispers spreading through the town. And the private party Aldric had promised—exclusive, extravagant, profitable—had collapsed entirely.

A complete loss.

Footsteps echoed from the alley.

Boran.

A black-market merchant she had dealt with before. Too greedy. Too deep. The type who trafficked cursed artifacts and thought consequences were negotiable.

Liria turned the moment she saw him.

"Get out," she said flatly.

Boran halted. "L-Liria, wait—"

"I said get out."

She stepped closer, voice cold.

"I'm not becoming a criminal," she continued. "Imperial Law can be softened for nobles. Not for people like us."

Boran's face drained of color.

"I—I didn't know Aldric would—"

"Leave," Liria cut him off.

Fear won. He backed away.

---

Yesterday, afternoon, sky yellowed—

The announcement rang clearly through the busy street, merchants and civilians frozen mid-motion.

Aldric Rosevelt—

Violation of Imperial Law.

Boran felt his stomach drop.

"…Shit."

He reached into his coat pocket.

Empty.

"What—damn it," he hissed. "Wrong side—"

He bolted.

He nearly made it past the district boundary—

Only to stop short.

Patrols.

Young knights were stationed along the road, armor bright under the sun. Several raised their arms, releasing messenger crows into the sky.

No way through.

Grinding his teeth, Boran slipped into the backstreets, eventually hiding inside a quiet, half-abandoned inn.

---

Present—

Daylight still burned overhead.

Boran stood behind the brothel again, breathing shallow.

"I just need somewhere to hide," he said lowly. "Just for a while."

Liria stared at him.

Long.

Silent.

Sunlight reflected off the stone walls as she weighed profit against ruin.

Liria finally spoke.

"If that's the case," she said flatly, "one gold per night."

Boran jolted, eyes widening.

"Are you stupid?" he snapped on instinct. "That's outright robbery—"

"Then leave," Liria cut in without emotion. "Right now."

She gestured toward the back road. No threat. No raised voice. Just a final decision.

Boran fell silent.

A few seconds passed.

"…Damn it," he muttered at last. "Fine."

He nodded stiffly, his expression twisted between anger and resignation.

Just this morning, when he tried to flee Voss territory, nothing had felt normal.

The roads were crowded with evacuees—handcarts, sacks of grain, crying children. Security was tighter. People's gazes lingered longer than they should have.

And worst of all—

He had almost been recognized.

A merchant stared at him for a second too long. A guard frowned as Boran passed by. One more step, and someone would have said black market merchant out loud.

He swallowed.

Boran looked back at Liria.

"…Just for a while," he said quietly.

Liria didn't answer. She simply turned and walked back into the brothel, leaving the rear door open.

----

Cut back to the manor.

Lucas was back in his room.

And Silvara was still there.

Standing. Watching. Following him with her eyes every time he shifted even slightly.

Lucas hesitated, then sighed.

"Silvara, you can rest for a bit," he said. "I'm not Lucian. I'm not going to cause trouble."

"I have no other duties at the moment," she replied calmly.

That shut him up.

Chasing her out felt wrong.

Lucas shifted again—and finally noticed it.

His body felt sticky. Uncomfortable. The lingering aftermath of medicine, sweat, and bandages.

"…This feels awful."

He stood up and headed toward the door. "I'll take a bath first."

Silvara reacted instantly.

"Your wounds are still fresh," she said, more sharply than intended. "Your body is covered in bandages."

Lucas stopped.

"…Ah. Right."

He glanced down at himself, then grimaced.

"But still," he muttered, "this is really uncomfortable."

Then Silvara spoke, her voice noticeably quieter.

"…Then," she said, pausing for a fraction of a second, "just… wipe it down."

Lucas looked at her.

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