Victoria turned around and looked at Sophia, who wore her usual composed expression — as though she had simply finished a routine lesson — and the smile within Victoria's heart grew all the warmer.
How to put it? Truly worthy of Sophia.
It seemed like she was always discovering some new strength in her.
Victoria couldn't help but wonder: was there actually anything Sophia wasn't good at?
It didn't seem so.
Every time Victoria thought she'd found something Sophia wasn't quite suited for, Sophia would turn around and surprise her all over again.
Outside the shooting range, Daphne was carrying a bucket of bone broth freshly simmered in the kitchen, on her way to deliver it to Delilah. She caught sight of those two silhouettes stretched long by the slanting afternoon sun, and her jade-green eyes filled with a quiet tenderness.
"Her Majesty is helping the Third Princess practice with the black muskets again," Daphne murmured to herself with a smile.
"That kind of warmth — the kind that makes everyone around her feel it — that's so perfectly Her Majesty."
Meanwhile, hiding behind a stone pillar and peering out in search of her next opportunity to stage a tumbling-into-someone's-arms encounter, Irene was so furious she nearly snapped the wrench in her hand in two.
"Damn it! The Third Princess got there first!
What do I do — it feels like Her Majesty hasn't shown me any special attention in ages."
Sure, Sophia dropped by the laboratory every day to hear her progress reports, but that strictly-business routine was, to Irene — who craved nothing more than to have the Queen gaze at her with eyes full of admiration — somehow even more painful than being made to eat stale Black Bread.
"No! I absolutely cannot fall behind in this competition for royal favor!"
Irene's eyes spun with scheming energy.
She was a little eccentric, yes, but she knew perfectly well that Sophia despised pointless emotional outbursts.
The fake-tripping scheme had already been proven not only to have a miserable success rate, but to reliably trigger Delilah's passive defensive instincts — that territorial food-guarder.
To reclaim her throne as the Queen's most favored subordinate, she would have to attack from the angle of Her Majesty's personal preferences.
So then — besides expanding the realm and obsessing over farming — what did Her Majesty care about most?
Irene's mind instantly flashed back to that time they were selecting a head chef, when Sophia had tasted a particularly good braised meat dish, and just for a moment, a flicker of pure satisfaction had crossed those pale-gold eyes of hers.
"Food! Her Majesty loves good food!"
Irene slapped her thigh.
"But I'm not much of a cook either.... Wait a moment!"
Irene suddenly recalled the frosty summer desserts from her world back before she'd transmigrated.
The food culture from my old world was so incredibly advanced! Nobody here could possibly have tasted anything like it, right?
The Northern border weather was already turning warm. If she could present Her Majesty with a bowl of refreshing, ice-cold berry shaved ice on one of these sweltering afternoons...
"Heh heh heh...."
Irene let out a string of suspiciously gleeful laughter, immediately dropped her wrench where it lay, and sprinted full-tilt toward the Palace kitchen.
Back in the Palace's Administrative Hall, Willow was cross-referencing a fresh batch of black market ledger notes that had just arrived from the border, tiny beads of sweat dotting her brow.
"Willow! Willow!"
Irene blew in like a gust of wind and plonked her head directly over the open ledger.
"Quick, do me a favor! The ultimate happiness of Mason's core team depends on this!"
Willow looked at the whirlwind that was Irene and smiled. "Irene? Another experiment?"
"I'm in the middle of reconciling the accounts for Her Majesty — I don't have time right now."
"Ah, it's not an experiment!"
Irene leaned in close to Willow's ear with a conspiratorial air.
"I want to make a frozen dessert for Her Majesty!
I need some of the finest quality berries you have, and... a large quantity of saltpeter!"
"Saltpeter?"
"That's a strategic military material for making Black powder — and you want to use it for a dessert? Are you planning to blow up the kitchen?"
"You just don't understand!"
Irene tilted her chin up smugly.
"It's called ancient ice-making! Just get me the materials and I promise what I make will not only put Her Majesty in a wonderful mood — you'll get a bowl too!
You remember how I made ice back in Mason Royal City, don't you?"
The moment Willow heard the words 'Her Majesty will definitely be happy,' the quill she'd been using to check the ledger stopped dead.
Her Majesty really hadn't been in the best of spirits lately.
As long as it would make Her Majesty happy... saltpeter was nothing. Even if Irene wanted to blow up the walls of Yurilland, that would still be doing it for Mason.
And besides, the weather truly had been scorching recently. Her Majesty had been spacing out ever so slightly while handling state affairs.
A cool, refreshing dessert — now that would be an extremely high-yield investment in relieving Her Majesty's mental fatigue.
And come to think of it, hadn't Irene actually used saltpeter to make ice before, back when they were at the Palace? Willow couldn't remember the exact process.
"How much saltpeter do you need? I'll have it drawn from the storeroom immediately.
Also, the rear garden just harvested a fresh batch of snowberry from Saen's local produce — I can allocate you the best of the lot."
Willow snapped the ledger shut at once, even quicker off the mark than Irene herself.
A quarter of an hour later, in the most secluded stone chamber of the Palace's rear kitchen.
Following Irene's instructions, Willow had prepared two copper basins — one large, one small. The large basin was filled to the brim with cool well water; the small basin held a portion of clean drinking water and sat placed at the center of the large one.
"Watch closely — it's time to witness a miracle!"
Irene, every bit the mage about to perform a sacred rite, rolled up her sleeves, grabbed a handful of high-purity saltpeter powder, and slowly poured it into the large basin of well water.
As the saltpeter dissolved into the water, something remarkable happened.
Rather than turning cloudy, the water in the large basin began to emit a soft, faint hiss.
The temperature at the water's surface plunged at a speed visible to the naked eye, and a white layer of frost instantly crystallized on the outer wall of the basin.
"Quick! Willow, stir the water in the large basin clockwise — it'll help the saltpeter dissolve faster!
And make sure it's clockwise — going counterclockwise causes uneven temperature distribution. That's physically not permitted!"
Irene barked instructions while keeping her eyes fixed on the small basin.
Willow executed the command with fastidious precision, her deep-seated need for orderliness finding tremendous satisfaction in this moment.
In barely the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, driven by the physical effect of the saltpeter absorbing a massive amount of heat as it dissolved, a thin film of ice crystals began to form across the surface of the drinking water in the small basin.
"It worked!"
Irene let out an excited cry and carefully lifted the small basin free.
As the temperature continued to fall, the water quickly solidified — right there in the sweltering summer kitchen — into a gleaming, crystal-clear block of ice.
"Holy spirits above..."
Willow stared at the block of ice, a flash of awe crossing her eyes.
"To produce frost and ice using nothing but the natural properties of a substance.
Miss Irene, this Divine Miracle is truly breathtaking."
"Of course it is! Do you know who you're dealing with!"
Irene flipped her eyebrows with great satisfaction and immediately moved on to the next step.
She retrieved a silver scraper honed to razor sharpness, and with swift, practiced strokes, began shaving the block of ice.
Glittering shards of ice fell like snowflakes into a glass bowl, quickly piling up into a small mountain of crushed ice.
Irene chopped the snowberries — deep red, glossy, and fragrant with sweetness — and layered them over the shaved ice, then finished the whole thing off with a drizzle of precious wild honey over the top.
A bowl of brilliantly colored, delicately chilled "Mixed Berry Shaved Ice," born into the heat of the afternoon in perfect form.
"Perfect!
This is without a doubt one of the greatest masterpieces of my Alchemy career!"
Irene gazed at the bowl of shaved ice, bursting with a sense of achievement.
She hadn't forgotten her promise either — she went right ahead and shaved a second, slightly smaller bowl, and handed it to Willow, who sat primly to one side:
"Here you go — your share, a dividend for supplying the materials!"
Willow accepted the cold, sweet treat, felt the faint chill seep into her palm, and felt her habitual perfectionism soothe considerably.
"Many thanks, Miss Inventor."
Irene carefully balanced the tray bearing the largest shaved ice as though it were a priceless treasure, and trotted all the way to Sophia's study.
Sophia was currently sitting amid a table covered in military dispatches. Even with ice blocks placed in the room, the warming weather had left thin strands of silver hair clinging faintly to her pale neck.
"Your Majesty!"
Irene popped her head around the doorframe, sapphire-blue eyes sparkling.
"I've brought you a secret weapon against the heat!"
Sophia looked up, and when those pale-gold eyes landed on the icy-cold, vibrantly colorful bowl, they did — unmistakably — brighten just the tiniest bit.
Saltpeter ice-making?
Sophia saw through the method at a glance — but the sweet, mingled fragrance of berry and honey broke through her otherwise impenetrable rational defenses with remarkable success.
Sophia picked up a silver spoon and elegantly took a small bite.
The fine ice crystals melted instantly on the tip of her tongue, bringing with them not just an exquisite, piercing chill, but the distinctive sweet-and-tart of the berries and the rich warmth of the honey.
That sudden cold shock descending in the middle of a sweltering day made the tension in Sophia's nerves loosen in an instant.
"Not bad."
Sophia set down the spoon and offered those two short words of evaluation, but in those pale-gold eyes of hers, there flickered a trace of delight she herself hadn't even noticed.
"Heh heh!"
Irene rubbed her hands together with excitement and seized her chance to scoot closer to Sophia.
"Your Majesty, aside from you, I only made a tiny bit for Willow.
So... does that count as a great contribution?"
Sophia watched this little cat wagging its invisible tail in search of a reward, and that familiar indulgent warmth rose in her chest again.
"It counts."
Sophia picked up a document from the desk, scrawled her signature on it in a flash, and held it out to Irene.
"Priority allocation order for the next batch of top-grade materials from the armory. It's yours."
"Yes!! Your Majesty is the best!"
Irene cheered and clutched the allocation order as though it were a Royal Decree.
She still hadn't managed to sneak a cuddle against Sophia's side this time, but trading a bowl of shaved ice for the Queen's smile and tangible resources? This food-based favor-currying tactic was an absolute, resounding win.
At that same moment, a thousand li away in Mason Royal City.
The last light of sunset spilled across the ancient, solid stone walls of the Palace, golden rays playing off the polished armor of the soldiers patrolling the battlements — a scene that radiated both serene vitality and quiet, martial gravity.
Since Sophia had taken most of the core elite forces with her, the two senior officials left to hold the Royal City — Chancellor Valery and Victor — had spent these recent days practically living and sleeping in the Council Hall.
Though both men were well along in years, they dared not slacken for even a moment in handling state affairs and defense matters, terrified of betraying the trust of their silver-haired Queen.
"Dispatch — urgent letter from Her Majesty!"
A herald stumbled into the hall, covered head to toe in road dust, his leather boots worn nearly through, both hands raised high clutching a sealed letter bearing the Black Rose wax seal.
Valery, who had been frowning deeply over an autumn harvest projection map, shot to his feet so fast it looked nothing like the movement of an old man.
Beside him, General Victor flung down his whetstone and strode over with swift, heavy steps.
Two faces carved by decades of hard living pressed together as one, holding their breath to tear open the envelope.
As the letter unfolded, it was as if the very air inside the Council Hall froze solid.
Valery's hands trembled slightly, while Victor's cloudy but fierce eyes grew wider and wider.
Key points of the letter:
Yurilland Royal City has been taken.
Saen mining district absorbed; five thousand advance troops added.
Self-sustaining-through-war logic confirmed; no rear logistics support required from the Royal City.
"This... how is this possible?"
General Victor scrubbed his eyes hard, his voice coming out gravelly and raw.
"How long has it even been since the army set out?
Yurilland's Whitestone City — that notoriously easy-to-defend, hard-to-attack fortress — just fell, just like that?"
Chancellor Valery, meanwhile, was riveted to those words — self-sustaining through war — and his eyes were slowly going red.
"Self-sustaining through war... feeding Mason's blade on the flesh and blood of her enemies."
Valery murmured in a trembling voice, his mind already running wild with visions of Sophia on the battlefield — flawlessly calculating, coldly commanding, leaving nothing to chance.
"Victor, do you see this?
Her Majesty isn't just fighting a war — she is rewriting the rules.
She even took the food pressure on our end into account. She would rather face unknown risks in foreign lands than leave us without resources for our own people."
Heavens above, just how old is Her Majesty?!
At this age, other princesses are still agonizing over the embroidery patterns on their gowns — and yet our Majesty is already wading through mud and blood, calculating the yield of every single grain of wheat for the sake of Mason's fortunes.
She deliberately said she doesn't need resupply — she must be worried we old bones would wear ourselves ragged, worried about shaking the farming foundations the Royal City has worked so hard to build.
Behind this transcendent, almost divine rationality, how much tenderness for this nation must she be hiding?
Your Majesty... you make this old minister feel truly ashamed.
Victor, for his part, slapped his thigh with a resounding crack, tears of emotion streaming down his weathered face:
"Taking Yurilland, absorbing Saen... this isn't fighting a war, this is dancing across the map of the Northern border!
Her Majesty must have predicted every single move Olan was going to make.
Those five thousand new troops in Her Majesty's hands have probably already been forged into the sharpest spearhead imaginable.
And yet Her Majesty still wrote in the letter that she might run into difficulties... she's clearly just saying that to keep us from worrying. She's comforting us!"
The two old men were moved for quite some time before they finally wiped their eyes and hurriedly spread out paper and brush to write a reply to their Queen far away.
Victor took up the brush; his handwriting was neat and elegant, every stroke radiating loyal devotion to the Crown.
Valery stood at his elbow, issuing a steady stream of instructions:
"Write it down! Make sure you write this!
Everything is fine here in the Royal City!
Those few hundred Olan patrol cavalry who didn't know when to quit — they dared to harass our wheat fields, so this old man led the men out and slaughtered every last one of them. Their heads are hanging on the west city gate feeding the crows!"
Victor wrote on, gently offering a correction:
"Valery, we must be refined when addressing Her Majesty.
I'll tell Her Majesty that the external threat has been efficiently neutralized."
"And that Leighton Queen who keeps coveting Her Majesty!"
Valery continued to shout.
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