“It looks like a tailcoat.”

“That’s right! I kept the design simple.”

For the Founding Festival, she meant. Her voice carried a faint thrill—bright, eager, almost childlike—and it brushed against his ear like a soft wind.

‘The Founding Festival…’

Kyle’s expression didn’t change. He stared at the suit with that same detached calm. The woman’s sincerity wasn’t false, but this—this was no more than a beautiful wrapping for the Emperor’s little game. The prettier the shell, the more valuable the wager.

It was a transparent game.

Not something he wanted to do—but not something he could refuse, either. With a quiet sigh, Kyle rose to his feet.

“I understand. May I at least change into the shirt for now?”

“Of course!”

Brisa immediately grew busy, flitting between mannequins and racks until Kyle approached. She quickly handed him the shirt.

As he disappeared into the fitting room, Brisa found herself thinking that the black of his hair—dark as a midsummer night—would look striking against the crisp white of the shirt. And she had the distinct feeling she wasn’t the only one thinking that.

When she glanced at Maude, the young woman was still staring dreamily at the tailcoat. Brisa grinned.

Then, all at once, Maude stripped the mannequin of its jacket and trousers, clutching them to her chest as she stepped toward the fitting room. Her lips were pressed tight, her resolve set.

‘I really want to see how it looks on him… But he’s not going to wear it unless I ask, is he?’

She wanted to check the fit, to see if it suited him—as if there were any doubt, it would. Still, she regretted not insisting earlier.

She lingered nervously in front of the fitting room, pretending not to stare, when suddenly the curtain slid open and Kyle stepped out.

Startled, she took a step back. It felt as if she’d been caught peeking, and embarrassment rushed up her neck. She blurted out the first excuse she could find.

“Ah—could you… maybe try the whole suit on too? I’m just… worried about the fit.”

“…”

His silence was unreadable, and Maude felt her stomach tighten. Then, at last—

“…Very well.”

“Here!”

She thrust the suit toward him, far too eager, and he accepted it before retreating behind the curtain once more.

The curtain glowed faintly with light, the silhouette of a man brushing back his hair cast across it. The image rippled faintly like waves, and for a moment, Maude just stared. Then she gasped, realizing how that must look, and rushed to Brisa’s side as if to scold herself.

But when the curtain opened again, the man who emerged could have walked straight out of a painting.

Maude and Brisa both applauded without thinking. There was no doubt—he’d be the most handsome man of the entire social season. The kind every noblewoman would dream of marrying.

Maude could almost picture the Emperor’s pleased smile—the expression that set the stakes of their wager. The more dazzling Kyle appeared in society, the higher his “value” rose, and the more generous the Emperor’s reward would become.

Her smile finally returned as she turned toward him.

“Oh! I almost forgot.”

Brisa chuckled softly and placed a boutonniere in her hand.

“For you, my lady.”

“Oh, that’s all right—he doesn’t have to—”

“It’s better to check the size now!” Brisa said brightly.

Maude hesitated, then turned toward Kyle again, feeling strangely self-conscious.

“Would you mind if I… just pinned this on for a moment?”

“I’ll do it.”

Kyle took the boutonniere from her, inspecting it carefully. Myrtle, lily of the valley, and astilbe—an elegant blend of white and green.

“Another myrtle,” he murmured. His eyes lifted to hers. “You must like them.”

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Maude replied with a bright, unguarded smile.

‘Beautiful, huh…’

Kyle nodded faintly. 

“They are.” 

The scent of summer flowers lingered softly between them.

***

When they stepped back out into the night, the city was calm again.

Except for the damp shirt now replaced, Kyle was dressed as before—neat, composed, utterly himself. The crisp fabric eased the faint tension that had been sitting in Maude’s chest.

The bell tower struck the hour, its clear tone spilling gently into the warm night air.

At the sound, Maude blinked, then pulled a neatly folded piece of paper from the small pouch at her waist. Kyle’s eyes followed her movements naturally.

“There’s one more thing I wanted to give you,” she said, stopping in her tracks.

He stopped, too, gaze sliding to the slip of paper in her hand.

“Your hand.”

Kyle raised a brow. ‘Did she just… command me?’ The way she said it—like she was speaking to a cat or a dog—earned a quiet sigh from him. But she only stood there, looking up at him expectantly, her palm outstretched as if nothing were strange about it.

With a soft breath, he finally extended his hand. Her smaller one brushed against it lightly as she set the folded paper in his palm. It was half the size of his.

Her eyes were warm when she spoke.

“It’s an address. Ennen Voight.”

Kyle unfolded the paper.

<Lemming, 7th Street No. 13.>

He knew the place—he’d visited that district dozens of times in the past three years. His gaze darkened slightly.

“It’s a home address,” Maude continued. “But if no one’s there, try the horse market nearby. There’s only one, so you won’t have trouble finding it.”

She smiled, bright and guileless. “He loves horses.”

‘Too innocent,’ Kyle thought, fighting a smirk. Or maybe she only pretended to be. He looked away and let out a soft, amused scoff.

“Your hand,” he said.

Without hesitation, she offered it again.

Kyle chuckled quietly under his breath. “And what if I don’t show up?”

A soft sound followed—the paper fluttering from his hand.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

The words were low, carried on the breeze.

“Are you saying you won’t come?” she teased.

“…Who knows.”

Maude laughed, a light, melodic sound. She knew he couldn’t break a promise like that—not a man who lived by his honor as both soldier and gentleman.

“Why are you laughing?”

Kyle watched her for a moment, then, without realizing, smiled as well. Their laughter mingled in the twilight, soft and unhurried—like the bell tower’s shadow stretching across a drowsy summer evening.

***

Morning came—the final day of the Founding Festival.

Today would mark its grand finale: the royal ball at the Imperial Palace. Every year, the festival coincided with the peak of the social season, transforming the capital of Ness into a glittering stage for nobles and dreamers alike.

By mid-June, the city was already overflowing—carriages jamming the streets, lovers quarreling over invitations, merchants shouting over one another. Coffeehouses and tearooms were packed to the brim with hopeful bachelors and ambitious debutantes seeking matches before the season’s end.

Maude was thoroughly pleased. This was her element.

Today mattered more than most, which was why Brisa had personally come to the Hablein estate to help her and Sarah prepare.

When Maude finally emerged, the two gasped in awe.

Her gown flowed like liquid light. The sheer chiffon sleeves traced the curve of her bare shoulders, the embroidered myrtle blossoms cascading down from the corsage at her chest as though blooming from the same vine.

The skirt shimmered softly with each step—layers of water-blue chiffon rippling like gentle waves.

“Everyone will be looking at you tonight,” Brisa whispered.

“Blinded by love, no less,” Sarah added with a giggle.

They clung to each other, laughing, while Maude smiled shyly and glanced at the clock. Time was slipping away.

“I’ll share this glory with you both,” she said, gathering her skirts and dipping into a graceful curtsey. Her movements were elegant despite the rush in her heart.

As she walked through the grand hall, each step sounded lighter than the last.

“Then… I suppose it’s time,” she said, half to herself, like a knight heading into battle.

But halfway down the stairs, she froze.

There he was—waiting below.

Kyle.

Dressed in the tailcoat she’d given him.

The sunset framed him in gold and firelight, turning his profile into something almost unreal. The same tousled hair as always, she noted—he must only slick it back with pomade when wearing his uniform. A subtle, strategic choice; it made him look more approachable.

Maude smiled, her eyes softening.

‘He’s here.’