However, Mail had only mild concerns and wasn’t overly worried. Although the Kingdom of Bainsha, where Ormil’s family resided, was far from Mail’s homeland, it wasn’t all that distant from the empire here. Moreover, the kingdom was embroiled in a civil war.

As long as each faction’s power remained balanced, it was clear that Ormil would try to use that to her advantage if she became empress. The moment she took the empress’s throne, the faction her family belonged to would likely rush in, eager to secure the empire’s backing. That would be against the emperor’s wish to minimize interference from his in-laws.

‘Even if the marquis oversees the selection process, it’ll still go according to the emperor’s wishes.’

With such obstacles in place, there was no need to be overly anxious about the possibility of Ormil becoming empress. Compared to the likelihood of her being eliminated, the chance was very slim.

Instead of fretting over such a minimal possibility, Mail decided to simply savor the current peace. Ah, blessed tranquility.

It was around noon when a challenge to Mail’s peace arrived.

“Looks like Mold wants to have lunch with you.”

Mail had visited a new location today—a vast garden for strolling outside the detached palace. Compared to the usual spots, it had a rougher feel, but it was still a garden, bringing a refreshing, pleasant, and rewarding experience. On returning to her quarters, Riela handed her an unexpected letter.

The letter was already opened and awkwardly folded, suggesting Riela had read it first. Her paper-folding skills were terrible.

Mail took it and, as soon as she unfolded it, let out a quiet groan. It wasn’t a letter; it was an invitation.

“Why would Lady Petten want to have lunch with me?”

The sender was Ormil Petten, addressed to Mail von Vizeat. The message was simple: she wished to have lunch together at her residence and asked for some of Mail’s time. Mail clicked her tongue, feeling her free time evaporate.

“Lady Petten? Who’s that?”

With her conveniently selective memory, Riela seemed convinced that Ormil Petten’s real name was either Oatmeal or Mold. Mail kindly corrected her.

“Lady Mold.”

“Aha.”

“But why does she want to have lunch, really…? What do you think, Princess?”

“Well, maybe she’s hungry?”

“Hung—well, maybe. Unexpectedly so. Considering how polite the wording is, it might really just be for a meal…”

Not likely.

Spotting a maid nearby, Mail stopped talking. She recognized this maid; she’d seen her before. Specifically, at Ormil’s quarters.

Mail let out a sigh as she spoke.

“The person who delivered this invitation—isn’t it that maid over there?”

“Yes.”

“And she’s been standing there without leaving this whole time?”

“How did you know?”

“Because I can see Lady Mold’s intent.”

How wicked. Riela tilted her head once at Mail’s response, then turned her gaze toward the maid, asking her directly.

“Why are you still standing there?”

The maid had been there since two hours ago. Riela was only now asking why. Mail answered on the maid’s behalf.

“It’s not that she isn’t leaving; she can’t.”

“Huh? Why?”

“Because Lady Petten—Mold—probably told her not to return without me. Right?”

“…Yes, that is correct.”

The maid, who had been standing quietly, nodded. She was a personal maid Ormil had brought from her homeland.

Following her lady’s orders, she’d delivered the invitation here but had not returned. She’d been instructed to stay in place for hours or even days until the recipient accepted the invitation. If she returned empty-handed, she’d likely be beaten.

Though she appeared to endure it well, she didn’t seem too distressed, as if accustomed to such treatment. It was manageable for a day; beyond that, she’d likely collapse.

Clicking her tongue, Mail pulled the cord by her bed. She intended to accept the invitation, not wishing to torment the poor maid. However, she wasn’t planning to go empty-handed. If the other side was preparing meticulously, she’d match that preparation.

Watching Mail begin to change clothes with the help of her maids, Riela asked.

“Do you want to borrow Rose?”

It was a generous offer. Grateful, Mail declined. She wasn’t going to kill her opponent.

“It’s probably just simple, petty harassment. She wants to make a fool of me and mock me to my face. I saw something similar back in the academy.”

“Then why are you taking that?”

“If my hunch is right, I’ll need it.”

“And why dress like that?”

“That too, I’ll probably need.”

“That’s strange.”

“It’s for the win.”

The preparations didn’t take long. Shortly after, Mail left the room with the maid who had delivered the invitation.

***
Ormil Petten might have been a person whose intelligence was highly questionable, but she was, after all, still human and understood basic reasoning. She at least knew not to kill people without a good reason.

She thought to herself:

‘I still fall short in terms of rank.’

Ormil was a count’s daughter, whereas Mail was a duke’s daughter. Their countries might have been of comparable power, but Ormil’s background was clearly two ranks below Mail’s.

Ormil was aware of this, even if it irritated her. Although her reasoning was hardly better than that of an animal, it was just good enough for her to make small concessions before reality.

‘I’ll just have to keep my head down until I become empress.’

She pretended to be merciful, delaying the execution. She would sever her rival’s head once she became empress. Once crowned, she would sweet-talk the emperor; then, the heads of insignificant foreign nobles could be tossed around as she pleased.

Ormil imagined this sweet future, a smile tugging at her lips. It was a delicious thought.

Knock, knock.

“My Lady, it’s Amy.”

‘She’s here.’

Ormil erased her deep smile. She had invited Mail today, not with any grand plan, but simply to make a declaration of war and maybe humiliate her a little. Watching her rival tremble in disgrace would be nearly as fun as taking her head.

“Come in.”

The door opened, and Ormil, still seated, lifted her gaze to observe the figure entering with her personal maid.

Her hair was a bark-like brown, ordinary and featureless. The green eyes, reminiscent of fresh foliage, were passable but dull compared to Ormil’s own sky-blue ones. Ormil sneered slightly. Pathetic.

“It seems there was a mistake. I invited you to dine, not to the hunting grounds.”

She added, blatantly sizing up Mail, “You look quite suited to running around with the animals out there.” Her tone dripped with derision. She openly implied that Mail’s appearance was only fit for rough, dusty hunting grounds.

Mail brushed off the remark and sat opposite Ormil.

“I often hear that I resemble a deer.”

“What…?”

“I dressed down a bit to match the occasion, but I guess my natural beauty still shines through. You know, like a deer frolicking in nature.”

Mail smiled sweetly. She had come prepared to match Ormil’s level. If Ormil wanted to be petty, Mail could be just as unashamed.

Speechless, Ormil let out a frustrated breath and signaled her maid.

“…Serve the food.”

“Yes, my lady.”

The food arrived promptly. It seemed Ormil had at least prepared a meal for this ‘dining’ invitation. A steak with roasted vegetables, beautifully arranged on a plate with intricate designs.

Ormil picked up her fork and knife and began slicing the food elegantly. With her mouth closed, she could almost pass for a refined lady.

After a few cuts, she looked up, feigning surprise.

“Oh my, why aren’t you eating?”

There was a dish in front of Mail, identical to Ormil’s. The problem was, Mail had no utensils to eat it with. Only a lonely plate sat before her.

“The dish was specially prepared, so I’m sure it tastes great. Go ahead. Or, are you worried about what others think? Don’t be; you can just eat it with your hands, like the savage you are. It suits you perfectly.”

Ormil chuckled to herself. Mail chuckled along, pulling a clean cloth-wrapped silverware set from a basket. The fork and knife gleamed under the light. Ormil stopped laughing, her expression freezing.

“What…?”

“People often project their own habits onto others unconsciously. Lady Ormil, assuming that others would do something just because you do it alone is problematic. But don’t worry; I won’t tell anyone about your secret habit of eating with your hands. It’ll stay between us.”

“Wh-who eats with their hands…?”

“I’ll keep it a secret, so no need to hide it. By the way, I’m thirsty. Could you bring me a napkin and some water?”

Calmly, Mail asked for what she needed. Ormil, teeth clenched, grabbed the glass in front of her. It contained wine instead of water.

“If you’re thirsty, why don’t you have some of this?”

Splash!