Everyone Has a Bright Future

Heronie.

The kingdom’s eldest princess. The Church’s Saintess.

Heronie possessed a face so exquisitely sculpted it seemed inhuman—every bone, every patch of skin perfectly proportioned and colored.

Her presence radiated supreme dignity, yet her expression was nearly always blank, her gaze unnervingly cold.

Like an iceberg.

“You enjoy watching them fence, too?” Heronie said.

Adrian jolt in surprise—he hadn’t even noticed the princess had taken the seat beside him.

“Just Mother’s orders,” Adrian replied, eyes fixed intently on the dueling arena.

He was lying.

Adrian had come to the tournament of his own accord.

Not to admire swordplay, of course—but because he’d bribed several fighters to deliberately lose to their opponents.

Many young nobles had a gambling habit.

How could Adrian possibly miss the chance to fleece these brainless spendthrifts?

It wasn’t about the money—he had more than enough.

It was the sheer entertainment of watching them go home with empty pockets…

That was delicious.

Adrian shook his head.

Ah, this sun-drenched afternoon had been the perfect time to savor their despair.

But alas…

Another headache had arrived—just as troublesome as Ilisia.

The ever-frosty Heronie seemed to have melted completely. Her face now bore an uncharacteristically coquettish expression, utterly at odds with her usual icy demeanor.

“Aren’t you entering the sword trials today?” she asked, voice soft. “I’d love a rose too, you know.”

“Then why did you reject roses from so many suitors?” Adrian countered.

“Oh? Did I?” Heronie blinked innocently. “I don’t recall.”

‘Sly woman.’

“I don’t know this ‘performance swordsmanship,’” Adrian said with a faint, wry smile. “But I’ve picked up a few… ugly, low-blows techniques.”

“Fine,” Heronie pouted, turning her head away. “But I’ve done so much for you—how do you plan to repay me?”

“Did you deliver all those swords to the South?” Adrian asked.

“Yes. I even inspected the runes on them myself,” Heronie replied.

“Good.” Adrian popped a strip of dried meat into his mouth.

“And?” Heronie cupped her cheek, eyes gleaming with expectation.

“And what? I already paid you,” Adrian said flatly.

“You’re always like this,” Heronie sighed. “When you need help, your words are sweeter than honey. But once the job’s done…”

Without thinking, she leaned closer—and her hand slid up Adrian’s arm to rest on the back of his hand.

“In your letters, you used to call me such sweet names…” Heronie pulled out a folded letter from her sleeve. “Look—you even said you’d be my ‘little dog’…”

“You’re mistaken,” Adrian pointed to the signature at the bottom.

It read: Bella Delarose.

“You—!” Heronie’s eyes narrowed.

The handwriting was unmistakably Adrian’s—she knew it too well.

But she’d never actually checked the signature.

Once again, he’d tricked her with his schemes.

“Sister.”

Just as the tension thickened, Prince Damian interrupted them.

“Damian, if you have nothing urgent to say…” Heronie turned sharply.

Instantly, her expression refroze. The flirtatious warmth vanished without a trace.

“You’re really associating with *him*?” Damian’s lips curled into a sneer. “Do you even know what people here call this gentleman?”

He paused, then enunciated slowly:

“*The Black-Sickly.*”

“Father sent you to this tournament to meet promising young talents,” Damian added.

“He’s the heir of House Delarose,” Heronie replied coolly. “Don’t forget—the armor on your back and the sword at your hip? Both made by his family.”

“Then he should’ve won you a rose,” Damian shot back, “instead of sitting on the stands like some delicate flower.”

His gaze locked onto Adrian.

“Your Highness is absolutely right,” Adrian said with mock deference. “I’m truly unworthy. I’ll take my leave at once…”

Adrian had no desire to run into Heronie outside work hours—especially not on such a peaceful summer afternoon.

He bowed deeply to the prince, rose to leave—and was yanked back by Heronie’s grip on his sleeve.

“Sister?” Prince Damian stared at Heronie in disbelief. “A noble heir who can’t wield a sword? In this kingdom, that’s a dead end!”

“So what?” Heronie lifted her chin. “If he has no future, I’ll support him myself.”

The surrounding nobles’ eyes widened in shock.

Adrian was too stunned to speak.

He felt like an ant on a hot pan—stay and risk social annihilation, leave and risk royal wrath.

‘What the hell, woman? Are you trying to get me canceled?!!’

Damian’s jaw twitched violently.

For a moment, silence hung thick in the air.

Eyes from nearby sections of the stands began to drift toward the royal siblings and the oddly dressed merchant boy.

Thankfully, most attendees had been absorbed in the matches until just now.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” an elderly minister accompanying the royal entourage quickly stepped in, waving attendants to form a subtle barrier. “Her Holiness the Saintess, His Highness the Prince, and Master Adrian are discussing urgent matters. Please return your attention to the tournament.”

The old man’s crisis management was commendable.

“Ahem… Your Holiness,” the minister added with an awkward smile, “perhaps a bit more… decorum?”

“Tch!” Heronie released Adrian with a huff—but kept her eyes locked on her brother, murder flickering in their depths.

Damian, seeing his sister’s expression, actually broke into a cold sweat.

He harbored a deep, instinctive fear of her.

Few knew why.

The royal attendants and relatives nearby had already paled and discreetly retreated.

Everyone in the royal caravan knew: when Princess Heronie was angry, things got *very* ugly.

As the king’s eldest daughter and the Church’s officially recognized Saintess, Heronie held immense authority despite her youth.

Damian, for all his title as “Crown Prince,” was effectively just… waiting.

Not that he didn’t want the throne—but the king was hale, vigorous, and showed no signs of stepping down.

Realistically, Damian might wait another thirty years.

Thus, for now, Heronie’s status clearly overshadowed his.

And this time, the king had even appointed her as Damian’s temporary guardian for the tournament.

Damian dared not openly defy her—but whenever he got the chance, he’d slip in barbed remarks.

He despised his sister, yet feared her deeply—so he resorted to verbal jabs to salvage his pride.

Perfect timing.

Heronie had rejected countless roses this week… and was now cozying up to a boy who didn’t even fight in the tournament.

How could Damian resist mocking her taste in men?

Usually, Heronie ignored his taunts with icy indifference.

But this time—he’d struck a nerve.

Realizing his misstep, Damian shifted tactics and glared at Adrian instead.

“Merchant,” he said coldly, “don’t forget your place.”

“I shall always heed your wisdom, Your Highness,” Adrian bowed slightly.

*Thank you, Prince Damian! From the bottom of my heart!*

Damian watched Adrian’s face—so composed, yet barely suppressing a smirk.

Was this brat… laughing at him?

The more he looked, the more Adrian’s presence grated on him.

But in the end, Damian could only snort and storm off with a flick of his sleeve.

****

Despite the minor drama, the tournament concluded without major incident.

Only one event remained: the grand banquet, where all noble heirs would gather.

There was a short break before it began.

Naturally, both Prince Damian and Cassius approached Ilisia almost simultaneously with the same invitation:

“Would you like to take a walk through the flower fields?”

Ilisia hesitated for a moment—then chose to accompany the prince, planning to dance with Cassius later at the banquet as compensation.

Being this popular was such a burden…

The air in the flower fields carried a heady blend of floral sweetness and dry earth, lifting Ilisia’s spirits. The breeze gently eased her fatigue.

She and the prince strolled side by side down the narrow path, silent, step after step.

Time slipped by unnoticed.

“Ilisia,” Damian finally spoke, plucking a blossom and offering it to her, “time with you is always so joyful. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met.”

Sunset draped golden light across his shoulders. His hair still shone like molten gold.

The wind stirred—his cloak, his hair, the surrounding blooms—all swaying gently in the tender current.

Before Ilisia’s eyes unfolded a scene straight from a fairy tale.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Accepting this flower… would it mean becoming the prince’s fiancée? And eventually… queen?

This was the dream of countless girls…