The next day. I ignored Maden Kingdom for as long as I could. Which—apparently—was not long enough.
They sent letters yesterday. Multiple. Formal and informal, as if quantity might make up for dignity. Thick parchment sealed with pristine wax, paired with thinner notes written in that overly polite script diplomats use when they're trying very hard not to sound desperate.
They were polite. Painfully polite. The kind of polite that screamed: we desperately need this but will pretend we don't. I stacked them on my desk and stared at the pile like it might bite me. Coffi had raised a brow. Latte had snorted and muttered something about nobles choking on their own pride. Neither of them was wrong.
Maden had ignored Nothingwood for decades. We were "small." "Inconvenient." "Not worth formal engagement."
Now suddenly—Oh? A meeting? Perhaps cooperation? Mutual prosperity?
Right. I didn't reply immediately. Let them sweat. Let them wonder if they'd pushed their luck too far.
