After that, things returned to normal.
The Montelli and Fisalia families, though they hadn't achieved a true reconciliation, had at least seen their previously irreconcilable tensions ease somewhat.
For the Order, this was an acceptable outcome.
Even though Cantarella longed more than anyone to break free of the Order's shackles, now was absolutely not the time.
At the very least, until the Threnodian was fully resolved, House Fisalia had no choice but to temporarily feign submission to the Order.
So for the time being, lying low and biding her time was her only option.
And what of Carlotta?
As the designated next head of House Montelli, she had gradually come to learn from Ray about the weighty destiny Cantarella and House Fisalia bore, and the centuries of solitary, unyielding vigil they had kept.
Setting aside personal grievances, she genuinely admired that almost obstinate sense of duty.
And it was precisely for that reason that she was willing to offer House Fisalia some discreet, barely perceptible assistance beneath the negotiating table, within the bounds the rules allowed.
Of course, this helping hand, born of respect, was an entirely separate matter from her personal feelings toward Cantarella.
A rival in love was, in the end, a rival in love.
It was a relationship that could never, ever develop into friendship!
Though Carlotta had never voiced these petty concerns aloud, how could Ray possibly fail to see through the conflicted emotions written all over her face?
That slight, defiant tilt of her chin whenever she feigned magnanimity, the unconscious pursing of her lips at the mere mention of Cantarella's name, these small gestures had already betrayed her heart completely.
Perhaps, for Carlotta…
She could become sisters with anyone except Cantarella!
Absolutely not, in every conceivable sense!
In any case, all he could do for now was carefully maintain this fragile equilibrium, acting as an indispensable intermediary between these two fierce rivals, diligently smoothing over their overly sharp edges.
Though, admittedly…
Sometimes it might actually backfire.
Probably?
Ray opened the fridge and pulled out a chilled beverage, the one endorsed by Lupa. He'd grown quite fond of the taste after trying it once back in Septimont, so he'd specially ordered a large batch shipped over from there.
He popped the tab with one hand and tipped his head back for a deep swig. The ice-cold liquid slid down his throat with just the right amount of sweetness, washing away the exhaustion of the past few days.
He exhaled a long, satisfied breath, his thoughts feeling noticeably clearer.
Come to think of it, what should he do next?
The primary task was to help Cartethyia escape from that high tower.
If they could take advantage of the situation and dismantle the Threnodian of Ragunna as well, that would naturally be even better.
The plan sounded ambitious, but how exactly was he supposed to proceed?
Never mind where Leviathan's true form was hidden, just the step of rescuing Cartethyia alone currently left him at a complete loss.
"No leads whatsoever…" He sighed, rubbing his temples. "Come to think of it, I wonder if Cartethyia ever finished reading those books I brought her before."
Just as he was sinking into thought, a brightly colored pastry in the corner of the fridge caught his eye a thick, crimson jam oozed generously, seeping into every crisp crevice, glistening temptingly under the light.
Visually, at least, it left a decent impression.
"So, what's this?"
Ray definitely didn't recall buying this kind of honey cake at any point.
He carefully lifted the porcelain plate, the chill of it reaching his fingertips.
After a moment's hesitation, he picked up the silver fork, cut off a small piece, and popped it into his mouth
In that instant, an extreme, mouth-puckering tartness detonated across his tongue, making the corners of his eyes twitch involuntarily.
It looked decent enough, but…
The taste could only be described as absolutely dreadful.
"Ptui, ptui, ptui—" Ray's face crumpled as he hurriedly spat the mouthful of honey cake into the trash. The intense sour-astringent sensation was still rampaging over his taste buds, sending a shiver through him. "What in the world is this culinary abomination? Compared to this stuff, even that Order's Laurel Salad could pass for dessert…"
Before he could finish, a faint, cool voice drifted from behind him, carrying a distinct chill.
"Sneaking bites of someone else's food, and then having the audacity to critique it so righteously?"
Ray stiffened and slowly turned around. He found Phrolova standing silently at the kitchen doorway, having appeared there at some point without making the slightest sound. Her calm, unruffled eyes were quietly fixed on him.
He was momentarily tongue-tied, a bit stunned. "You… weren't you in your room this whole time? When did you come out?"
Phrolova's gaze swept over the damning evidence in his hands, her tone as flat as if she were stating the most ordinary fact in the world. "Ever since you started sneaking bites of the honey cake I made. I've been right here."
"…"
So Phrolova had made it. That explained everything.
In this world, she was probably the only person who could actually enjoy this kind of sour, astringent flavor.
"It wasn't righteous indignation," Ray said, setting the honey cake back down. "It was just genuinely awful."
This thing couldn't even be classified as food. It was practically an assault on the limits of human tolerance for all things sour and astringent!
He suddenly understood, with newfound clarity, why Phoebe detested that Laurel Salad so vehemently.
Phrolova's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, then smoothed back into her usual placid expression the very next second. "Setting the matter of taste aside for now, I came to ask you something. Do you still remember what you promised me before?"
"The thing I promised you?" Ray blinked with feigned bewilderment. "What thing did I promise you?"
"You—!"
The moment he saw indignation beginning to simmer in the girl's eyes, he wisely backed down. "I was kidding. Of course I remember. See, there you go getting worked up again, aren't you? It was just a joke."
Phrolova let out a soft huff and turned her head to the side. "That wasn't funny in the slightest."
"Alright, alright, my bad." Ray raised both hands in a gesture of surrender, his tone carrying a note of helplessness. "So, have you decided where you want me to take you?"
"More or less," Phrolova said. "There's a concert in Ragunna tomorrow. You're coming with me."
Her voice remained as flat and even as ever, but the implication behind her words was unmistakable, it didn't sound like a suggestion so much as a non-negotiable command.
"A concert?" Ray rubbed his chin, mulling it over briefly. "I have to say, I'm not the least bit surprised by where you want to go."
"Hmph. In any case, it's settled then." Phrolova turned away as she spoke. "This time, you won't stand me up again, will you?"
"Of course not," Ray answered instinctively, but quickly caught onto what she'd just implied. "Wait, again? When have I ever stood you up? Rest assured, if it's something I've promised you, even if it means crossing mountains of blades or seas of fire, I'll see it through."
Phrolova, her back still facing him, allowed the corner of her lips to curve upward. "You'd better mean that."