Chapter 149 – Honeyed Milk and Prophecy

  Ivaline no longer needed to remain at the stone formation.

  She had seen enough.

  Even a former disciple of a Sword Saint had come seeking clarity here.

  That alone told her something.

  Her ceiling was still far above her.

  Good.

  Seraphine walked beside her, still eyeing the sweat that soaked Ivaline’s clothes.

  “You’re sure you don’t need to rest first?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Really? You’re not forcing yourself?”

  Ivaline looked at her plainly.

  “I’ll never lie to you, my own wife.”

  “…UUUUUU—!”

  Seraphine covered her face with both hands, ears flushing red to the tips.

  How could her little husband say something like that so casually?

  So naturally?

  It sharply contrasted with the night before departure—

  Ahem.

  Do not ask.

  Understood?

  Elven Shops – Western District

  Seraphine finally brought Ivaline into the heart of the elven quarter.

  Lanterns shaped like blooming flowers hung from curved wooden beams. Shelves were carved from living wood, roots forming natural supports. The air smelled faintly of herbs and honey.

  Behind the counter stood an elven lady with bright, mischievous eyes.

  Her ears flicked the moment she saw them.

  “OHHHH! Finally brought your husband to greet me, huh?”

  Seraphine puffed out her chest proudly.

  “She’s cute, right?”

  The shopkeeper leaned forward, studying Ivaline.

  “Cute? Mm. Not wrong. But there’s something else.”

  “…What is it?” Ivaline tilted her head.

  The elf ignored her and turned to Seraphine instead.

  “You already did it, right?” She raised her pinky finger with a knowing smile.

  “DID WHAT!?”

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  Seraphine yelped.

  Silence.

  The shopkeeper’s grin widened.

  “…From that reaction, you’re the bottom.”

  “BOTTOM WHAT!?”

  “What bottom?” Ivaline asked, completely sincere.

  Customers nearby began whispering.

  “So young yet so composed.”

  “That’s the one, right?”

  “Her husband is over a century younger…”

  “Such a disgrace. Older and still can’t take the lead.”

  “I C A N H E A R Y O UUUUUU!”

  A sudden gust of wind burst through the shop.

  Shelves rattled but did not fall.

  Vines curled protectively around fragile items.

  The shopkeeper casually gathered green mana at her fingertips, preventing disaster while laughing hysterically.

  Ivaline, still confused, mentally called out:

  ‘Chronicle?’

  ‘Later. When you are of proper age, I will explain.’

  ‘M’kay.’

  She accepted a cup of honeyed elven milk and a plate of dried fruit cookies, calmly answering the shopkeeper’s questions.

  “What do you like most about her?”

  “When she’s shy, her ears twitch. She makes a small, cute sound when she covers her face with both hands.”

  Seraphine froze mid-chase.

  “And?”

  “She wakes before me to prepare breakfast and warm bathwater. When we bathe together, she gently washes my hair and dries it with wind magic. It feels good.”

  The entire shop went silent.

  “Her body is soft and squishy. She smells like flowers. I like hugging her and breathing in her scent.”

  A certain spot in the shop turned red and hotter.

  "And recently, I learn a new way to made her make many types of sounds that I'd like to hear. It's cute. Both her sound and reaction."

  Seraphine stopped functioning.

  Completely.

  Her friend slammed the counter laughing.

  “Sadly, you’re already married to Sep. Otherwise, I’d propose right now.”

  “D O N ‘ T Y O U D A R E!”

  Laughter erupted.

  Ivaline simply nibbled her cookie, watching two elves chase each other around startled customers.

  Warm.

  Loud.

  Alive.

  Elven Shrine

  The shrine stood deeper within the district, grown rather than built.

  Ancient wood curved like protective ribs around a central hall. Crystals glowed softly in embedded patterns along the floor.

  An old elven shaman rose slowly when they entered.

  “So. This is the one.”

  His eyes scanned Ivaline carefully.

  Silver hair.

  Ash-gray stands beneath.

  Blue diamond eyes.

  “Hm.”

  “Shaman?” Seraphine asked softly.

  He did not answer immediately.

  “Silver threads that bind fate,” he murmured.

  “Ashen gray of ruin and endings.”

  “Blue diamond of eternity and hope.”

  Ivaline blinked.

  “…What?”

  The shaman’s gaze deepened, almost unfocused.

  “Such contradiction in one vessel… To create and to destroy. To end and to preserve. Duality so sharp it may shatter itself. Yet something has bound them together.”

  Seraphine and Ivaline exchanged confused looks.

  Inside, Chronicle felt something shift.

  Did he perceive me?

  The shaman’s eyes flickered—just briefly—as though meeting something behind Ivaline’s.

  Then he chuckled.

  “Ah. Do not mind an old fossil reciting poetry from ancient texts. Nothing serious.”

  Chronicle did not relax.

  “What do you seek today, child?” the shaman asked.

  Seraphine smiled.

  “I just wanted her to know our establishments. If one day I am not beside her… she will know where to find our people.”

  The shaman nodded approvingly.

  “Wise.”

  "No."

  Ivaline pressed and walked in front.

  "I wouldn't let her go. I'll protect her."

  “…UUUUUU—!”

  "....."

  He did not press further.

  But his gaze lingered on Ivaline a second longer than comfortable.

  When he learned they would march west soon, he stepped forward and placed his hand lightly above their heads.

  A quiet blessing.

  “Return safely.”

  Then, almost casually—

  “Little one, if you seek guidance on producing an offspring between you, return to me.”

  “I WILL! WITHOUT FAIL!”

  “Don’t shout,” he scolded gently.

  They were ushered out.

  The shaman returned to his seat.

  Closed his eyes.

  And silently descended into the pool of fate.

  Evening – Western Camp

  As the sun set, Seraphine led Ivaline through the rest of the elven establishments across the barony’s district.

  She introduced her to elders.

  Peers.

  Artisans.

  Mages.

  She boasted shamelessly about her capable, young husband.

  Got teased relentlessly.

  But her smile never faded.

  Ivaline followed quietly, memorizing faces.

  At dusk, they returned to the western camp to meet Aldric, Bram, Nyssa, and Garrick.

  Time for information exchange.

  War would not wait for laughter.

  Chronicle’s Silence

  That night, Chronicle remained quiet.

  The old shaman.

  The way his gaze shifted.

  The subtle awareness.

  If he truly sensed my presence…

  Then others might as well.

  Entities capable of perceiving what should not be perceived.

  Or worse—

  Communicating with him.

  For now, it was speculation.

  But for the first time—

  Chronicle felt watched.