After her meeting with the Emperor, Sulia was utterly drained. Following lunch, the Queen arranged for a bath and a short nap to recover her energy.
Her son, Devonshire, had been taken to his horseback riding lessons. Once rested, Sulia instructed her head maid, Sylvia, and Olica to prepare for afternoon tea.
Afternoon tea, a tradition introduced from the High Elves, had become a hallmark of Old World nobility. Originating during the elves' colonization of the Old World, it became a cherished custom among their noble ladies. Unlike the temperate Ulthuan, the Old World's changing seasons inspired a fondness for sipping tea and enjoying light snacks under the warm afternoon sun.
Though this tradition faded during the wars, it was revived after the Dark Elves were expelled from Ulthuan by the Butcher King Tethlis, achieving peace. Under the reign of Poet King Aethis, afternoon tea reached its zenith, becoming an indispensable part of High Elf culture. After Finubar reopened trade routes, this practice began to influence human society.
Sulia was a devoted fan of afternoon tea. Whenever her schedule permitted, she made time for it. Her fondness for this custom, coupled with her growing influence as Queen of Bretonnia, turned it into a fashionable ritual across the Old World. From Kislev in the north to Araby in the south, noblewomen gathered around 3 PM to enjoy tea, chat, and bask in the luxuries of life.
As Sulia walked through the palace corridors, Olica followed closely behind. The winter sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting a golden glow on the Queen and her dark elf maid. Olica's voice carried a tinge of jealousy.
"The Honored Father truly favors you, my Lady. You are lucky to have young Devonshire. He is adorable."
"Your expression is rare, Olica," Sulia replied without looking back, her voice tinged with faint amusement. "If you want to bear Ryan's child, I wouldn't object."
"Ha." Olica snorted derisively, her tone laced with scorn. "My Lady, if it were that easy for me to bear his children, don't you think I'd already have birthed an entire polo team?"
Sulia's expression shifted slightly. Ryan's and her only child, Devonshire, had always been a sensitive topic for her. "Truly? Do you have some secret? Why are you so certain?"
"Do you know Malus Darkblade, the Witch King's champion?" Olica said casually, pride creeping into her voice. "He has three brothers, four sisters, two younger siblings, and three cousins—eight of whom reached adulthood. Never doubt the fertility of the Druchii. In Naggaroth, every family has at least seven or eight children, and it's not uncommon to see households with a dozen. Unlike our 'soft' kin, we are anything but feeble."
Druchii fertility was indeed impressive. Sulia felt a pang of discomfort but quickly found her counterattack. "It seems, dear Olica, that elven potions don't work on humans."
"Oh? Is that so?" Olica chuckled softly, her black hair swaying as she walked. She glanced at Sulia, her gaze defiant. "If I were human, do you think you'd have had the chance to bear Devonshire?"
"What do you mean by that?" Sulia's expression darkened.
Olica produced a small vial filled with swirling pink mist and liquid. Her smile was saccharine as she explained, "This is hydra venom. Just a drop, applied from below, would ensure a woman never becomes a mother again. Would you like to try, my Lady? It stings a little."
"You…" Sulia instinctively stepped back, a flicker of fear crossing her face.
"Relax," Olica said with an even sweeter smile, tucking the vial away. "The old man has acknowledged you as his daughter-in-law. I wouldn't dare do anything. He knows everything. It took me long enough to leave a good impression on him; I won't ruin it. I love Ryan. I wouldn't make him sad."
"Old man?" Sulia raised an eyebrow. "Why do you call him that?"
"Isn't he old?" Olica retorted. "Think about what that red-haired, one-eyed ogryn said."
"'Ten thousand years, ten thousand years, fifty thousand years'? Is he really fifty thousand years old?"
"To the Asur, he's just a child—perhaps one far stronger but just as arrogant."
The two women shared a laugh, the tension dissipating.
In the warm light of the winter afternoon, the tea parlor was set up with a three-tiered stand.
The bottom tier held an assortment of sandwiches made with cucumber, smoked salmon, cream cheese, and eggs.
The middle tier featured scones, a Bretonnian specialty topped with cream and strawberry jam—delightful but slightly heavy, requiring tea to balance the sweetness.
The top tier displayed three exquisite desserts: High Elf mousse, cherry fruit tarts, and macarons.
Olica served a pot of Darjeeling tea. Harvested in the distant lands of Ind, this "champagne of teas" had a rich amber hue, a fragrant aroma, and a smooth taste, making it Sulia's favorite.
Once everything was ready, Sulia signaled for the doors to open.
Beria, the political commissar of the Northern Front Army, entered briskly, wearing a freshly pressed uniform and polished boots. He bowed deeply. "Your Majesty."
"Rise." Sulia gestured for him to sit. "You must be exhausted from your journey."
As the maids served Beria a matching tea set, Sulia spoke warmly. "You must be hungry. Eat."
Sitting about five meters away, under the warmth of the sun and the attentive service of the maids, Sulia enjoyed her tea gracefully. Beria couldn't help but feel overwhelmed with excitement. This—sitting in the inner circle of Bretonnia's court—was everything he had dreamed of.
Despite his normally stoic demeanor, Beria's pride as an Ungol could barely contain his emotions. This meeting signaled his growing recognition and influence within the court.
However, his nerves betrayed him. Unfamiliar with the delicate etiquette of palace afternoon tea, he clinked his spoon against the bottom of his teacup while stirring, and he fumbled the order of adding sugar and milk. The maids and attendants stifled giggles as Beria's face flushed red.
Inside, he swore to hire a tutor to teach him proper tea etiquette after this ordeal.
Fortunately, Sulia didn't mind. The Queen began questioning him about the details of the Battle of Erengrad. Beria spared no detail.
From his report, Sulia learned that the remnants of Erengrad's forces consisted of approximately 10,000 regulars, 20,000 conscripts, and over 30,000 Kislevite civilians (primarily women) willing to settle in Bretonnia—a total of about 70,000 people. The remaining population, mostly the elderly and infirm, preferred relocating to the Empire.
"How is Karad?" Sulia asked, steering the conversation toward the renowned Saint Grail Knight.
"Gravely injured but stable. He should recover fully within four to six months," Beria replied earnestly. "His legendary feats at Erengrad and the slaying of the Norscan High King will be remembered for generations. Karad was the composer of this epic, while I was but a note."
"Incorrect," Sulia corrected gently. "Marshal Rokossovsky was the composer; Karad was the performer. I hear you opposed the plan for this 'symphony' quite strongly?"
Beria broke out in a cold sweat. He leapt from his seat and knelt. "It was my failing, Your Majesty. My ignorance and lack of military insight nearly cost us everything. Please punish me!"
"If punishment were warranted, it would have been dealt long ago," Sulia said calmly, motioning for him to rise. "Your concerns were valid. The plan was exceedingly risky and left no room for error. The toll on the soldiers was harsh—didn't a third suffer frostbite? Karad's injuries alone speak to the challenge."
"Thank you for understanding, Your Majesty." Relieved, Beria quickly composed himself, then cautiously added, "By the time Operation Bagration concluded and Erengrad was retaken, over 80% of the soldiers were too exhausted to stand. Many knights and foot soldiers huddled by fires for days before recovering. I shudder to think what might have happened had anything gone wrong. You truly hold the sun, moon, and stars in your grasp, my Queen—nothing escapes you."
Though flattery was unnecessary, Sulia nodded thoughtfully. She saw Beria clearly for what he was: a cunning bureaucrat, skilled in politics and reading his superiors' intentions. His instincts were sharp, but his primary goal was survival, not victory.
Beria's unease grew as Sulia fell silent, her expression unreadable.
"Beria, I summoned you here for your advice on a matter," Sulia finally said, breaking the silence. "Can you guess what it is?"
"Could it be… Tsarina Katarin's request for troops?" Beria ventured, immediately realizing he needed to prove his value.
"Yes." Sulia handed him Ryan's letter. "Katarin demands that Rokossovsky and his army return to the Empire. What do you suggest?"
Beria read the letter twice, his face darkening. "Your Majesty, under no circumstances
should we allow this. If Rokossovsky returns, his fate—and his army's—will be dire. The Tsarina has yet to rescind his death warrant."
"I'm aware of the risks," Sulia replied. "But she sent this request in her capacity as Tsarina. It's difficult to justify refusing her outright, especially when the Old World is united against Chaos. Why stop the Kislevites from saving their homeland?"
Beria hesitated, then steeled himself. "Allow me to handle this, Your Majesty. I will speak with the Tsarina directly."
"And what will you say?" Sulia asked, her expression expectant.
"I plan to…"
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