Wu~ Wu~
The cold morning wind howled over the peak of Ashkelon Mountain, whipping against two still figures wrapped in thick woolen coats. The fabric, heavy with layered warmth, did little to ease the bite of dawn’s breath. Beneath them, the stone floor was cold as if layered with frost.
To the right stood a man with snow-white hair, his golden eyes staring into the vast expanse. A figure forged in silence, yet aflame with presence—Asher.
Beside him, slender and poised despite the cold, stood a woman whose long black hair cascaded like ink down her back. Her porcelain skin blushed faintly from the chill, and when she batted her long lashes, it was with quiet grace.
“You rewarded your subordinates well,” she said softly, voice nearly lost to the wind. “They deserved it.”
This was Sapphira, the lily of House Ashbourne—her beauty a secret the world had yet to discover.
Asher did not move.
“I know they spoke no good of you,” he said suddenly, and Sapphira gasped. Her pupils trembled.
Still, Asher did not look at her.
“I have ears in places no one suspects,” he continued, his voice steady. “I know what they decided in my absence. And I know that I would be well within reason to make an example of Lord Claude. What he did was a desecration of everything I have built. Execution, in truth, would have been a mercy.”
The words cut like drawn steel, sharp and without apology—but there was no hatred in them. No fury. No warmth either. Just… truth.
“But I chose to heed your words.”
At last, he turned his head. Her stunned expression was reflected in his eyes.
“This is why I chose you to walk beside me. I am the fire. You are the ice. The deeper I wade into power, the more I change. Compassion fades with each loss I carry—but not in you. In that… you are stronger than all of us.”
He smiled faintly, though his eyes carried the weight of everything unspoken.
“In pain, you still comfort others. When insulted and disregarded, you still raised others higher. It is a trait I admire. But let this be the last time anyone dares to point a finger at you.”
His gaze sharpened like a drawn blade.
“Return to Nimrim. The Crimson Temple is the only power within my land that holds autonomy. Build it. I will send men to scout for talent—”
He didn’t finish.
Sapphira threw herself into his arms, clutching him tight. Her voice cracked as she whispered, “I’m glad you’re back.”
Her tears welled up, warm against the cold.
Asher held her close, his hand brushing gently along her back.
“Duke Ohad is dead. His house has broken from the alliance,” he said quietly. “But the successor of Archduke Nubis has extended a hand—for alliance… and for war. I intend to accept. I owe him my life.”
He exhaled slowly.
“War is at our borders now. Nimrim is the last peaceful place in our domain. It is where our child must grow.”
Sapphira nodded against his shoulder, silent but resolute.
He could feel the weight of her agreement—not in words, but in the way she held him.
The moment Sapphira stepped back from Asher’s embrace, the elegance returned to her posture like a forgotten crown reclaimed. With a dancer’s grace, she lifted her hand and pointed toward a distant stretch of farmland below.
“That’s a hundred hectares where we planted sugarcane,” she said. “Our olives still bring in millions yearly, but most of our trade routes are cut off, and we’ve yet to open access through the sea. The sugar should help. Most of it is imported from the Sacred Flame Empire.”
Asher raised an eyebrow.
[Ding! Upgradable item spotted: Sugarcane.]
[Host, would you like to upgrade the Sugarcane to Golden Sugarcane? Yes or No?]
A faint smile tugged at his lips. Yes.
A radiant glow erupted across the farmland, flooding the hill with brilliance and stunning the guards on the wall. Sapphira spun toward him, alarmed.
“What’s happening?! Is this you?!”
Asher’s voice was calm. “Watch.”
The light vanished as suddenly as it came, and in its place lay a sea of tall, vibrant canes—glimmering gold and green, swaying like liquid sunlight in the breeze.
[Golden Sugarcane: Once refined, the resulting sugar is sweeter than normal, but with depth—rich notes of honey, hints of citrus, and a warm floral aroma. Its texture melts like velvet rather than grain. When consumed, it induces a gentle body warmth, sharpens clarity, boosts vitality, and subtly accelerates healing.]
Asher folded his arms. “Have some made for us.”
Sapphira blinked, still trying to absorb the miracle. Unlike her, Asher knew the Mortal Scroll had already designated skilled farmers—gifted with all knowledge needed to grow, harvest, and refine this crop.
If the golden sugar was anything like the scroll described… another storm was coming to Tenaria.
This wasn’t olive oil. This was sugar. As precious as salt, and twice as addictive.
____
News spread like wildfire through Ashkelon and the nearby villages. By midday, stories of a field of gold had reached every corner of the city—each more embellished than the last.
As dusk settled, Cynthia entered the manor’s parlour where Asher, Sapphira, and Katarina sat around a low table. She placed a silver tray before them—three porcelain cups filled with steaming tea, and a saucer stacked with golden sugar cubes.
Asher leaned forward, plucked a cube, and dropped it into his tea. He took a sip—and stilled.
Warmth unfurled through him. Not the jarring kind, but a subtle, golden heat that traveled from his tongue down his throat and into his chest, where it lingered. His wounds, though not swiftly, had begun to knit—slow but sure.
And the taste—by the heavens, the taste.
It was not just sweet. It lingered—a yearning on the tongue, as though it were a memory.
When he finally set his cup down, both women had already dropped theirs. Their eyes were on the sugar cubes, dazed.
“How much do you think we should sell it for?” he asked casually.
“One hundred gold coins per kilo,” Sapphira said without hesitation.
Katarina nodded. “That’s cheap. But it’ll sell like wildfire.”