"I am Vrenn Frostveil. Sir Eldrin has told us about you. We welcome our esteemed guests to our humble elven lands."
Now that was the kind of opening line that makes you want to check if your shoes are clean enough to walk where he's pointing.
Orion, being the seasoned noble diplomat, stepped forward and shook his hand with that smile he uses for aristocrats he tolerates but doesn't like.
"It's our honour."
You could almost hear the mutual noblespeak in stereo. Vrenn nodded, graceful, courteous, exactly how you'd expect an elf who probably alphabetises his herbs to behave.
"Let me show yu to your residence. Please tell me the type of residence you are looking for and we will go there straight."
Orion didn't waste time. "We're looking for a mid-sized mansion with accommodations for at least twenty staff. Though they're not here right now, they'll join us soon. It must also have a study and a conference hall. Other necessities we hope will be included."
And by "necessities" he obviously meant things like a proper elven tea set, maps of the area, and rooms where people can argue in polite voices.
Vrenn nodded again like a man who had his answer before asking the question.
"Of course. Duly noted. And since your purpose for visiting is trade, I assume you prefer something close to the centre of Lioraeth, not out near the scenic outskirts?"
"Yes," Orion said. "The closer to the centre, the better. We'll contact you for a guest house if we want to watch waterfalls and birds."
Straight to the point, as expected.
"Understood," Vrenn said, smiling like he'd expected that exact answer. "Then allow me to show you a few mansions under our management. You can select the one that suits your preferences best."
And so began our four-hour Lioraeth real estate adventure.
From 4 PM to 8 PM, we were shuttled around three mansions, each with their own distinct elven flair, carved directly into massive trees, wrapped around natural stone spires, embedded into hills like they sprouted from the land. I wasn't just touring homes, I was getting a walking tour of central Lioraeth itself. Not bad.
I saw merchant association offices bustling with activity, local stalls selling handmade trinkets and polished crafts, and shopkeepers yelling about mushroom wine discounts and spice bundles.
Honestly, most of the elven merchandise matched what I'd read back in the castle's economic books. Which, as it turns out, is kind of a relief. When reality matches the books, it means I won't look like a complete fool.
Eventually, Orion picked the second mansion out of the three. Personally, I prefer it too, because it was closest to Eldrin's residence and one of the big-name merchant associations nearby. Also, this place was so close to the city's main road that I'm pretty sure I could hear the laughter from the tavern two blocks away.
Naturally, rent wasn't small.
Then again, when your father is Duke, "small rent" is a myth you're not meant to believe in. If we run out of funds, I'll just write home and hope mother doesn't deduct it from my inheritance.
Vrenn quickly got his people moving. Our luggage was brought in, rooms were being aired, and I could see Orion already pacing slightly. He looked…unsettled, probably because of the investigation happening back at the envoy's mansion. I get it. Out of the twenty-something staff, seven are Falcon duchy personnel. The rest are Orion's.
Thanks to Inspect, I can see how loyal someone is to me, but unfortunately, it doesn't work on other people's relationships.
So while our seven show decent loyalty values, none of them are likely to stab me in the back anytime soon. I've no clue which one of Orion's crew might be a rat because inspect doesn't show their loyalty towards Orion and their loyalty towards me, whom they've met recently, won't tell you much. Good thing we have an investigation unit on the case.
Clara and I spent the next hour settling into my room. Well, she did the actual settling...I mostly flopped on the bed and pointed at boxes.
I told her to freshen up too and join us for dinner, since there weren't any staff other than the ones this mansion came with. She hesitated for a second, something about "maintaining propriety" or whatever, but nodded and vanished into her room like she hadn't secretly wanted to the whole time.
Dinner was set in the east-wing hall. With Orion and Sylvia still shut in their rooms, probably planning tomorrow's speech to the merchant guild, I had time to mingle with the mansion staff.
All elves, of course. And every one of them had mana mastery levels higher than Clara's, which was… honestly, bare minimum for elves.
Their combat ability is at F-minus. Literal walking spellbooks with the battle power of a sleepy cat. At least according to Inspect.
I did a quick sweep to see if there were any shady auras or suspicious traits. Nothing. Their loyalty toward me was basically zero, but to be fair, we just met.
They were polite, clean, well-trained, and no one tried poisoning my soup, so we were off to a great start.
What surprised me most was how… normal they were. Pleasant expressions, calm voices. No side-eyes, no muttering in Elvish, no refusing to serve Clara.
I half-expected some racism toward humans, but nope, they treated Clara with the same professional courtesy they gave me. Actually, maybe more. One of the younger female staff, who looks not even like a proper teen, even complimented Clara's hair.
If elves were always like this, maybe there's hope for diplomacy after all.
If there's one thing about elves that really makes you question the meaning of time itself, it's their lifespan, and more importantly, the absurd pace at which they age.
Back in the castle, I read that humans top out at around a hundred years. Pretty standard. Beastmen? Around two hundred. Elves? Two-fifty. And demons? Technically indefinite.
Yes, indefinite. Not infinite.No one has ever seen a demon die of old age, not even a single documented case. If you check the records, none of them kicked the bucket because their back gave out or they forgot where they put their heart.
Nope, demons died in two ways: brutal war… or good old-fashioned power struggles. Apparently, their family reunions include ceremonial backstabbing. Literally.
I mean can you balme them? With a lifespan as long as that shift in power is practically impossible, unless you are overthrown or killed.
Historians call that the "secondary reason" for the downfall of their race. The first being the Great War, of course. I mean, sure, power struggles and family drama sound like a side quest, but if you stretch them across a few millennia, they apparently count as a genocide-level issue.
...Then again, Sebastian is still alive. So I'm not entirely sold on that "extinction" bit. Guy looks like a walking caution sign for ancient grudges, and somehow he's still ticking.
Anyway.
So, remember that adorable little elf girl who complimented Clara's hair? Yeah, the one who looked fourteen and had that sparkle in her eye like she just discovered puppies?
She's thirty-three.
Let that sink in.
I mean, here I was wondering if she should be up past bedtime, and turns out she's been legally allowed to drink for over a decade. Clara, bless her soul, thanked the "child" with that gentle tone you reserve for precocious kids… and I didn't have the heart to tell her.
Elven aging is the real black magic here.
And Eldrin, good old grumpy, elegant Eldrin, he's a grandpa-looking mage with an actual age of 182. Which, I guess, is fair. I mean, he looks like he lectures young elves about proper staff grip and the golden days of swordsmanship. He's basically the elven version of a retired general who still polishes his armor every morning out of habit.
I suppose that's why they're good at politics. They can play the long game without dying in the middle of it.
But hey...every race has its perks. Humans get ambition. Elves get elegance. Beastmen get raw strength. Demons get, well… potentially immortality and a permanent seat at the "My Trauma is Older Than Your Kingdom" table.
"Lord Hugo, have we made you wait?" Orion asked as he entered the dining hall, Sylvia trailing behind him with the grace of someone who clearly got more sleep than I did.
I shook my head with a smile. "No, Lord Orion. We just got here ourselves."
Then a maid came with a steaming dish in hand and a dazzling smile.
"Here is the Seared Rootspice Venison you asked for, Lord. Sorry it took us fifteen minutes."
...........
Orion and I tried covering the cracks in our smiles.
It's the same maid, the same kid you instinctively want to give a glass of warm milk and ask about their homework, the fourt- 'ahem' the thirty-three-year-old one.
I took a slow breath, smiling at her and replying, "Much appreciated."
Sylvia, utterly charmed by the whole scene, gave her a warm smile and said, "How cute of you. Thank you for the service," and...she patted the maid's head.
Sylvia...she is twice as old as you...
The maid giggled, completely unfazed. "Hehe, I get that a lot."
...You do?
Once everyone had finally settled down, Orion cleared his throat.
"Lord Hugo," he said, picking up a fork like it was part of a council ritual. "We're considering ramping up livestock production in our viscounty too, now that we understand the strategy. I want us to settle on some metrics...how much we're exporting from our respective regions."
"Of course," I replied."To make the exports meaningful without destabilizing local supply, I propose we calculate based on what percentage of surplus stock can be salted and preserved over the next four months."
Sylvia nodded, reaching for the small notebook she'd tucked beside her plate. "We could categorize regions based on livestock productivity, preservation facilities, and local demand. Then allocate export quotas accordingly."
"Exactly," I said, glad she was on the same wavelength. "Viscounties with high production but limited local demand can shoulder more of the exports. And we'll treat salted pork as our pilot product. Once the infrastructure is in place, we can branch into poultry, then fisheries."
Orion leaned forward. "About the quota percentages...do you think we should have a sliding scale? Like, provinces near coastal salt resources could be expected to produce more?"
Sylvia shook her head gently. "That's feasible, but we must also consider transport efficiency. If the production is high but the delivery line is poor, the preservation quality drops."
"Then maybe we need two metrics," I offered. "Production-to-demand ratio and distance-to-port efficiency. Each viscounty gets a combined score. Higher scores mean higher export responsibility."
Orion looked between us with a nod of approval. "I must say, Lord Hugo… you seem more prepared than I imagined. You've clearly put thought into this."
Not to sound arrogant or anything, but… working with two or three metrics? Yeah, back when I was William, this was the kind of stuff we tossed at interns to make them feel important while we handled actual fires.
I mean, don't get me wrong... salted pork is great, but a single-product trade isn't exactly something worth me pouring my soul into.
Still… I am hoping we can hire some decent personnel here. You know, smart ones. The kind that know how to nod at meetings and write reports that sound way fancier than they are.
So that I can stay exactly as lazy as I aspire to be.
I gave him a modest nod. "We had to. A single misstep in these early deals could cost us years."
Sylvia added, "I'll draft a base model for the score index. We'll test it with our data and then propose it at the next guild conference."
Oh!, I forgot, I already do have a personnel. Her name is Sylvia.
Orion gave a satisfied hum and leaned back. "Then it's settled. We'll begin preparation and communication with the appropriate magistrates."
"Just let me know when the draft is ready," I said, "and I'll take care of getting it signed and sealed from our side."
As the food arrived in more ornate dishes than strictly necessary, I tried imagining the future.
Was it… progress?
Hard to say.
Either way, the plan was working.
I leaned back a little, took in the soft candlelight, the scent of fresh herbs and roasted root vegetables, and sighed.
Tomorrow, things might heat up again with the investigation report or merchant negotiations, but tonight was quiet.
And frankly, I'll take quiet wherever I can find it.