Itsuki Hiroto rolled the small porcelain teacup between his fingers, watching the amber liquid catch the candlelight in his private chamber at the Imperial Logistics Bureau. The morning's summit had gone surprisingly well—human and demon envoys had shaken hands, signed accords, and tucked away their respective grievances for at least a fortnight—but Hiroto's inbox groaned under the weight of new crisis reports. Border skirmishes in the east, supply caravans attacked by bandits, mysterious tremors near the Ruins of Varn.
He rubbed his tired eyes. I've barely paused since I became a Divine Variable, he mused. I need peace, not more meetings.
His thoughts drifted to the Demon King's unexpected offer at the end of the summit: "If you ever need a calm cup of tea… you're welcome at my citadel." Gerald's tone had been so gentle, so human, that Hiroto found himself longing for a truly quiet moment with someone who, like him, was dragged into destiny against his will.
Impulsively, he stood and donned a simple cloak and a baker's hat—his favorite anonymity disguise. Sera, arranging vials on the desk, glanced up. "Going out?"
"Tea," he said softly. "At Gerald's. I need to talk to someone who understands… accidental world‑shaking."
Sera's eyes widened. "At the Demon King's citadel? Are you insane?"
Hiroto grinned tiredly. "I'm a clerk. Insanity is my hobby."
Virelya loomed by the door, armor gleaming even in lamplight. "If you're meeting Gerald, be careful. He's not like other rulers. Trust him… but be wary."
"I will," Hiroto promised. "Just tea. That's it."
Under cover of dusk, Hiroto slipped through Solencia's back gates, the city's torches burning like distant stars. He navigated narrow merchant lanes until he reached the old Little Whisper Tavern just outside the eastern wall—a neutral teahouse rumored to cater to unusual clients. Its lantern‑lit sign bore a stylized dragon and dove side by side.
Inside, the tavern's low beams revealed mismatched tables, patched rugs, and a single hearth crackling with warmth. A lone server, a pale woman with silver‑streaked hair, nodded at him. "Your usual."
He ducked into a corner booth as two cloaked figures entered: one tall, horned, with eyes glowing faintly red; the other shorter, wearing the same baker's hat and spectacles. Gerald paused mid‑step, then smiled, removing his hood to reveal silver hair and gentle, storm‑cloud eyes.
"Good evening, Hiroto," Gerald said quietly, sliding onto the bench opposite. "I trust the journey was… discreet?"
"As discreet as a hurricane in a tea shop," Hiroto replied, returning Gerald's smile. "Thank you for inviting me."
Gerald inclined his head. "You risked much at the summit. I wanted to offer hospitality—and perhaps share the burden of accidental heroism."
Hiroto set aside his teacup, watching Gerald's serene demeanor. "I appreciate it. I've been sent in every direction—missions, councils, duels, and now praying for peace makes me feel… hypocritical."
Gerald sipped his tea. "Peace is never hypocritical. It is, however, rare—especially for those who wield power. Tell me your thoughts."
Hiroto exhaled. "I keep trying to fix things: logistics, treaties, sealing relics. But every time I step back, new problems emerge. I'm running on empty."
Gerald's red‑flicker eyes softened. "I too sought solitude. Demon King's duties are heavy. My generals demand vengeance; my advisors preach isolation. But when I consider the world's suffering—fire‑scarred villages, hunted beasts—how can I remain secluded?"
Hiroto leaned forward. "I saw your camp at dawn—calm, respectful, strangers at ease around you. You handle demons and humans alike."
Gerald chuckled, a low rumble. "It is not grace, but necessity. My subjects fear me only if I show cruelty. I choose calm so they may live without terror."
They fell silent, the crackling hearth and distant chatter of patrons the only soundtrack. Hiroto watched Gerald's hands cradle the teacup, noting runic scars on his forearm—scars that glowed faintly as if feeding off the candle's flame.
"I envy your resolve," Hiroto admitted. "I fumble through every role—cleric, prophet, hero, villain. I've bruised flesh and emotions alike."
Gerald's eyes glinted. "Yet here you are, dressed as a baker, sipping my finest blend. You disguise more than your face—you hide your burden. Why not share it?"
Hiroto swallowed. "I… don't know how."
Gerald slid a small pouch across the table. "This is Calming Ember Tea, made with my own ember‑lotus petals. It will ease many anxieties. Take this, as a gesture of trust."
Hiroto accepted the pouch, heart warming. "Thank you. I'll treasure it."
Gerald rose, placing a heavy hand on Hiroto's shoulder. "We need not be the world's puppet or its savior alone. Sometimes, peace begins with two men sharing tea."
They drank in companionable silence, tea's gentle warmth soothing their souls. Outside, the tavern's windows fogged as hot steam drifted.
After a time, Hiroto broke the quiet. "Will you ever attend another summit?"
Gerald sighed. "Not under my banner. I sent envoys. I cannot risk becoming a pawn again. But I will send a diplomat you can trust—and you send messages to your side."
Hiroto nodded. "Agreed."
They rose together—two weary rulers who never sought their thrones, bonded by circumstance. At the door, Gerald extended a simple, unadorned coin. "This is mine. Keep it; let it guide you when the world demands more than you can give."
Hiroto took the coin—its surface etched with a half‑moon and half‑sun. "I won't lose it."
Gerald smiled. "Then may it remind you: peace is a shared endeavor." He bowed, then slipped into the night.
Hiroto watched him go, heart heavier yet lighter. He pocketed the coin, clutched the pouch of tea, and tucked his hat lower.
Outside, Sera waited behind a barrel, clutching an emergency tea flask. She exhaled in relief. "You survived the demon's den."
Hiroto grinned, though his bones creaked. "And so can you, if you drink this."
He pressed the pouch into her hand. "Calming Ember Tea—only for emergencies."
Sera grinned. "Best emergency ever."
They slipped back into Solencia's streets as dawn's first pale light brushed the horizon. Behind them, the Little Whisper Tavern's lantern flickered, as if bidding them farewell.
And though their crowns—literal or accidental—would weigh heavily by day, for one fleeting night, two reluctant heroes found peace in tea, companionship, and the quiet understanding that even destiny's fiercest agents sometimes need a moment to exhale.