Dmitry, watching this drama unfold, decided it was high time to deploy his skills in "social engineering." He took his time chewing a piece of meat, washed it down with a cool berry draught, and after dabbing his lips with a napkin, turned to the girl.
“Duty to one's family is a sacred thing, Amalia,” he began in a calm, captivating voice. “However, you strike me as a person of sharp intellect, and I suspect you are capable of making decisions for yourself—decisions based not just on cold calculation, but on your own personal preferences. If you were the one choosing the terms of this marriage, what would they be?”
Dmitry had intentionally set several psychological traps within that single question. The recognition of her intelligence, the emphasis on her autonomy, and the subtle layer of flattery—Amalia, unused to anyone seeing her as a person rather than a transaction, fell into all of them at once.
She flushed visibly at the unaccustomed praise. Her impeccably straight back relaxed just a fraction, and a spark of life flickered in her eyes.
“I certainly wouldn't be rushing things,” she blurted out before she could catch herself. She turned slowly toward Prast, and the icy indifference was gone from her gaze. “Your Lordship, I find you... likable. But I do not know you as a man at all. And everything my father has said about you, in my view, has nothing to do with who you actually are.”
Cohen raised his head, terrified of breaking the spell of the moment.
“If it were up to me,” she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper, “I would want to speak with you first, to get to know you better, and only then make a decision. Но отец хочет сыграть свадьбу как можно скорее... But my father wants the wedding as soon as possible.”
She finished and immediately stared back down at her plate, as if frightened by her own sudden honesty. A silence settled over the small dining room—not a heavy silence this time, but one as fragile as the first skim of ice on an autumn puddle. You could hear the rain splattering against the windowsill outside.
Dmitry glanced at Bruno. The old mage gave a subtle smirk into his beard, clearly appreciating how neatly his "advisor" had lanced the boil. Cohen, meanwhile, looked as if he had just been handed a reprieve from a death sentence. A dark crimson wave began to crawl up his neck. And then, something happened that even Dmitry, with all his faith in psychological leverage, hadn't anticipated.
The Baron pushed his chair back with a sharp, metallic screech and stood up. The monumental awkwardness was gone; in its place was the calculated, spring-loaded fury of a man with nothing left to lose. He cast aside every doubt and erupted with such heat that the very air in the room seemed to crackle.
“Lady Amalia!” Cohen’s voice, so timid before, now thundered under the vaulted ceiling. “From the very moment you walked into this hall this morning, I have thought of nothing but you! Let me live in the ruins of my house, let me have nothing left but the honor of my ancestors—so be it! Но без вас эта честь — ничто! But without you, that honor is nothing!”
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He took a ragged breath, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the table.
“I am ready to prove that I am worthy of your favor! I will move heaven and earth to make you the happiest woman in this entire kingdom! And if, in the end, I remain unlovable to your heart, then I will reject your father’s offer! By the gods, I will do it! Even if they throw me into the Vuta afterward with a slit throat!”
Cohen fell silent, chest heaving. He stood before Amalia—a landless, penniless Baron who had just openly threatened to blow up the biggest deal in Nordcross. It was pure madness. It was political suicide. And it was the most sincere thing Dmitry had heard since arriving in this world.
Dmitry nearly dropped his fork. “Well, kid,” he thought, “you’re either a genius or a corpse. Но яйца у тебя явно из того же сплава... but your balls are definitely made of the same alloy as the 'Ark’s' armor.”
He caught Bruno’s eye. The mage had frozen with his cup halfway to his lips, his expression a mix of shock and profound respect.
Amalia sat motionless. Her hand, still clutching the cheese knife, was trembling. She looked at Cohen as if seeing him for the first time in her life. The "perfect daughter" mask didn't just crack; it shattered into a thousand pieces. Tears welled up in her eyes—the eyes of a girl whose world had always been defined by her father’s will and dance lessons. Her lips quivered.
“I’m scared, Cohen! By the gods, I’m so scared!” she sobbed.
Cohen didn't hesitate for a heartbeat. In a single motion, he was at her side, dropping to his knees and pulling her into an embrace. She wept into his shoulder, the years of stifled tension and performed roles finally erupting out of her. It was a catharsis, a visceral cleansing. Dmitry watched as Cohen, who had been so clumsy only hours ago, now confidently stroked the girl's hair, whispering something private into her ear. In that moment, the Baron looked older and wiser than any of the men who had tried to manipulate him.
Bruno delicately looked away, studying the bottom of his cup. Even for a man who measured the world in interest rates, this was too raw, too real. In that dining room, surrounded by half-eaten boar and expensive silver, two young people had finally found each other. And Dmitry knew that Hoof would now have to deal with something gold couldn't buy: a genuine alliance.
They stayed like that for a long time, holding each other in the silence of the room, punctuated only by the crackle of the hearth and the dripping rain outside.
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors flew open. A noisy whirlwind burst into the hall. Oliver van der Hoof had arrived for lunch.
“Ah! Everyone’s here already?” the merchant announced in his usual boisterous roar, clapping his hands. He scanned the room, saw the huddling pair, and let out a booming laugh. “Already cuddling, you young'uns? Patience! We’ll have the wedding tomorrow, then you can dote on each other all you like.”
Amalia recoiled from Cohen, and the Baron retreated to his seat, his face pale. It was only as Hoof drew closer that he noticed his daughter’s tear-streaked face. His smirk vanished, replaced by genuine, if gruff, alarm.
“Daughter, what is this? Why are you crying?”
“Everything is fine, Papa,” Amalia replied steadily, dabbing her face with a napkin with practiced efficiency. She was pulling the mask back on, but it no longer fit quite as tightly as before.
Hoof looked to Bruno for an answer, but the mage simply shrugged with a melancholic air. The merchant let out a heavy sigh and turned back to Prast.
“Well, if everything is 'fine'... then I’ll ask again. Cohen Prast, have you made your decision?”
“Yes. I have.” Cohen’s voice was like iron.
Dmitry understood why. The Baron was finally in his element. While pragmatic haggling over noble honor was foreign to him, the concept of chivalry in the name of a lady was hardcoded into his very marrow.
“I accept your offer, Master Hoof,” Cohen continued, squaring his shoulders. “And I agree to take your daughter, Amalia, as my lawful wife... but only if she desires it herself.”
Silence reclaimed the dining room, but this time it was a stunned, breathless silence. Hoof stood with his mouth agape, clearly never having considered that "the daughter's desire" would ever be a variable in his perfect equation.
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