Chapter 233

Chapter 233

The lounge of the hot spring resort was carpeted with soft velvet, and two rattan sofas sat by the window. The bamboo grove outside filtered the sunlight into fine specks, which fell on the freshly changed light gray fabric, accentuating Sara’s sharp shoulders. Evan carried the hot tea just delivered by the attendant, the warmth of the porcelain cup still lingering on his fingertips. As he sat down by the sofa, he saw Sara tap the rim of his cup lightly, the laziness fading from his voice, giving way to a calmness befitting a governor.

“I can’t stay here for long.” Sara took the teacup Evan handed him, the steaming mist blurring his features. “Taking office as governor is no trivial matter—I can’t just pop over with space teleportation. That’s the Empire’s rule, and it’s also a signal to the various factions in the colony.”

Evan’s fingers, holding his own cup, paused. He looked up at Sara, the softness in his eyes still there, but now mixed with a clear understanding.

He knew Sara’s status had changed. He was no longer the lone supernatural drifting about, but a governor set to rule an entire province, every move affecting the colony’s situation.

“The formal appointment requires taking the official steamer. On board will be an aide-de-camp, a secretary, and a security detail.” Sara took a sip of the hot tea, pressing the rim to his lips, his voice deepening. “The aide-de-camp handles daily logistics afterward; the secretary carries the handover documents—financial records, public safety, crop cultivation data from the colony. All must be verified during the handover ceremony. This is the formal procedure for power transfer; not a single link can be missing.”

He paused, looking at Evan, and gently touched the back of the boy’s hand with his fingertip. “The display isn’t for show—it’s to let the watching nobles and native tribes know that the governor sent by the Empire is ‘legitimate’ and can hold the situation steady.”

Evan nodded, his finger brushing over Sara’s hand—Sara’s body temperature was slightly higher than his, carrying the lingering warmth of the tea he had just drunk. He recalled the patrols he’d seen on Pearl Island, the calm of the Fifteenth Island, and suddenly understood what Sara meant by “holding the situation steady”: the colony’s stability was never a matter of luck but was built on these “rules” and “displays.”

“Then… when do you leave?” Evan’s voice was soft, with a faint reluctance clinging to the end. His fingers unconsciously moved toward Sara’s, nearly touching his wrist.

Sara watched him, the steadiness in his eyes softening. He reached out and ruffled Evan’s hair—the strands, just dried, were soft against his scalp, pleasant to the touch.

“I have to go now.” As he spoke, he drew a light line in the air. A faint, dark ripple suddenly spread beside them, a spatial fluctuation carrying a slight chill that made the tablecloth by the sofa sway gently. “The steamer departs from Backlund tomorrow. I need to return and arrange the accompanying staff, and confirm the handover document details. The formal arrival at port will be in ten days.”

The outline of the spatial door gradually took shape—a translucent black gate, its edges swirling with fine silver motes, as if the night had been crushed into light.

Evan looked at the gate, then back at Sara. His fingers instinctively clutched the hem of Sara’s shirt—the light gray cotton-linen fabric wrinkled under his grip, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go.

“Reluctant?” Sara looked down at the hand clutching his shirt, an indulgent, amused tone in his voice. He gently pried Evan’s fingers apart, then turned and held his hand instead.

Evan let his fingers be wrapped in Sara’s palm, the warm touch prompting a soft “mm” from him. He leaned his head against Sara’s shoulder. “Can’t you stay a little longer?”

“Once I officially take office, you’ll be able to see me every day.” Sara patted his back, his fingertips brushing over Evan’s hair. “The Governor’s Mansion will have a room for you—much more spacious than the small suite you’re renting now.”

As he spoke, he tapped the spatial door again, and through it, the faint outline of the Backlund mansion could be seen—dark wooden floors, and a desk with documents spread open.

Sara stood up, taking Evan’s hand and pulling him a couple of steps toward the gate, then paused. He bent down and gently kissed Evan’s forehead. “Don’t run around these ten days. Just stay on the Fifteenth Island. When I arrive, I’ll send someone to pick you up.”

Evan looked up at him and nodded. His eyes stung a little, but he forced a smile. “I’ll wait. When you come, I’ll show you the new doll I made—I decorated it with black pearls from Pearl Island. It’s really beautiful.”

Sara’s fingertips brushed the corner of Evan’s eye, helping to sweep away a stray strand of hair. “Good.” After that single word, he turned toward the spatial door. The fitted light gray shirt made his back look straight, his steps steady, but just before crossing the threshold, he turned back to look at Evan one more time.

The boy stood by the rattan sofa, still holding the half-finished cup of hot tea. Sunlight fell on his hair ends, coating them in a fine layer of gold dust.

Sara’s steps faltered. He walked back to Evan and pulled him into a hug—his 1.86-meter frame enveloping the 1.80-meter boy completely. His chin rested on Evan’s head, his voice as soft as a sigh. “Ten days will go by quickly.”

Evan buried his face in Sara’s shoulder, nodding. His arms wrapped tightly around Sara’s waist, his fingers clutching the hem of his shirt until the spatial door’s fluctuation intensified, then he gently let go.

Sara gave him one last look, then stepped into the gate.

The black spatial door rippled like wind-stirred water, gradually contracting, and finally dissolved into fine motes of light, disappearing into the air. The lounge now held only Evan. The rattan sofa still retained the warmth of where Sara had sat. On the table, two cups of hot tea—one was more than half cold, the other still sent up faint curls of steam. He walked to the window, looking out at the bamboo grove, and softly touched his forehead—the warmth of Sara’s kiss still lingered there.

The attendant came in with fresh hot tea, and seeing him standing by the window, softly asked, “Would you like more tea?” Evan turned back and smiled, pointing to the cup on the table. “No, thank you.”

He sat back down on the rattan sofa, picking up his own cup of hot tea, his fingers pressed against the warm porcelain. He remembered Sara’s words: “See you in ten days.” He thought of the room in the Governor’s Mansion, of the new doll he’d made. The smile in his eyes slowly spread again.

Outside the hot spring resort, the wind passed through the bamboo grove, carrying the faint scent of vegetation. Evan held the teacup and took a light sip—the tea was still warm, just like Sara’s hand when he had held it, just like the eagerly awaited reunion ten days away.

When Sara stepped out of the spatial gate, his feet landed on the dark teak floor of the new mansion in Backlund—the wood was warm, with a freshly waxed sheen, a world away from the bluestone slabs of the Fifteenth Island hot spring resort.

This was the mansion bestowed by Queen Mother Anne three days ago, located in the aristocratic district of Backlund. The Baroque-style dome featured a crystal chandelier, each piece of crystal cut to perfection, refracting the light from the windows into fine speckles that scattered across the Persian-carpeted living room. Servants in matching black uniforms stood silently along the corridors, their breathing barely audible—Sara had moved in less than three days ago, but these servants had already learned their new master’s habits: he disliked noise, preferred solitude, so even their footsteps were nearly inaudible.

Sara ignored the servants in the corridor and walked straight into the master bedroom.

In front of the floor-to-ceiling window of the master bedroom stood a dark brown single sofa, cushioned with a fox-fur pad. He walked over and sat down, his fingertips still tingling with the soft warmth of Evan's hair, and the aloofness in his eyes softened somewhat.

The light gray cotton-linen shirt he had on was the one Evan helped him change into at the hot spring pavilion. The fabric carried the clean scent of the young man, a stark contrast to the silk and embroidered robes the mansion had laid out, yet it made him feel exceptionally at ease.

Not long after, light footsteps sounded in the corridor—it was the mansion's butler, an elderly man with graying hair and an upright back, holding a silver tray. He timed his arrival perfectly to Sara's usual "rest period."

The butler's eyes swept over Sara's shirt, and his pupils barely contracted—he knew full well that the mansion's wardrobe was filled with splendid garments embroidered with silver scroll patterns, bestowed by the Queen Mother. This plain cotton-linen shirt clearly wasn't from the house.

But years of professional discipline allowed him to quickly suppress his surprise, his face maintaining a proper respect. He set the tray down gently on the side table next to the sofa: "My Lord, the Earl Grey tea and almond pastries you requested are ready. Additionally, the gatekeeper just received a letter from the colonies, stamped from New Nigeria State."

With that, he picked up a smaller silver tray from the larger one, which held a letter. The envelope was of rough kraft paper, its edges a bit frayed—clearly the cheap kind you see all over the colonies, a stark contrast to the gilded porcelain cups on the table.

Sara was just lifting his teacup when he heard "New Nigeria State." His fingers froze. He set down the cup and took the letter. As his fingertips touched the rough edge of the kraft paper, a sudden, strange premonition hit him.

The handwriting on the envelope was Evan's—the kid's writing wasn't great, but he'd pressed down hard, the pen tip leaving little dents in the paper. It said "To Mr. Sara" on the front, with a little star doodle next to it, the same pattern Evan liked to draw when he wrote love poems before.

Sara opened the envelope slowly, like he was scared of tearing what was inside. The paper inside was just as rough, and the handwriting was neater than on the envelope, clearly written with great seriousness:

"To my beloved

When the long night wanders through endless twilight,

You're the starlight that crowns my hair,

Each one holds a destiny's coordinate,

Guiding me through the fog to a gentle shore..."

At the end of the letter, a small doll was drawn, with black dots for eyes—clearly the "black pearl doll" Evan always talked about.

Sara held the letter, his fingers tracing the line "You are the immortal faith and pride of my life." The light from the crystal chandelier fell on the paper, making the rough pages gleam faintly.

He remembered at the hot spring pavilion, how Evan had read his poem while leaning on his shoulder—the kid's voice was rough, and his kisses landed on Sara's neck like soft feathers.

The butler stood to one side, watching his new master hold a cheap letter, his fingers so gentle it was nothing like the cold, distant Supernatural he usually was, most of the ice in his eyes melting away.

He prudently remained silent, standing with his hands at his sides, his breathing even lighter.

Sara folded the letter and placed it into the inner pocket of his shirt.

He picked up his teacup and took a sip of Earl Grey. The tea was rich, yet not as warm as the coarse tea from the hot spring pavilion on Fifteenth Island.

"What's next on the schedule?" Sara set down the cup, his voice still carrying a trace of lingering softness.

The butler immediately bowed and replied: "In half an hour, the Aide-de-camp and the clerk will come to the mansion to review the transition documents for New Nigeria State, including the financial budget, the guard company's organization, and the pacification plan for the native tribes. Additionally, the tailor sent by the Queen Mother will come this afternoon to take measurements for your governor's inauguration robe."

Sara's fingertips tapped lightly on the side table. He recalled how Evan had helped him put on the cotton-linen shirt, how his fingertips had brushed against the warmth of Sara's waist. He looked up at the window—in the aristocratic district of Bekeland, the chimneys of pointed buildings emitted faint smoke, and the distant palace dome gleamed with golden light, bustling like a carefully orchestrated dream, yet not as real as the farmland on Fifteenth Island.

"Tell the Aide-de-camp and the clerk to come in an hour," Sara said, his tone carrying an unyielding gentleness. "As for the tailor, push it to after one o'clock."

The butler bowed in acknowledgment: "Yes, my lord." After the butler withdrew, the master bedroom fell quiet again. Sara leaned back against the fox-fur pad, his fingertips once again touching the letter in his pocket. The rough pages pressed against the fabric, yet they felt like Evan's hand, gently clinging to his heart. He thought of Evan at the hot spring pavilion, looking up at him—the young man's eyes were bright, as if they held an entire starry sky. When he said "You are my star," his tone was devout, like a prayer. And now, that love poem written on coarse paper was like a small spark, falling into his long-frozen heart, burning warmly.