There’s a long silence, the drone of the aerostatic’s machinery filling the air.

Too much?

The Central Committee is still reeling at the composed response. Yeah, too much.

Still, the goal is met. The husband slowly and very awkwardly walks towards the small serving space while keeping his front towards Sophia, taking a small aluminum plate and piling on a pathetic half-sandwich and filling a mug with just a few small droplets of piping hot tea.

As if preparing for a fight he carefully finds the seat across from the young woman, his gaze pulled downward towards the small half-serving of food.

He probably has never had anything remotely Ensolian. Sophia assumes as she watches his nervousness. Especially Reichland cuisine.

Sophia’s training kicks in, an entire two hours spent roleplaying with Beatrice and Alice coming to fruition here in this most critical time. She is the Fourth Princess, heir to the Silver Throne (well, not really anymore all things considered); all nations should fear her anyways.

“Croque sandwiches.” She begins to explain as she forces herself to make eye contact. “Very authentic Reichland food. Though, the sourdough bread is a bit more Erythryn Coast inspired. Normally it would just be barley bread; very thick but has a certain… bite to it. The rest however is quite up to par. I in particular enjoy the ham and mustard-swiss cheese combination. The Reichlands are quite known for their cheeses, you know in fact they produce over fifty varieties of cheese, each with its own unique flavor and history. The cows in the Goldmedaille Delta’s pastures are said to graze on herbs that give their milk a certain tang, perfect for sharp, crumbly cheeses. And in the highlands, the concord sheep’s milk there is turned into creamy, smoky rounds that practically melt in your mouth. Oh, and the blue-veined cheeses? You know about those right? The ones with the mold? Actually, those are matured in ancient caverns, where…"

There’s an uncomfortable amount of time before anyone on the committee dares to interrupt the continuing thought process, but someone mercifully does. Ahm, can we get a time check please on this current topic?

The thought process within Sophia pauses its current exposition, currently sitting at spewing her half-love of soft cheeses. Five minutes.

Five minutes?! You’ve ranted about cheeses for five minutes?!

The internal monologue pauses with a bit of apprehension. Is it not ok to talk about Reichland soft cheeses?

NO! The entire committee declares. NOT NOW!

We should put this thought process to the blade! One of the committee members decries immediately. This is an utter humiliation for us! What will the endocrine system say when we report this?!

We got a second chance and we’re blowing it!

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Sophia suddenly finds the source of her confidence, like a well digger uncovering a source of toxic mock water she finds that terrible emotion secretly hidden within the deepest parts of her soul:

This was no confidence, this was panic derived from nervousness.

In times long ago, before your Imperium was even in the hearts of the first settlers of the Capital Valley, we watched. We cheered as tribal chiefs turned into leaders, we cried as your kind’s vast history degraded to superstition, and finally rejoiced as a rabble of humble farmers built an empire. We have watched, and now have come with an important message for you dear child; a simple princess who holds just a drop of diluted blood from those shepherds and farmhands: you, Sophia Elise, the Eighth of your name, are the first to attempt to seduce a prince with your knowledge of soft cheeses.

Sophia stops her lecture, pausing as she gauges the tired, barely awake reaction of her partner across the table. An exhaustion evident on his face, her attempt at conversation (it was, by far, nothing less than a splained rant at this point) giving him no opportunities for any interjection or any time to even process her words.

So instead of continuing the young woman just exhales, taking her cup of cold tea and settles for a long, slow drink from it.

Prince Zai stares into empty space, posture stiff like a child commanded to sit at a dinner table. Each breath measured, a part of his body shaking slightly from the cold air seeping into the officer’s mess hall.

He doesn’t even dare to look at her.

Do you believe in me? Some voice from the aether reaches Sophia Elise. Because we can salvage this disaster.

The Fourth Princess puts down her cup with absurd calmness, a body temperature skyrocketing as she tries to lower her heart rate with heavy breathing. How?!

Watch and listen. The voice, somewhat feminine in nature, whispers. Watch and listen…

Sophia avoids eye contact as well, staring out of the window and towards the great and vast swirling colors of Unudo and its gaseous storms. With an even tone she speaks up after a long silence, detecting the right time for this conversation between now wedded acquaintances. “I’m sorry you never had a chance to taste Capital's Amorian food.”

They’re back in that quiet chamber, hidden away from all the suitors and playboys; away from the crowds and the world at large.

Prince Zai takes a deep breath, finally responding to the woman. “Me too.”

She hums gently, again avoiding eye contact with the wounded bird. “You know, there’s a small Amorian restaurant in the old city quarter; been there seventy years now. Back when they were still drafting the ceasefire in Capital, it was rumored that the Elector of the Republic dined there. Said that their eel gratin was the closest thing he had tasted to his father’s own cooking.”

The anecdote almost makes Zai smile, almost.

Sophia pushes her last flair. “If we had the time, I would’ve wanted to go there.”

The voice purposely leaves out the implication, to let the Prince finish her words for her.

Go there with you.

He remains silent, guarded against this attempt at connection.

”Prince Zai.” She calls him. “I wanted to apologize.”

He’s so exhausted that he replies with reflex. “For what?”

“Many things.” She esoterically allots him, attempting to preserve a sense of mystery. “I know this entire occasion was… rushed. If it were up to me, this would never have been done on such a timetable. I hope that I…” Sophia corrects herself. “That this entire process didn’t cause you too much discomfort.”

He doesn’t think to reply to her apology, turning his head towards the window and into the world.

It isn’t working! Sophia argues with the voice.

Just give it time, like cheese this needs to be aged. Plant the seed now, and prepare to harvest later.