"Tsk tsk tsk, but honestly, Yichen,"
a knight with a face flushed red from drink slurred as he slapped Yichen hard on the shoulder.
"This time your taste is finally normal!
Grand Master Jean is amazing! Gentle, graceful, virtuous—perfect wife material!
Unlike that Lawrence family—"
"Stop.
Stop right there."
Yichen took a deep breath, forcing his voice to stay calm and convincing—
even though right now he desperately wanted to use a Mamba Elbow to blast every single one of these trouble-loving, oil-pouring-on-the-fire spectators out of the tavern.
He swept his gaze across the knights and spoke evenly.
"Everything has two sides.
Like this dandelion wine—drink too much, and even something good gets overwhelming."
"Miss Eula Lawrence…
first and foremost, she is Eula Lawrence.
Only after that is she a descendant of the Lawrence clan."
"Even if… even if I'm no longer bothering her,"
he paused briefly,
"I still hope everyone can try to understand who she really is—
instead of dumping all the sins of her ancestors onto her head without distinction."
The knights froze.
The drunken teasing faded from their faces, replaced by surprise—and confusion.
The knight who had spoken earlier scratched his head.
"Didn't expect you to… speak up for her.
I mean… she rejected you a hundred times without mercy!
If it were me, I'd have cursed her ancestors already!"
A faint, bitter smile appeared on Yichen's face.
(This time, it truly was bitter.)
"That's only natural."
"After all…
those hundred times were me unilaterally disturbing her, causing her trouble."
"She had every right to reject me.
That has nothing to do with who she is or what her surname is."
"It was my lack of consideration.
My behavior was inappropriate."
The words were frank—
even self-reflective.
The knights exchanged looks.
After a brief silence, laughter erupted—louder than before.
"Hahaha! Alright! Fair enough!"
"Yichen, you might be a bit of a playboy—
that seamless transition was fast, not gonna lie—"
"But your character?
Still top-tier. As always."
"Know when to pick up, know when to let go.
You're a real man."
"Come on!
For that honesty and loyalty alone—
a toast to Yichen!"
Meanwhile—
In the corner drowned in low pressure.
Amber watched her friend nervously.
Eula's body was taut like a fully drawn bow.
Her gloved hands were clenched tightly into fists on her knees, knuckles producing faint cracking sounds from the strain.
Even her arms trembled slightly.
The air around her had practically condensed into frost.
Amber shivered.
"E-Eula…"
She tried to speak—but found herself completely at a loss.
Say "Yichen is a jerk, forget him"?
But he had just stood up in front of the entire Knights of Favonius—under immense pressure—and argued for Eula, openly refuting the prejudice against the Lawrence name.
Say "he moved on too fast"?
But… those hundred rejections were spoken by Eula herself.
Even though the current situation…
was absolutely toe-curling.
Amber scratched her head in frustration, feeling her logic crash and burn under the chaos.
Eula stared unblinkingly at the figure in the center of the crowd—the man surrounded by knights, forced to raise his glass.
His smile was helpless, practiced.
They teased him for being "fickle," for "seamless transitions"—
yet the words leaving his mouth were still the ones she wanted to hear most.
Words defending her.
Words that once lit sparks in her frozen heart—
words that had shattered her icebound world.
This idiot…
He clearly doesn't like me anymore.
He already carried red roses, chasing someone better—someone more worthy.
So why…
Why say these things now?
Eula felt as if an invisible hand had seized her heart—
squeezing it tight.
Sour.
Bitter.
Painful.
She could barely breathe.
A massive wave of grievance and shame crashed against her reason.
She was the one who rejected him a hundred times.
She was the one who clung stubbornly to her pride and pushed him away again and again.
She was the one who ruined all one hundred chances.
So why…
Why does he still speak up for her?
Shouldn't he, like everyone else, mock her arrogance?
Despise her Lawrence surname?
Her gaze drifted—almost masochistically—toward Jean.
Golden hair flowed warmly under candlelight.
A tall, upright figure blending knightly valor with feminine grace.
Steady, reliable, elegant even when rejecting a sudden confession.
Eula's nails dug deep into her palm.
Jean… was simply too superior.
Not just in status—but in temperament.
Jean was warm, gracious, dependable.
Mondstadt's sunlight.
Everyone's pillar.
Even her figure… flawless.
And what was she?
A woman who could only glare coldly and say "I'll remember this."
A grudge-holding woman.
A bearer of a sinful surname.
An untouchable "remnant."
A block of ice that could never be warmed.
Yichen choosing Jean—
was the most natural, rational decision imaginable.
So what did this turmoil inside her matter?
This ocean of sourness,
this dull blade carving her heart over and over,
this crushing loss and self-loathing?
Nothing more than…
A belated punishment.
Deserved.
She could only blame herself.
Blame her damned pride.
Blame herself for pushing him away every single time.
Blame herself for personally burying that awkward, stubborn light
that once illuminated her gray world.
Eula Lawrence…
She cursed herself viciously in her heart.
Completely.
Gulp.
A painfully clear swallowing sound.
Eula suddenly grabbed the dandelion wine before her—the glass already coated in a thin layer of frost.
She tilted her head back, eyes squeezed shut, as if trying to drown all her bitterness, grievance, self-disgust, and regret—
along with that icy liquid—
straight down her throat.
The spicy, bitter wine burned her esophagus—
yet it couldn't melt
the bone-deep frost gripping her heart.