Iris's room was tidy.

Everything was in its place. The bed was made. The books were stacked by height.

She stood in the center of the room.

She held a piece of parchment. It was made from Silverleaf bark. It shimmered in the light.

She picked up her quill.

She did not hesitate.

To the Council of Seven,

Report regarding the Child of Destiny.

She paused. She dipped the quill in silver ink.

Observation Period: Complete.

Assessment: Negative.

She wrote swiftly. Her script was elegant and sharp.

The subject, Theodore Aldridge, displays zero aptitude for inter-species alliance. His mental focus is singularly combat-oriented.

That part was true.

Attempts to induce romantic attachment were simulated. Projected success rate is less than 0.4%.

Also true. Theo would likely try to spar with a romantic partner.

The subject is unresponsive to elven diplomatic techniques. Pursuit of this strategy will result in resource waste and diplomatic embarrassment.

She took a breath. Now for the lie that was the truth.

However, the Aldridge bloodline exhibits unusual magical anomalies. Specifically, the sibling, Marcus Aldridge.

She smiled slightly.

I recommend continued observation of the family unit. Withdrawal at this stage would result in a loss of critical data.

I am altering the mission parameters. I will remain in the human capital. I will maintain proximity.

Objective: Long-term cultural and magical assessment.

Mission status: Ongoing.

Signed,

Iris Silvermoon

She put down the quill.

She read the letter.

It was a masterpiece of bureaucratic deflection.

She was telling them she failed, but making it sound like a strategic pivot.

She was asking to stay.

Not for the Conclave. Not for the mission.

For herself.

She rolled the parchment. She tied it with a strand of silk.

She walked to the silver basin.

She placed the scroll on the surface of the water.

She closed her eyes and began the chant.

" Aeloria veth tana. "

The water began to glow. A soft blue light filled the room.

The scroll dissolved. It didn't get wet. It simply turned into mist and vanished into the water.

The message was sent.

It was instantaneous. It was irreversible.

Somewhere, hundreds of miles away, an Elder was reading her words.

They might be angry. They might be disappointed.

They might recall her eventually.

But for now, the link was severed. She had bought herself time.

She waited for the guilt to hit her.

She waited for the shame of disobeying a direct order.

It didn't come.

Instead, she felt lighter.

It was as if she had been wearing heavy armor for centuries, and she had just unbuckled the straps.

She walked to the window.

She opened the shutters wide.

The morning sun hit her face. It felt warm. It felt real.

She looked down at the courtyard.

Students were walking to class. The world was waking up.

She was just one person in a city of thousands.

She wasn't an ambassador. She wasn't a spy.

She was just Iris.

"I choose," she whispered to the wind.

She touched her chest. Her heart was beating steady and strong.

"I choose to stay."

She looked toward the library building where Marcus usually spent his mornings.

"I choose you."

A smile broke across her face. It wasn't practiced. It wasn't for a target.

It was hers.

✧✧✧

Seraphina Ashwood sat at her desk.

A stack of essays on "Combat Applications of Thermal Shock" sat before her.

She held a red ink quill.

She was supposed to be grading.

Instead, she was staring at the wall.

She had read the same paragraph five times.

Fire is hot. It burns things. That is why it is good.

It was a terrible essay. The student deserved a failing grade.

Seraphina moved her quill to the margin.

She meant to write: Elaborate on mana consumption.

Instead, her hand moved on its own.

Marcus.

She blinked.

She stared at the word written in angry red ink.

Marcus.

It looked accusatory.

"Ridiculous," she muttered.

She scribbled over the name until it was a solid red block.

She was a professional. She was a widow. She was a head instructor.

She did not doodle names like a schoolgirl.

She picked up the next essay.

She read the first sentence.

Lightning strikes fast, like a sudden realization.

She sighed.

She put the quill down.

She remembered the way Marcus had looked at her during the trial.

She remembered his voice in the garden. You're allowed to be tired.

She remembered the coat he had draped over her shoulders.

She touched her own shoulder, almost unconsciously.

"Get a grip, Sera," she scolded herself.

But she didn't pick up the quill.

She opened her desk drawer.

Inside, hidden beneath a stack of lesson plans, was a dried flower.

It was from the bouquet he had given her. The "awkward gift from Theo."

She knew it wasn't from Theo.

She touched the brittle petals.

A soft look entered her eyes. The Ice Queen melted, just for a moment in the empty office.

She closed the drawer.

She picked up the quill again.

She wrote See me after class on the terrible essay.

Then, in the corner of her blotter, she drew a tiny heart.

She stared at it, horrified.

She aggressively erased it with a spell.

"I need more coffee," she declared.

But the coffee wouldn't fix this. She knew that.

She was compromised.

And she didn't hate it.

✧✧✧

Catarina Roselle stood in her war room.

A large map of the duchy was spread across the table.

Wooden markers represented troop movements, supply lines, and trade routes.

"My Lady," her steward said. "The grain shipments from the southern valley are delayed."

"Route them through the Black Creek pass," Catarina said instantly. "And send a detachment to clear the road."

"Yes, My Lady."

"And the petition regarding the textile tax?"

"It requires your signature."

Catarina signed the document without looking. Her signature was a work of art—sharp, elegant, commanding.

The steward bowed and left.

Catarina was alone.

She looked at the map.

Her eyes drifted away from her own territory. They moved west.

They settled on the marker for the capital city, Luminaris.

She reached out and picked up a marker. It was a blue piece representing a diplomatic envoy.

She moved it to the capital.

She picked up another piece. A white knight.

She placed it next to the envoy.

"Strategic alliance," she whispered.

She told herself this was politics. Marcus Aldridge was a key figure.

It was logical. It was efficient. It was necessary.

She remembered his letter.

The one where he recommended a trashy romance novel because he knew she liked the author's handling of emotional tension.

She remembered the way he had looked at her in her office. Not at the Duchess. At her.

She felt a flush rise up her neck.

"Strategic," she repeated firmly.

She opened a drawer in the map table.

It was full of letters. His letters.

She had saved every single one. Even the short notes about scheduling.

She ran her finger over his handwriting. It was messy. It was hurried.

It was the most beautiful script she had ever seen.

"Who am I kidding?" she muttered.

She wasn't planning a campaign. She was planning a courtship.

She pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment.

Dear Lord Aldridge,

Regarding the trade tariffs we discussed...

She crumpled the paper.

She started again.

Dear Marcus,

I found a book you might hate. I cannot wait to tell you about it.

She smiled. It was a dangerous, determined smile.

The Perfect Duchess had a new objective.

And she never lost a campaign.

✧✧✧

The Adventurer's Guild training hall smelled of sweat and sawdust.

Vivienne Blackthorn was moving through a solo dagger practice session.

Her blades were blurs of silver.

Slash. Parry. Spin. Strike.

She was faster than she had been a week ago.

Her muscles were remembering their old songs.

She finished the routine. She stood panting, sweat dripping from her nose.

She felt alive.

She wiped her blades with a cloth.

She began to hum.

It was a waltz. A slow, elegant tune from the Royal Ball.

It was the song that had been playing when she danced with Marcus.

She remembered his hand on her waist. He had been stiff, terrified of stepping on her toes.

She had led him. He had followed with a desperate, charming clumsiness.

She remembered the way he had looked at her ex-husband.

Cold. Protective. Implacable.

He hadn't fought for her honor. He had fought for her happiness.

"Stupid boy," she murmured affectionately.

She checked the edge of her dagger. It was razor sharp.

She caught her reflection in the steel.

She didn't see the tired widow anymore.

She saw a woman with a secret.

"Damien likes him," she said to the empty room.

That was the hurdle. That was the only thing that had really stopped her.

If her son approved...

She sheathed the daggers.

She picked up her towel and wiped her neck.

She was still humming the waltz.

She realized what she was doing. She stopped.

Then she laughed.

"Well," she said. "I guess I'm hunting again."

She wasn't hunting monsters this time.

She was hunting a husband.

And the Crimson Viper always got her prey.

✧✧✧

Iris sat on the balcony of her room.

The sun was fully up now.

She had her sketchbook.

She was drawing a forest. It was the Silverleaf Enclave.

Giant trees touched the sky. walkways of woven light connected the branches.

It was her home.

In the center of the drawing, she sketched a figure standing on a bridge.

It wasn't an elf.

It was a human man in a slightly rumpled coat.

He was looking up at the trees in wonder.

Iris shaded his glasses carefully.

She imagined bringing him there.

She imagined showing him the Moon Pools. She imagined him explaining human philosophy to the Elders.

She imagined them being confused. She imagined him smiling that crooked smile.

She added herself to the drawing.

She stood next to him on the bridge. Her hand was in his.

It looked... right.

It looked complete.

She closed the sketchbook.

She hugged it to her chest.

Four women.

Four separate locations.

Four different realizations.

And in the library below, Marcus Aldridge sneezed.

He rubbed his nose.

"Must be the dust," he muttered.

He went back to his book.

He was reading about the geography of the Demon Realm.

He was trying to save the world.

He had absolutely no idea that the world was currently closing in on him from all sides.

He didn't know about the red ink.

He didn't know about the crumbled letters.

He didn't know about the waltz.

He didn't know about the sketch.

He turned the page.

"Man," he thought. "I hope Operation Redirect 2.0 works soon. These women are going to realize I'm boring any day now."

He adjusted his glasses.

"Any day now."

The dramatic irony was thick enough to choke a dragon.

The universe, it seemed, had a sense of humor.

And Marcus was the punchline.

.

.

.

A/N:

Enjoy this last peaceful chapters because next few chapters will be absolute drama.

And Operation Redirect ends here, I know you guys are tired of this shit but I needed to develop the relations, so had no choice.

Heck even most people left the series for this annoying repetitiveness, but no worries it's all over and the future will be interesting.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.