The Flaming Toast
The carriage jolted as its wheel caught on a stone, then quickly settled back into its rhythm. In the steady rocking, Laura unconsciously glanced down at her right hand. Even through her glove, she could have sworn the warmth of the hand she had just held still lingered there. Without thinking, she stroked the back of her right hand with her left.
"Chairwoman."
The silence was broken by Fiora, seated across from her. The voice of a loyal subordinate, heavy with concern.
"Is this venture… truly all right?"
"…"
"You know what kind of man His Highness the Seventh Prince is. You've heard every rumor that circulates in the capital, haven't you?"
Rumors. Of course she knew them. To a merchant, rumors were the sharpest weapon of all.
Once, he had been called the Duke of Benevolence for his gentle heart. A filial son who had cherished his mother with all his being. But after losing her to poison, that gentle duke had shattered. In the end, charged with tarnishing the imperial honor, he was exiled to this remote Far East Maritime Province—his own territory. That was everything the world knew of the scoundrel Grand Duke Mikhail.
Laura turned her gaze out the window. By now the Grand Duke's Mansion had completely vanished from sight.
"…Fiora."
"Yes, Chairwoman."
"The Highness I met in person."
Laura's golden eyes sank with languid grace.
"Was nothing like the rumors."
"…Pardon?"
"He was neither a drunk nor a madman. His eyes were lazy and hollow, yet… that only made him harder to read."
Instead of madness or rage, there had been only ennui. But the occasional spark that flashed within them had been startlingly pure. Like a child's. At least, the Mikhail she had met was that kind of man.
Which face was the real one, she couldn't say. Nor did she need to. The only thing that mattered was that he had placed the hilt of a sword in her hand.
Laura turned back to face Fiora, whose expression was still etched with worry. A faint, cold smile touched the corner of her lips.
"It's going to get busy from now on, Fiora."
One month later, the provincial capital of Vladivostok was roaring with the largest festival the Far East Maritime Province had seen since its founding.
The square had transformed into a massive open-air banquet. Endless rows of stalls were piled mountain-high with freshly caught fish, crabs, and shellfish that were grilled on the spot. Over enormous log fires, whole slabs of whale meat roasted, dripping fragrant oil. Bread and potatoes were free for the taking. Every single supply had been funneled through the Valeriano Merchant Group, with all costs covered by taxes from the Grand Duke's own coffers.
A beautiful cycle of taxation. The citizens, unaware of the mechanics behind it, simply reveled in their sudden fortune.
"Whoa! This is all seriously free?!"
"Long live His Highness the Grand Duke! I never thought I'd live to see a day like this!"
The true protagonist of the festival, however, was the alcohol. Clear, transparent liquid splashed generously into rough wooden cups—Mikhail Red Label.
"By the gods, I've never tasted anything this clean in my life!"
"Nothing catches in your throat at all!"
It was excellent drunk straight, but servants, officials, and former distillers stationed throughout the venue taught the crowd new ways to enjoy it.
"Here, ma'am! Try adding just a pinch of these dried herbs. The aroma will bloom beautifully!"
"Oi, friend! Mix in some of that wild strawberry juice! A whole new world awaits!"
People cheered and followed their guidance, crafting their own blends, sharing them with neighbors, comparing flavors, and laughing uproariously.
As the sun dipped westward and the festival reached its peak, the territory's most powerful figures gathered on the terrace of the Grand Duke's Mansion. From there, the distant roar of the square felt like a dream. Local nobles holding titles under the grand duchy, branch managers of major merchant houses, military officers of lieutenant general rank and above, and high-ranking administrators all stood with crystal glasses in hand. Inside those glasses, the colorless, transparent Mikhail Blue Label sparkled beneath the lights.
"Heh heh, this really is something special," remarked Lieutenant General Vasilyev, the garrison commander with his bushy beard, voice full of admiration. "I still can't believe liquor this fine is being made in our own province."
"Indeed, Your Excellency," replied a pot-bellied local noble, stroking his mustache with a sly smile. "Even in the capital, I've never tasted anything like it. As expected of His Highness the Grand Duke. Whatever else one might say, his mastery of alcohol must be unmatched across the empire. Heh heh."
"Puhaha!" Laughter burst out around them.
"Shh! Quiet down. What if he hears you?" someone chided, though his own face was lit with amusement. Everyone knew exactly what kind of man their new sovereign—the host of this very banquet—was. They also knew why he was absent from this gathering.
The atmosphere among the small groups chatting pleasantly had grown thoroughly warm and relaxed.
That was when it happened.
Creak—
The heavy doors of the hall swung open with a groan. Every sound died as if it had never existed. Dozens of eyes snapped toward the entrance at once.
It was Mikhail. With his usual languid expression, he sauntered inside as casually as if he were entering his own bedroom. Yet no one dared utter a word. A heavy silence pressed down on the entire space.
Mikhail seemed to savor that silence. He crossed the hall at a leisurely pace, casually plucking a glass of Blue Label from a servant's tray as he passed. He stopped at the center of the room, directly before the head seat.
Someone's dry swallow sounded thunderous in the quiet.
Mikhail lifted the glass, took a sip, then set it down with a satisfied smile. A clear clink rang out.
He slowly scanned the dozens of frozen faces staring at him. His eyes were utterly empty. At last, he spoke.
"Why the long faces, everyone? Anyone would think I'd drowned somebody in the sea out front."
One joke from Mikhail, and the once-boisterous hall froze solid. Everyone held their breath, eyes darting, unsure what to say.
That was when a clear, calm voice cut through the silence like a pebble dropped into still water.
"Your Highness."
Laura stepped close to Mikhail and lightly rested her hand on his arm.
"You should greet our guests first."
Her golden eyes curved softly toward him—a look that seemed to scold yet understood everything at once.
"Ah, right." Mikhail shrugged theatrically, as if only just remembering. "I'm absolutely terrible with all this stiff etiquette nonsense. Haha."
A few forced chuckles answered him. The atmosphere remained awkward.
Unbothered, Mikhail moved to the center of the hall.
"Thank you all for coming. It's a truly fine day."
His voice was still lazy, yet it carried a strange magnetism.
"The birds are singing, the flowers are blooming. And above all, the alcohol is delicious, isn't it?"
He grinned.
"On a day like this, we ought to enjoy ourselves with some real fire. Don't you agree?"
Ting—
Mikhail shook the small bell in his hand.
Whoosh.
Every magic light illuminating the hall went out at once. Complete darkness swallowed everything.
"Uwaah!"
"Wh-what's happening?!"
Panicked cries erupted from every direction.
Then the doors creaked open again. Servants slipped in quietly, pulling carts laden with dozens of small glass cups that faintly caught what little light remained. One servant snapped his fingers.
Blue flames bloomed atop the glasses with a soft poof. The fire leapt to the next cup, then the next, spreading like dominoes until dozens of blue stars seemed to float in the darkness—a breathtaking spectacle.
"Ooh…!"
A collective gasp rose.
They were Molotov cocktails—a type of flaming cocktail in which strong spirit was floated thinly over vodka and ignited. Mikhail had recreated the drink to suit this romance-fantasy world.
The burning glasses were distributed to every influential figure present. Mikhail raised his own high.
"First, a toast!"
He blew out the flame with a light breath and drained the glass in one gulp.
"Krr. It's hot, so be careful not to burn your lips, everyone."
At his playful warning, the dignitaries' eyes sparkled with curiosity. Lieutenant General Vasilyev was the first to follow, blowing out his flame with a whoosh.
"Ah, hot!" someone yelped after bringing the glass to his lips too quickly, but his face was filled with delight rather than pain.
"Puhahaha! Now this is fiery!"
Laughter broke out everywhere. The frozen atmosphere melted away in seconds.
One noble nudged his friend's shoulder and whispered, "We've got something new to brag about in our letters, eh?"
The name Mikhail spread like wildfire through word of mouth and letters, racing straight to the forefront of imperial trends. The reason the colorless, transparent, and flavorless drink had the empire in thrall was simple: people could infuse and mix it however they liked to create their own special, personal Mikhail.
Because the trend ignored social class, even in the small, shabby back-alley tavern "Little Pepper" in the capital, bottles of Mikhail Red Label were easy to spot on the tables.
Bang!
A wooden cup slammed against the table, drawing every eye for a moment.
"Damn it, the price is criminally high!" grumbled Edward, an old porter from the customs office, his face flushed red. Before him sat a half-empty, rough bottle bearing a vivid red label.
"There you go again, old man," chuckled Penya, the errand boy sitting across from him.
"What's the big deal? It's only a couple pennies more than other spirits."
"A couple pennies, you brat? That's enough to buy my grandson a whole fistful of candy!"
"Still, it's worth every coin!" added Ref, the apprentice craftsman who had been quietly sipping nearby. "Look, it has no taste or scent at all, so anything you mix with it comes out perfect! At our workshop, apple juice is all the rage. It's incredible!"
"Hmph. Mixing stuff into your drink like some girl," Edward snorted.
But Jean jumped in as if he'd been waiting. "Hey, I saw someone in the 'Cow's Ass' district the other day mixing it with cream."
"Cream?"
"Swear it's true! Sipping something white and milky… looked just like a damn male whore! Puhahaha!"
Boisterous laughter filled the tavern.
"Shut your mouths, you idiots!" the tavern owner bellowed from behind the counter. He slung the dusting cloth over his shoulder and pulled a Red Label from the shelf. This one was the house specialty, packed with lemon and orange peels and slices of ginger.
"I'll let you drunkards taste what our shop is truly proud of!"
When he uncorked the bottle, a gentle orange aroma pushed through the heavy smell of alcohol.
"Krr…!" Ref's eyes widened after one sip. "This is the real deal!"
"Speaking of which," Jean said, lowering his voice after draining his cup. "Have you heard the rumor about Blue Label? Supposedly on a completely different level from this red stuff."
The table's mood shifted instantly.
"I heard it too. Knights say it feels like walking on clouds."
"One glass costs more than our monthly wages, apparently."
"No way."
"Dream on. That's for the high-and-mighty to drink."
Edward filled his cup with a bitter smile. A brief silence filled with both longing and resignation settled over them.
"Still," Edward said, raising his glass high, "that scoundrel grand duke who made and sells something like this isn't your average lunatic. Thanks to him, we get to taste all kinds of drinks we'd never have tried."
Everyone chuckled and lifted their cups.
"Yeah, we're living like kings thanks to that drunkard!"
"All together now!" Edward called out. The same cheer erupted from every corner of the tavern.
"To His Highness the Drunken Grand Duke Mikhail!"