Chapter : 397

He steered Lloyd towards one of the comfortable armchairs, taking the one opposite for himself. A servant, appearing as if from nowhere, placed a tray with a pot of steaming, fragrant tea and two delicate cups between them. The tea, Lloyd noted with a flicker of wry amusement, smelled suspiciously of high-grade, imported black tea leaves from the Southern Isles, not the usual bitter hedge-clippings that passed for tea in the Ferrum estate. The King, it seemed, shared his appreciation for a decent cuppa.

“Please,” the King said, pouring the tea himself with a steady, graceful hand. “Drink. The journey is a long one.”

Lloyd accepted the cup, the warmth a welcome, grounding sensation in his hands. He took a sip. It was magnificent. Rich, complex, utterly unlike the despair-steeped dishwater he was used to. He was in the presence of the most powerful man in the kingdom, a being of immense, ancient power, and his most immediate, overwhelming thought was: a man who understands good tea. This bodes well.

He looked at the King, at the warm, genuine smile, the startlingly blue eyes twinkling with amusement, and he finally understood. The power of Liam Bethelham was not in his crown, or his armies, or even his immense, ancient magic. It was in this. This effortless, overwhelming charisma. This ability to disarm, to charm, to make you feel like you were not a vassal before a king, but a friend sharing a cup of tea with an equal. It was the most potent, and most dangerous, weapon of all.

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The tea was, as Lloyd had suspected, a masterpiece. A rare black leaf from the Sunstone Archipelago, he guessed, infused with a hint of bergamot and something else, something subtly floral. It was the kind of tea that made you re-evaluate your life choices and wonder why you had ever settled for less. He took another slow, appreciative sip, the rich, fragrant warmth a welcome anchor in the swirling sea of his own bewilderment.

King Liam Bethelham watched him, his sapphire-blue eyes holding that familiar, disconcerting twinkle of amusement. He seemed to be enjoying Lloyd’s quiet, almost reverent, appreciation for the tea as much as he had enjoyed his earlier shock at the royal reveal.

“Good, isn’t it?” the King commented, taking a sip from his own cup. “A personal blend. One of the few small perks of being a monarch. You get first pick of the imported tea leaves.” He set his cup down, the faint clink of porcelain on saucer the only sound in the vast, sunlit study. The easy, charming pleasantries, Lloyd sensed, were over. The King’s expression, while still warm, became more focused, the sharp, analytical mind behind the charismatic facade coming to the fore.

“Now, Lord Lloyd,” the King began, his voice losing its casual warmth, acquiring a new, business-like crispness. “I did not summon you all this way merely to share my personal tea blend, however excellent it may be.” He leaned forward slightly, his hands steepled before him, his gaze direct, intense. “I have summoned you because I have a proposition. A new role for you to consider. A position of… considerable importance and influence.”

Lloyd’s mind instantly began to race, sifting through possibilities. A position? What kind of position? A junior seat on a ducal trade council? A liaison role for his new AURA enterprise? Perhaps an appointment to a royal commission on… industrial innovation? It would be a significant honor, a public acknowledgment of his newfound competence.

“I am honored by your consideration, Your Majesty,” Lloyd replied, his voice a model of respectful, cautious neutrality. “May I inquire as to the nature of this position?”

The King’s smile returned, but this time it was different. It was the slow, deliberate smile of a man about to play a completely unexpected, and probably quite disruptive, card. “I wish for you to become a teacher, Lord Lloyd,” he said.

The words dropped into the quiet, sunlit study with the gentle, devastating force of an avalanche.

Lloyd stared. He was certain he had misheard. The King’s rich, resonant baritone must have been distorted by the acoustics of the vast, circular room. Teacher? Him?

“Your… Majesty?” Lloyd managed, his voice a faint, incredulous croak. “A… a teacher?”

“Indeed,” the King confirmed, his blue eyes gleaming with an almost mischievous delight at Lloyd’s utter, comprehensive bafflement. “Not just any teacher, of course. A Special Category Professor. At the finest institution of learning in the entire kingdom. My institution.” He gestured with a sweep of his hand towards the panoramic window, towards the distant, elegant spires of the academic district. “The Bathelham Royal Academy.”

Chapter : 398

The world, which had already been tilting on a precarious axis for the past several weeks, seemed to topple over completely.

The Bathelham Royal Academy. The very name was a scar on his soul, a bitter taste of his past, most profound failure. The prestigious, elite institution he had been so politely, so humiliatingly, asked to leave in disgrace. The place where his reputation as the ‘drab duckling’, the ‘mediocre heir’, had been forged and forever sealed. The source of his sister Jothi’s cool, dismissive contempt. And now, the King, the patron of that very institution, was proposing that he return. Not as a student. Not as a disgraced alumnus. But as a professor.

The sheer, unadulterated absurdity of it was so overwhelming, so mind-bogglingly insane, that Lloyd almost laughed. A hysterical, unhinged laugh. He bit it back just in time, the effort making his jaw ache.

He stared at the King, searching his face for any sign of a jest, a prank, a continuation of the eccentric ‘Lord James’ persona. He found none. The King’s sapphire eyes were perfectly serious, his expression one of calm, absolute intent. He meant it.

Lloyd’s mind scrambled to formulate a response, a rejection that was both firm and respectful enough not to constitute treason. He felt a flush of hot, familiar shame creep up his neck, the ghost of his nineteen-year-old self, the academic failure, reasserting itself with a vengeance.

“Your Majesty,” he began, his voice tight, strained, all his carefully constructed composure gone. He placed his teacup down on the table with a hand that trembled almost imperceptibly. “I… I am profoundly, deeply, honored by your faith in me. Truly. But I fear… I fear there has been a grave misunderstanding.”

He shook his head, a gesture of helpless, almost pained, negation. “I am not a teacher, Your Majesty. I am not an academic. I am… a businessman. An innovator, perhaps. A soap-maker.” The last word came out with a hint of self-deprecating bitterness. “I possess no formal training in pedagogy. I hold no advanced degrees. My own history with your esteemed Academy is… well, it is a matter of public record, I am sure.”

He forced himself to meet the King’s unwavering gaze. “Your Majesty, I was a failure at Bathelham. I struggled with the curriculum. I lacked the requisite talent in both the martial and magical arts. I was, to be blunt, asked to withdraw due to a profound and undeniable lack of scholastic aptitude.” He laid his past shame bare, a bitter, necessary sacrifice on the altar of refusal. “To appoint me, of all people, as a professor at that same institution… it would be an insult to your dedicated faculty. It would be a mockery of the very standards of excellence the Academy upholds. The students would laugh. The other professors would protest. It is… it is an absurd, an impossible, a completely unsuitable role for me.”

He took a deep, steadying breath, his case laid out, his refusal clear, polite, and grounded in the undeniable, humiliating truth of his own past. “I must, with the deepest and most sincere respect, Your Majesty… decline your generous proposition.”

He leaned back in his chair, his heart hammering, awaiting the King’s reaction. He had just refused a direct proposition from his monarch. A dangerous move. But the alternative, the sheer, public, humiliating irony of returning to the scene of his greatest failure as a teacher… it was unthinkable. Unbearable.

King Liam Bethelham listened to his impassioned, almost desperate, refusal in silence. He did not look angry. He did not look offended. He simply nodded slowly, a thoughtful, almost sympathetic, expression on his handsome face.

“Yes,” the King said finally, his voice a low, contemplative murmur. “Your academic record at Bathelham was indeed… less than distinguished. I have, of course, reviewed it. Thoroughly.” He took another sip of his tea, his eyes twinkling again over the rim of the cup. “And that, Lord Lloyd,” he said, setting the cup down with a soft, final click, “is precisely why you are perfect for the job.”

Lloyd stared at the King, his mind a perfect, echoing blank. The King’s last statement had not just failed to compute; it had crashed his entire operating system. His less-than-distinguished academic record, the very foundation of his polite but firm refusal, was precisely the reason he was perfect for the job? The logic was so inverted, so utterly alien to any rational thought process, that he could only gape, his carefully prepared arguments dissolving into a mist of pure, unadulterated confusion.

“Your… Majesty?” he managed, the words feeling clumsy, inadequate. “I… I do not understand.”