Chapter : 707

Her eyes drifted across the room to the sofa, his former territory. The space was so clean, so empty. The absence of his presence was a physical thing. She realized, with a jolt of unwelcome insight, that she had grown accustomed to it. To the quiet rustle of his blankets in the morning. To the faint scent of his soap that sometimes clung to the air. To the silent, steady presence of another living, breathing soul in her solitary world. She had never acknowledged it, had never even consciously registered it, but his presence had become a part of the baseline reality of her life. And now that it was gone, the silence of the suite felt less like peace and more like a tomb.

She stood alone in the center of the vast, opulent room, a solitary queen on a chessboard where her opponent had simply walked away from the game. The sun was now fully risen, its golden light flooding the suite, but for Rosa Siddik, a strange, new, and deeply unsettling winter had just begun. The sting of his silence was not just a passing irritation. It was a wound. And for the first time in her life, she had no idea how to even begin to heal it.

Miles away from the cold, silent drama unfolding in the ducal suite, the world was a much grittier, more honest place. The tavern known as ‘The Leaky Flagon’ was a carbuncle on the southern edge of the Ferrum Duchy, a last-chance watering hole before the road dissolved into the wild, untamed borderlands. It was a place that smelled of stale ale, woodsmoke, and the damp, earthy scent of a hundred unwashed bodies. It was a haven for smugglers, deserters, and all manner of men whose business thrived in the shadows.

In a dark, secluded corner booth, a space shrouded in shadow and insulated by the tavern’s general din, sat two figures. They were a study in contrasts, a perfect visual representation of their conflicting philosophies.

The first, Kael, was a man coiled as tight as a watch spring. His large, muscular frame was crammed into the small booth, his movements jerky and infrequent. He nursed a single mug of watered-down ale, his eyes constantly scanning the room, his hand never straying far from the hilt of the heavy, practical short sword at his belt. He was a soldier, a professional killer, and he was deeply, profoundly uncomfortable. The waiting, the uncertainty, the sheer, unprofessional squalor of their current location—it all grated on his disciplined nerves.

His companion, Jager, was the very picture of relaxed, predatory confidence. He was leaner than Kael, his frame draped in dark, well-tailored leathers that spoke of wealth and a certain grim vanity. He lounged in his seat, one long leg casually propped up on the bench, a half-empty bottle of expensive, imported wine on the table before him. He held his own cup with a delicate, almost artistic grip, his pale, slender fingers a stark contrast to the rough-hewn wood of the table. A deep cowl shadowed his face, but a faint, amused smile played on his lips, and from the darkness of the hood, his eyes seemed to glow with a faint, sickly green light.

“You should relax, Kael,” Jager murmured, his voice a low, smooth baritone that was somehow audible even over the tavern’s chaotic noise. “Your tension is a vulgar spectacle. You are fouling the air with the stench of your anxiety. Have some wine. It is a surprisingly decent vintage for such a wretched hovel.”

Kael’s jaw tightened. “I do not drink on a mission, Jager. And I will relax when our target is dead and we are safely across the border. This entire operation is compromised. Our last attempt was a catastrophic failure.”

Jager let out a soft, dismissive chuckle. “You, my dear Kael, would have charged in like the mindless berserker you are and been incinerated for your trouble. The White Mask was an unexpected variable, I grant you. A delightful puzzle. But he is not our primary target. Our contract is for the boy. Lloyd Ferrum.”

“The boy who commands two Transcended spirits,” Kael countered, his voice a low, harsh growl. “The boy who has the King’s personal favor. He is no longer just a ‘boy,’ Jager. He is a monster, and he is a monster who lives in a fortress, surrounded by the most powerful warriors in the Duchy. To attack him there is suicide.”

Chapter : 708

“And that,” Jager said, taking a slow, deliberate sip of his wine, “is precisely why we are here, in this charming establishment, and not there. You are still thinking like a soldier, Kael. You see a fortress, and your first instinct is to lay siege to it. It is a tedious and predictable mindset. I, on the other hand, see a fortress and think, ‘Why bother with the walls when the king is bound to leave for a stroll in the garden eventually?’”

He set his cup down, the faint green light in his eyes intensifying. “Patience, my dear Kael. The mark of a true artist is patience. Our target is young, arrogant, and flush with his recent successes. He is building his little empires of soap and salt. A man with such ambitions cannot remain locked in his castle forever. He will have to travel. He will have to inspect his holdings. He will have to meet with his new business partners. And when he does, he will be vulnerable. He will be away from his father’s protection, away from the Academy’s wards, away from the bulk of his private army. He will be out in the open. And that is where we will strike.”

As if on cue, a small, rat-faced man in a grimy tunic detached himself from the bar and scurried towards their booth. He moved with the nervous, furtive energy of a man who was trading in information far more valuable than his own life. He approached their table, his eyes darting around, and offered a deep, obsequious bow to Jager’s cloaked form.

“My lord,” the informant squeaked, his voice barely a whisper. “I have the news you paid for.”

Jager didn't even look at him. He simply gestured with a single, elegant finger towards the empty space on the bench. “Speak.”

The man practically fell into the seat, his hands trembling. “It’s about the Ferrum heir. The ducal estate has been a hive of activity this morning. A traveling carriage was prepared before dawn. It was… it was provisioned for a long journey. South.”

Kael stiffened, his hand instinctively gripping the hilt of his sword. Jager, however, remained perfectly still, his only reaction being the slow, widening of his amused smile.

“He’s on the move,” the informant whispered, his eyes wide. “Lord Ferrum. He left the estate not three hours ago. Heading south on the old trade road. And my sources… my sources in the stable-master’s office… they said the security detail was minimal. Just the carriage, the driver, and his personal guard.”

Kael’s breath hitched. It was happening. Exactly as Jager had predicted. The king had left his fortress.

Jager finally turned his head, the green glow in his cowl fixing on the terrified informant. He reached into a pouch at his belt and tossed a heavy purse of gold onto the table. It landed with a soft, definitive thud.

“Your information has proven… adequate,” Jager purred. “Take your payment and disappear. If I ever see your face again, I will have Kael here remove it for me. Do you understand?”

The informant snatched the purse, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head at the weight of it. He nodded frantically, stammering his thanks and his promises to become a ghost, before scrambling away from the table and melting back into the tavern’s grimy tapestry.

A long, tense silence settled over the booth. Kael was practically vibrating with a mixture of adrenaline and dread. Jager, in contrast, seemed to be savoring the moment. He slowly refilled his wine cup, the red liquid catching the dim tavern light like a cup of fresh blood.

He raised the cup in a silent toast to his subordinate.

“You see, Kael?” he murmured, his voice a low, triumphant hum. “Patience. The universe provides. Our target has graciously decided to leave his fortress and take a walk in the woods. With nothing but his pet shadow to protect him.”

He took a long, slow drink of the wine, his smile now a predatory slash in the darkness of his hood.

“It would be terribly rude of us not to provide him with a suitable welcoming committee.”

Kael’s hand tightened on his sword until his knuckles were white. The dread was still there, a cold knot in his gut. But it was now mingled with the familiar, exhilarating thrill of the hunt.

Jager’s smile widened. He could feel his partner’s shift from fear to focus. “Come, my friend,” he said, rising from his seat in a single, fluid motion. “Let us not keep our young lord waiting. We have a trail to follow. And a whelp to eliminate.”