Chapter : 1269

Lloyd, his face a mask of serene, almost scholarly, detachment, simply looked at the now-sobbing, broken creature that had once been the arrogant and powerful Franz.

"Now," Lloyd said, his voice the quiet, patient tone of a teacher addressing a particularly slow, but now very attentive, student. "Let us begin again. From the top. Who sent you?"

And Franz, his will shattered, his soul a ruin, began to talk. And he did not stop. The words poured out of him in a desperate, frantic, and utterly unfiltered torrent, a confession that was not just a confession, but a desperate, pathetic plea to never, ever again have to experience the silent, empty, and utterly terrifying void that this quiet, gentle monster had shown him.

He confessed everything.

He spoke of the Seventh Circle’s grand, apocalyptic plan to destabilize the entire continent. He named names, of traitors in the Altamiran court, of sleeper agents within the other great houses, of the secret, unholy pacts that had been forged in the shadows. He described their methods, their command structure, their long-term strategic objectives.

It was an intelligence windfall of a magnitude that the kingdom’s own, vast network of spies had not been able to achieve in a decade of trying. And it had been acquired in less than five minutes, in a moonlit garden, by a man whose official title was ‘Director of Decorative Operations.’

When Franz was finally, mercifully, done, a babbling, empty husk of a man, Lloyd simply nodded. He stood up, his work here complete.

He turned to the still-frozen, and now deeply, professionally, and almost comically, intimidated Head Maid Annalisa. "Annalisa," he said, his voice returning to its usual, calm, and utterly normal tone. "Please have this… gentleman… escorted to Baron Cliff’s special care facilities. I believe the Baron will find him to be a most… illuminating conversationalist."

He then looked at her and her fifty elite, and now utterly terrified, operatives. "And then," he added, with a small, and very tired, smile, "I believe you all have some cleaning up to do. This garden is a mess."

With that, he turned and began to walk away, his part in the drama concluded. He was not a hero. He was not a monster. He was just a man who had a job to do, and who had done it with a brutal, and deeply, profoundly, and almost artistically, efficient competence.

He walked directly towards Isabella.

She did not flinch. She did not retreat. She was a princess of the blood, the daughter of a king, a warrior in her own right. And she would not show fear. Not now. Not to him.

She simply stood her ground, her posture a ramrod of royal pride, her face a mask of cold, hard, and utterly unreadable composure.

He stopped a few feet from her, and for a long, silent moment, they simply looked at each other. The commander and the queen. The monster and the witness.

"Your Highness," he said, his voice a quiet, formal, and utterly, infuriatingly, normal thing. "I must apologize for the… unseemly disruption to the evening’s tranquility. It seems we had a minor, and unforeseen, issue with some uninvited pests."

He had just single-handedly averted a catastrophic assassination plot against the Crown Prince, captured a high-ranking enemy commander, and extracted a king’s ransom of intelligence. And he was referring to it as an "issue with pests."

The sheer, breathtaking, and almost comical audacity of his understatement was a weapon in itself. It was a final, and very clear, statement of his own, terrifying, and utterly alien perspective on the world. This, to him, had not been a war. It had been a chore.

And Isabella, for the second time that night, found her own, formidable will, her own, royal composure, utterly and completely, outmatched.

She did not know what to say. What could she say? ‘Thank you for saving my brother’s life, you terrifying, soul-flaying monster’? ‘Congratulations on your brutally efficient and deeply horrifying victory, Lord Ferrum’?

She was a queen who had been rendered speechless. A warrior who had been disarmed not by a sword, but by a single, quiet, and utterly devastating display of a power that was so far beyond her own comprehension that it might as well have been magic from another universe.

Her mind, which had been a chaotic storm of shock, awe, and a new, and very healthy, dose of primal fear, finally settled on a single, and very simple, and utterly, profoundly, and almost childishly, human thought.

The thought was: I want to see what he does next.

Chapter : 1270

The fear was still there. The awe was still there. But beneath it all, a new, and far more powerful, emotion was taking root. A feeling of profound, and deeply, and almost addictively, fascinating curiosity.

This man was a walking, talking, and deeply, profoundly, and infuriatingly, handsome violation of the fundamental laws of her world.

And she was, she realized with a dawning, and very dangerous, certainty, utterly, and completely, captivated. The game was no longer a game. It had become an obsession. And she was more determined than ever to solve the beautiful, terrible, and utterly magnificent puzzle that was Lloyd Ferrum.

Isabella's mind, a battlefield of conflicting, and deeply inconvenient, emotions, finally settled on a course of action. She was a princess, and her first duty was to the Crown. And the Crown had just been the target of a direct, and very nearly successful, assassination attempt.

Her personal, and very complicated, feelings about the man standing before her were a secondary, and for the moment, irrelevant, concern.

She drew herself up, her posture once again that of the commander of the Royal Lion Guard. "Lord Ferrum," she said, her voice now a cool, clipped, and utterly professional instrument. "You have just neutralized a significant threat to the royal family. On behalf of the Crown, you have my gratitude."

It was a formal, and very public, statement, delivered for the benefit of her own, now very attentive, Royal Guard.

"However," she continued, her gaze sharpening, "this incident has revealed a catastrophic failure in our own, established security protocols. An enemy force of this magnitude was able to penetrate the palace defenses and get within striking distance of the Crown Prince himself. This is an unacceptable failure. And as the commander of the Royal Guard, it is a failure for which I am ultimately responsible."

She was a queen, and she was, in a very public and very clever way, taking control of the narrative.

"I will be conducting a full, and very thorough, investigation," she declared. "And I will require your full and complete cooperation. You, and your… staff… will provide my investigators with a detailed, minute-by-minute account of the entire engagement. I will want to know everything. Your methods. Your intelligence sources. And the full, and I do mean full, extent of the abilities you have at your disposal."

It was a brilliant move. A perfect, and utterly unassailable, piece of political maneuvering. She had taken the chaotic, terrifying, and deeply secret event that had just occurred, and she had just, with a few, well-chosen words, placed it squarely, and very publicly, under her own, official jurisdiction.

She was not just a witness anymore. She was now the lead investigator. She had just, under the perfect, and unimpeachable, cover of her royal duty, given herself a license to dissect him, his secrets, and his entire, magnificent, and very hidden, world.

Lloyd looked at her, and for the first time that night, he allowed himself a small, genuine, and deeply, profoundly appreciative, smile.

She was good. She was very, very good.

He had expected her to be a problem. A complication. An emotional, and very volatile, variable. He had underestimated her. She was not a princess playing at being a soldier. She was a true, and very formidable, political player. A queen in her own right.

And in that moment, he felt not a sense of dread, but a flicker of a new, and very different, kind of respect. He had been looking for an equal, a mind that could keep up with his own, chaotic, and multi-layered games. And he had, in the most unexpected, and most infuriating, of places, just found one.

"Of course, Your Highness," he replied, his voice a smooth, silken river of perfect, and utterly insincere, cooperation. He gave her a deep, and very respectful, bow. "I, and my entire team, are at the Crown’s complete and utter disposal. We have nothing to hide."

The lie was so blatant, so audacious, and so beautifully delivered, that it was a work of art.

Isabella simply smiled, a slow, knowing, and deeply, profoundly satisfied smile. "I am so very glad to hear that, Lord Ferrum," she purred.

The battle for the garden was over. The interrogation was complete.

And a new, and far more interesting, and infinitely more dangerous, war—a war of intelligence, of secrets, of two brilliant, terrible, and now deeply, mutually appreciative, minds—had just officially, and very publicly, been declared. The game was afoot. And for the first time, Lloyd had the distinct, and very unsettling, feeling that he might have finally, and truly, met his match.