Chapter : 1297

"Jasmin," he said. His voice was quiet and gentle. "You look beautiful tonight."

She turned a very deep red color that looked almost painful. "My lord… I… thank you."

"But you look like you are working," he said, his eyes kind. "And tonight, you are not working. Tonight, you are my guest."

Before she could understand his words, and before she could say it was not her place, he held out his hand. "May I have this dance?"

The question stayed in the air. It felt beautiful, impossible, and like it could change the world. For Jasmin, a girl who came from a butcher's shop, a simple handmaiden who had always served others in the background, the heir of a great family was asking her to dance. In front of everybody.

Her eyes, which were usually looking down, now looked up to meet his. They were shining with a light that was so pure and so full of happy surprise that it felt like a blow to his heart. She put her small, shaking hand into his.

"Yes, my lord," she whispered. "It would be my honor."

He led her to the dance floor. A new set of whispers went through the ballroom. This time, people were shocked and could not believe what they were seeing. He did not care.

Their dance was not a fight or a deal. It was simple, quiet, and very gentle. He was not the smart planner or the scary warrior. He was just Lloyd, and she was just Jasmin.

"Are you enjoying the party?" he asked her.

"It is… very big, my lord," she answered, her voice still shaking a little.

"But are you enjoying it?" he asked again in a gentle way.

She was quiet for a moment. "I am happy to see you being celebrated so much, my lord," she finally said. "You deserve it."

Her simple and unselfish honesty was very different from the difficult conversations he had all night, where everyone wanted something. He realized this was real. This quiet, strong loyalty was the real treasure he had.

When the music stopped, he gave her a formal bow. "Thank you, Jasmin. For everything."

He walked with her back to the side of the dance floor. He left her there with a confused, happy smile on her face. He had given her a magical moment that should have been impossible. By doing that, he had found a moment of quiet, human peace for himself. But his work was not finished. He then looked at another forgotten person, another soul standing alone in the shadows. It was Airin. He knew this next dance would be much more dangerous.

Walking up to Airin was like walking into a dangerous field of traps he had set himself. She stood near a pillar, looking like someone who felt out of place. Her school uniform made her look different from everyone in their fancy court clothes. She was trying to be invisible, looking hard at a painting on the wall. But he could see she was tense. She was like a scared deer in a forest full of wolves.

He knew his being there made things complicated for her. He was the man who carried the face of her dead look-alike in his heart. He was the professor who had both scared her and protected her. He was a man with great power and deep, personal pain. Every time they talked, the ghost of Anastasia was between them.

He decided to take a risk. He walked toward her slowly, so he would not seem threatening. "Scholar Airin," he said, his voice calm and professional.

She jumped, surprised. Her eyes were wide with a fear he had seen before. "Professor Ferrum," she said quickly, and she bent down in a deep, respectful bow.

"Please," he said gently. "Tonight, I am not your professor. And you are not just a scholar. You are a guest." He stopped for a moment to find his courage. "And it is bad manners to let a guest stand alone all evening." He held out his hand. The move was formal, respectful, and very scary for both of them. "One dance. As a thank you for your hard work on the decorations."

He had given her a perfect, professional reason to say no. It was not a personal request. It was a polite duty between a boss and his assistant. He expected her to refuse and make an excuse about her low position.

He was very surprised when, after a second of tense quiet, she put her hand in his. Her touch was light, unsure, and cool. "Alright," she whispered.

Chapter : 1298

Their dance was extremely and gently awkward. They were two people pretending to be something they were not. He was pretending to be just a polite lord. She was pretending not to be scared of the ghost she saw in his eyes. They moved with a stiff grace, keeping a careful foot of space between them.

"Your work on the main archway was excellent," he said. His voice was formal and encouraging, like a teacher. "You have a great sense of balance and color."

"Thank you, Professor," she replied, looking at his shoulder instead of his eyes.

The silence that followed was full of things they were not saying. He wanted to ask her if she was happy and if she was safe. He wanted to know if the other students were still bothering her. He wanted to say sorry again for the pain he had caused her. But he could not. He was like a walking wound, and to talk about it would be like bleeding on her.

As the dance thankfully came to an end, he gave her a formal bow. "Thank you, Scholar Airin."

She bowed in return. "Thank you, my lord." And then she was gone. She hurried back to the safety of the shadows. He was left with the light, clean smell of lavender and the deep ache for a love he could never have.

He was turning to leave himself when someone stopped him one last time. It was Annalisa, the powerful Head Maid. Her face, which was usually serious, looked softer because of the party. She looked wonderful in a simple but nice formal dress of deep blue.

"My lord," she said. Her voice had the sharp, professional respect she always showed him now. She gave him a low, formal bow. "If I can be so bold. For your leadership, and for the honor you have shown our staff… it would be my honor." She was asking him to dance.

Lloyd, who a moment ago had felt completely tired, found himself smiling a real, weary smile. Annalisa was not a princess or a ghost. She was a soldier. And he knew how to talk to soldiers.

"The honor is mine, Head Maid," he replied, and he took her hand.

Their dance was a waltz of quiet, professional respect. It was a soldier's dance, exact and skilled. They did not talk about feelings or politics. They talked about plans, about security guards, and about how perfectly their shared mission was going.

"The south side of the building is secure," she reported in a low voice. "My agents have not seen anything unusual."

"And the kitchens?" he asked, as he led her in a smooth, easy turn.

"Guarded three times," she confirmed. "Every ingredient has been checked. The risk of poison is zero."

They were like two commanders checking on their battlefield. Their conversation was a secret, skilled exchange of information. It was all hidden under the beautiful, fancy cover of a court dance.

As the last notes of the music faded, he gave her a sharp, respectful bow. She returned it with a nod. "A perfect operation, my lord," she said.

"Thanks to a perfect second-in-command," he replied.

He finally went back to his pillar, this time with a glass of strong, northern beer in his hand. He leaned back. The cool stone felt good on his tired back, and he looked at the room. He had danced with a devil, a lion, a dragon, a volcano, a loyal soldier, a ghost, and an angel. He had been threatened, questioned, celebrated, and corrected. He was a man drowning in a sea of beautiful, dangerous, and amazing duties.

And as he took a long, slow drink of his beer, a slow, real, and very amused smile appeared on his face. For the first time in a very, very long time, he was starting to enjoy it. The war could wait until the morning. Tonight, he had survived.

The huge ballroom of the Royal Palace felt less like a room and more like a living thing filled with power. Light from a thousand magic crystals fell down on the crowd. Each crystal was like a tiny star caught in a perfect diamond. This light shined on the swirling colors of silk and velvet dresses. The air was thick with the smells of flowers, expensive perfumes, and spiced wine served by quiet servants. The Royal Orchestra played on a high, golden balcony. The beautiful waltz they played was like the heartbeat of the room. It was both a celebration and a dare. Every quiet conversation was a business deal. Every look shared between people was a negotiation. This was not a party. It was a battlefield that was disguised to look like heaven.