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.

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  "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.

  Chapter : 1299

  Lloyd Ferrum felt like a ghost at his own victory party. He leaned against a marble pillar. The cool stone felt good and helped him stay grounded in the overwhelming room. The northern beer in his cup had become warm, but he did not notice. His mind was like a cold, logical machine. He was a soldier and an engineer. He was thinking about his next move. He ran through the plan a hundred times, thinking about all the bad things that could happen. He was preparing for the problems that would surely come. He had danced with a devil, argued with princesses, and shown everyone a miracle. Now, for the last part of the night, he had to perform an execution. It was something he had to do for his strategy. It was like a difficult surgery he had to perform to cut off a connection that was becoming a huge problem. It was time to deal with the Siddiks.

  He looked across the room and found them easily. They were like a piece of the cold, practical South in the middle of the warm, lively Northern court. Viscount Jason Siddik stood very straight, like a man who only saw the world in terms of profit and loss. His eyes were not looking at the beauty of the room. He was judging the value of every person, every jewel, and every friendship. Next to him, his son Yacob was full of excited energy. The boy’s eyes were wide with wonder and excitement. He kept looking at Lloyd with admiration. This hero-worship was sweet but also made Lloyd uncomfortable.

  Mina looked calm and capable. She wore a deep green dress that went well with her red hair. She moved with a quiet grace, watching everything. She was a political person, just like her mother. But under her calm appearance, Lloyd could feel a restless energy. Her mind was always working, studying, and asking questions. He had seen the shock in her eyes when they danced. He saw the chaos he had caused with his crazy and unforgivable suggestion. Her calm look was a beautiful lie, like a strong castle hiding a war inside.

  And then, his eyes landed on Rosa.

  She was so beautiful it was heartbreaking. Her silver hair seemed to soak up the crystal light. This gave her a magical glow, like she was from another world. Her dress was the color of the sky at dusk. It flowed down in a perfect line, like a river of dark silk. She looked like a statue, a perfect, magnificent sculpture of a winter queen. But he had been to the mountain with her. He had seen the fire that burned under the ice. He knew the statue was really a prison.

  And tonight, for the first time, he saw the prisoner looking out from inside.

  Behind her calm and unreadable mask, her eyes had a new, delicate, and very scary light. It flickered with every beat of the music. It was like a tiny, desperate flame in the middle of a snowstorm. It was hope. He had given her that hope. He had walked through hell, faced a god on a mountain, and poured his own soul into hers to heal her broken spirit. With his own hands, he had lit that candle in the darkness of her world.

  And now, he had to put it out.

  The thought felt like a cold, hard knot in his stomach. This was not a simple political move. This was a cruel act. But it was a necessary one. He was a man trapped between two lives, haunted by a ghost he could not get rid of. He was engaged to a foreign princess in a magic contract he could not break. His life was a tangled, chaotic mess. He could not and would not pull Rosa deeper into it. To give her hope now would be to promise a future he could not provide. It would be a lie that was much crueler than a quick, clean break.

  He put his empty cup on a passing servant’s tray. The small, sharp sound of metal on silver was like a bell signaling the final fight. He pushed himself off the pillar and began to walk.

  His movement caused a ripple that spread through the whole ballroom. The low sound of conversations did not just get quieter; it stopped completely. The music seemed to fade away, becoming a distant echo. A thousand eyes, filled with fear, respect, and a hungry curiosity, turned to watch him. The Lion of the North, the White Mask, the Saint, the man who had become a living legend in just a few short months, was moving. And he was walking in a straight, determined line toward the Ice Queen of the South.

  Chapter : 1300

  A path opened up in front of him. The nobles, who had sharp instincts for power and drama, moved aside like the sea splitting for a prophet. They knew something huge and world-changing was about to happen, and they were not going to miss it.

  Rosa saw him coming. For one amazing moment, the Ice Queen’s mask broke completely. The hope in her eyes grew brighter, no longer a candle but a huge fire. A light, beautiful blush colored her pale cheeks. She stood up straighter, not stiffly like a statue, but with the proud, confident grace of a queen about to welcome her king. Her hand, covered in a pure white glove, made a small, barely noticeable movement of hope, as if her fingers were uncurling to take his hand.

  Lloyd’s eyes met hers across the suddenly large, empty space of the dance floor. He saw everything in that one, long second. The hope. The fear. The lifetime of wanting. The fragile, scary, and beautiful promise of a new start. A whole world of what could be was in that single look.

  And then, with a cold and careful precision that was the cruelest thing he had ever done, he looked away.

  He did not slow down. He did not pause. He walked right past her.

  The entire ballroom gasped together in silence. It was a physical feeling, a sudden emptiness that seemed to pull the air out of the room. He walked past the woman who was his wife, the woman who had fought by his side, the woman whose soul he had held in his hands, as if she were a pillar, a flower decoration, a stranger he had never seen before.

  The act was a public execution. It was a declaration of war and a peace treaty at the same time. It was the final, brutal, and unforgivable cut.

  He stopped in front of her sister.

  He ignored the shocked, horrified look on Mina’s face. He ignored the way her eyes quickly looked at her broken sister. He ignored the storm of feelings coming from her—anger, pity, confusion. He only saw the ghost, the woman from his past whose face she had. And to that ghost, he made his last, desperate request.

  He gave Mina a low, formal, and painfully respectful bow, like a courtier bowing to a queen.

  "Lady Mina," he said. His voice was quiet, gentle, and firm. It carried perfectly through the dead, silent hall. "You look magnificent tonight. May I have this dance?"

  The world held its breath. Mina was trapped. If she refused, it would make the public shame worse. It would create a huge political problem. If she accepted, it would be like twisting the knife in her sister's heart.

  Her eyes, filled with a deep, unspoken sadness, met Lloyd's. She did not see an arrogant lord. She saw the haunted, lonely man from the balcony, the man with the soul of a poet. And in that moment, she understood. This was not an act of pride. This was an act of desperate, sad self-destruction.

  With a grace that showed the strong will of her family, she placed her hand in his. "It would be my honor, Lord Ferrum," she replied. Her voice was a perfect, steady whisper that showed none of the destruction happening in her soul.

  He led her onto the floor, and the great, beautiful, and terrible lie began.

  After a moment of shocked silence, the orchestra began to play. It was a waltz. The music was slow, sad, and beautiful in a heartbreaking way. It was as if the orchestra leader understood how serious and tragic the moment was. Lloyd and Mina moved together. Their steps were a perfect, practiced match that was a terrible mockery of the conflict in their hearts. They were the only couple on the huge, polished floor. They were the only actors in a play being watched by a thousand silent judges.

  Mina felt like she was moving through a dream, a beautiful and terrible nightmare she could not wake up from. The man holding her was a contradiction. He was the hero who had saved her family, the brilliant inventor who was changing their world, and the cold-hearted killer who had just murdered her sister’s soul with a single, brutal act. He was a saint and a monster, a king and a fool. And he was holding her with a gentleness that was painful.

  "I am sorry," he whispered. His voice was a low, rough sound against the music of the violins. It was only for her to hear, a confession in a crowded room. "For the… show. It was the only way. A clean cut. To end the false hope."