Chapter : 1285

“Do not react,” she whispered. Her voice was a soft, smooth, and now slightly unneeded warning. “Do not make a sound. Do not even think of calling for your little army of trained servants. I promise you, they are quite busy… at the moment.”

Lloyd’s own internal senses confirmed her words. He could feel a subtle change in the energy of the hall that was almost impossible to notice. A dozen of his best ghost brigade soldiers, the ones assigned to protect him personally, were… gone. Not dead. Not fighting. They were simply… not there. They had been silently and very skillfully removed from the game. They were neutralized by a force so subtle and so skilled that it had not even caused a disturbance in the room’s security.

This was not a direct attack. This was a precise strike, a masterpiece of quiet entry and distraction. And he was the target.

“My mistress,” the woman continued, her voice a low, personal purr, “is a great admirer of your work, Lord Ferrum. She is a true expert on chaos. The little… dramas… you have created. Your uncle’s fall. The miracle at Zakaria. The beautiful, quiet, and very professional cleaning of this garden. She has been watching you. And she is impressed. She sees you as a fellow artist. A man with a vision.”

She was not just a princess of Hell. She was an ambassador. A recruiter.

“She has sent me with a message,” she whispered. Her look was now direct and very serious. “An invitation. She believes that you are on the wrong side of history. She thinks you are a magnificent, beautiful, and very sharp sword, but you are being used by a very clumsy and very boring hand. She believes that your talents are being… wasted.”

She took a step closer. The scent of night-jasmine and sulfur was now a thick, powerful cloud around him. “She believes,” she finished, her voice a final, smooth, and beautifully tempting promise, “that you belong with us.”

It was the offer. The one he had been half-expecting ever since he first heard of the Seventh Circle. The temptation. The offer to join the winning side.

Lloyd just looked at her. He looked at this magnificent, terrible, and breathtakingly beautiful serpent, who was offering him a bite of the apple.

And he smiled. It was a real, warm, and deeply, almost comically, and completely final smile that came from every part of his being and from the bottom of his very tired, two-lifetimes-old soul…

He smiled.

“No, thank you,” he said. His voice was polite and very final.

The silence after Lloyd's polite and completely final refusal was a strange and very interesting thing.

The woman, the messenger of a goddess from the Abyss, a being of ancient power and skill, just stared at him. Her own perfect, predatory smile was frozen on her face. Her amazing, ancient, and very smart mind, for the first time in what was probably a very long time, had no idea what to do next.

She had expected him to argue. To debate. To make demands. To threaten. To negotiate. She had a thousand different, elegant, and very convincing responses ready for a thousand different, predictable reactions.

She had not, in any of her most detailed and clever plans, prepared for a simple, polite, and almost laughably personal and infuriatingly magnificent…

No.

It was not a move in their game. It was a refusal to even play the game. It was as if she, a grandmaster of a huge, cosmic chess game, had made her first, brilliant, and devastating opening move, only for her opponent to look at the board, smile politely, and then suggest they play a nice game of cards instead.

And then, she did the only thing she could do. She laughed.

It was not a mean laugh. It was not a victorious laugh. It was a genuine, beautiful, and shockingly human sound. It was a sound of pure, simple, and deeply thankful delight.

“Oh, you are good,” she said. Her voice was warm and real. The smooth, demonic purr was gone, replaced by a genuine and very dangerous admiration. “You are very, very good. My mistress was right. You are an artist.”

She had not lost. She had simply been… surprised. And for a being who had seen everything, who had played every game, and who had grown bored with the predictable plans of mortals and gods, a real surprise was the most valuable and exciting gift of all.

She looked at him, and her melted gold eyes, those pools of ancient, evil intelligence, now held a new and very different light. It was a light of a genuine, very dangerous, and deeply personal interest.

Chapter : 1286

The game of recruiting him was over. A new and much more interesting game had just started.

She elegantly held out her hand with a beautiful, dramatic gesture. It was a thin, pale, and perfectly cared-for hand. Her nails were painted a deep, dark red that was the exact same color as her dress.

"The music has started again," she said. Her voice was once again a low and very tempting purr. And it was true. The magical music-box on the stage, as if it knew, had started to play a new song. It was a slow, elegant, and very beautiful waltz. "And it would be a shame to waste it on just politics, don't you think?"

Her melted gold eyes locked onto his. In their depths, he saw a silent, very clear, and magnificent challenge that could not be denied. "I want to dance," she said. The words were not a request, but a quiet and very clear command.

Lloyd looked at her outstretched hand. He looked at her beautiful, terrible, and now completely captivating and almost divinely interesting face.

His mind, the cold, logical, and brutally efficient commander that lived in his head, was screaming at him. It was a frantic, flashing list of warnings. She is an enemy. She is a top-level threat, or something terrifyingly close to it. Being near her is a major security risk. Her every move is a test, her every word a probe. This is a trap. This is a test. This is an assassination attempt hidden as a social custom. Abort. Abort. ABORT.

And for the second time that night, Lloyd Ferrum told the very sensible and very boring commander in his head to be quiet.

The artist, the showman, the part of him that appreciated a truly magnificent and deeply dangerous move on the great cosmic chessboard, was now in charge. This was the part that had survived two lifetimes and had grown a little bit bored with predictable things.

He had no choice but to accept. To refuse would show weakness, a sign that he was afraid. And he was not afraid. He was… curious. Deeply, profoundly, and perhaps, very, very foolishly, curious.

He took her hand. Her skin was not cold, as he had expected from a creature of the Abyss. It was warm. A living, energetic, and very human warmth.

“It would be my pleasure,” he said. His voice was a smooth, silken, and magnificently, and probably very foolishly, and almost certainly suicidally final sound. With a deep and almost joyful feeling, he said, “My lady.”

They moved together to the edge of the grand, crowded dance floor. They were like a dark, beautiful, and very dangerous island in the sparkling, chaotic sea of the royal court. They did not speak. They did not need to. Their conversation was no longer happening with words.

They began to waltz.

It was a perfect, and absolutely, and magnificently, and beautifully, and terrifyingly…

It was a perfect dance.

He was a lord of the North, a quiet, hidden king of shadows and steel.

And he was dancing with a queen of Hell.

And her every movement was a threat. Her every smile was a promise. Her every touch was a question.

And this silent, beautiful, and utterly deadly declaration of war was a piece of pure and very dangerous art. The game had begun. And it was a waltz.

The Royal Ballroom was its own little world. It was a swirling galaxy of silk dresses, sparkling jewels, and whispered plans. A hundred thousand magic crystals hung from the high ceiling like a captured group of stars. They cast a soft, dreamlike light over the nobles who had gathered. The air was thick with the smell of expensive perfumes and rich, spiced wine. It buzzed with the low rumble of a hundred conversations, all happening over the magnificent, soaring music of the Royal Orchestra. It was a perfect picture of peace, wealth, and power—a beautiful, delicate lie.

From her spot near a row of white marble columns, Princess Amina watched the scene. She had the cool, calculating look of a chess master studying the board. Every bow, every shared look, every small change in the groups of gossiping nobles was a move in a game she had learned before she could even walk. She held a glass of champagne, watching the bubbles rise in a slow, elegant line, but her mind was on something else. Her eyes were fixed on one single, frustratingly interesting spot in the middle of the room.

Lloyd Ferrum was dancing. And he was dancing with a ghost.