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."