The walk back from Rosa's room felt longer, somehow heavier, than the journey there. Each step on the plush runner seemed to echo the crashing sound of the bisected cabinet, a sound that reverberated more in his memory than it had in the opulent room. Lloyd moved with a measured calm he didn't entirely feel, a carefully constructed facade hiding the swirling vortex within. The ghost of Rosa's shocked expression – that precious, unprecedented crack in her glacial composure – was a vivid imprint behind his eyelids, a small, hard kernel of grim satisfaction.
Take that, Ice Princess, a surprisingly vicious part of his eighty-year-old psyche snarled internally. Not so easy to dismiss the 'unworthy' husband now, are you?
But the triumph warred with the lingering adrenaline buzz, the phantom ache in his knee where the Spirit Pressure had forced him down, and the profound, soul-deep weariness that came from wielding memories far heavier than his nineteen-year-old frame was truly built for. It was like running advanced astrophysics simulations on a pocket calculator – possible, maybe, but prone to overheating and likely to shorten the device's lifespan considerably.
He bypassed the echoing grandeur of the main halls, instinctively seeking the relative quiet, the green solace, of the gardens once more. Sunlight streamed through the tall arched windows, illuminating dust motes dancing like tiny, indifferent sprites. He ignored the stern gazes of ancestral portraits; Great-Uncle Theron the Belligerent seemed particularly disapproving today, possibly offended by the cavalier destruction of expensive furniture. Sorry, Theron, Lloyd thought wryly, needs must when the wife tries to metaphysically flatten you.
He needed space. Space to think, to process the raw intensity of the confrontation. Space to reconcile the ghost of the man he had become in those three brutal years of his first life – the calculating, hidden predator forged in grief and necessity – with the awkward, seemingly average youth he currently inhabited. That hidden power, the true Ferrum legacy of Steel and Fire, felt like a coiled serpent nestled deep within him. It was awake now, tested, responsive. Potent, deadly, yes… but demanding a level of control, a finesse, he hadn't yet fully re-established in this reset timeline. Slicing a cabinet was one thing; threading a needle-fine wire of incandescent death required focus he wasn't sure he could consistently maintain just yet.
The memory surged again, sharp and unwanted, triggered by the effortless demonstration he'd just performed, the faint metallic tang still lingering in his senses. Those three years… Gods, they felt like thirty. They hadn't been years of quiet mourning or careful administration under the guidance of experienced advisors, like some noble fantasy novel. Oh no. Reality had been far crueler, far swifter.
(Flashback - The Immediate Aftermath)
The moment Arch Duke Roy Ferrum, his sharp-witted wife Milody Austin, and their vibrant, promising daughter Jothi were confirmed dead – victims of a swift, brutal, inside attack within their own supposedly secure estate – the vultures had descended. Not with wings and talons, but with silk robes and honeyed words laced with poison.
His uncle, Marcus Ferrum. Head of the most powerful branch family. A man whose ambition had always radiated just beneath his polished veneer of familial courtesy like heat off summer asphalt. He'd moved with ruthless, chilling efficiency.
"My poor nephew," Marcus had declared, his voice resonating with false sympathy in the hastily convened family council, his eyes sweeping over the stunned, grieving nineteen-year-old Lloyd. "So young, so unprepared for this immense burden. He needs time to grieve, to learn. The Duchy, however, cannot wait."
Lloyd remembered standing there, numb, shattered, the world tilted on its axis. His uncle's words washed over him, meaningless static compared to the roaring silence left by his family's absence.
"For the stability of our house, for the good of the realm," Marcus continued, his gaze hardening as he addressed the other assembled nobles, "I will serve as Regent. I will guide young Lloyd, protect our interests, until he is ready."
Ready. The word was a joke. Marcus never intended for Lloyd to be 'ready'. He'd been sidelined, isolated within his own home, his access restricted, his loyal retainers systematically replaced or reassigned. A figurehead. A puppet waiting for his strings to be cut. Whispers filled the court – 'It's for the best,' 'Marcus is strong,' 'Lloyd was never suited,' 'A weak heir in these times…' Lloyd suspected darker motives, seeing the faint smirk playing on his uncle's lips when he thought no one was looking, wondering about the assassins who had so conveniently, so cleanly, eliminated the direct line above him.
(End Flashback)