He adjusted the cuff of his tunic, the fabric pristine, untouched. He stepped carefully around the moaning figure closest to him, avoiding a patch of something unpleasant on the ground. His face remained a mask of calm indifference.
Without a backward glance, without uttering another word, Lloyd Ferrum continued his walk down the alley, leaving the symphony of suffering behind him. The sounds faded as he turned the next corner, rejoining the flow of the city as if nothing had happened.
He knew Ken had witnessed it all. Every detail. Every scream. Every flicker of heat. Let him report it. Let his father analyze this data point. Let them understand that the 'drab duckling', the 'mediocre heir', possessed teeth, and fire, and the utter ruthlessness to use them when provoked. Some lessons weren't learned from books. Some required a more visceral, more permanent form of instruction.
The afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of the Ferrum Estate, casting long shadows across the polished marble floors as Lloyd walked back from Master Elmsworth's lecture hall. The drone of logistical theory still echoed faintly in his ears, overlaid by the much sharper, much more recent memory of searing flesh and agonized screams in a dingy alleyway. He felt strangely calm, the cold precision of the morning's encounter having settled into a grim sort of satisfaction. A necessary lesson delivered. Point made. Consequences established.
He hadn't felt Ken Park's hidden presence shift or react during the incident, only the steady, unwavering observation. The report would already be on his father's desk, no doubt. Lloyd braced himself for the inevitable summons, the questions, the potential disapproval of his methods. He had acted decisively, perhaps brutally, but he felt no regret. Some weeds needed to be burned out at the root.
As he crossed the grand entrance hall, a young maid scurried towards him, her face pale, eyes wide with nervousness. She executed a hasty curtsy, nearly tripping over her own feet.
"Young Lord Ferrum," she stammered, avoiding his gaze. "The Arch Duke… his lordship… requests your immediate presence in his study."
Showtime, Lloyd thought wryly, maintaining a neutral expression. "Thank you, Elina. Lead the way."
The walk to his father's study felt longer than usual, the heavy silence punctuated only by the soft patter of the maid's slippers and the distant, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. The air itself seemed charged, expectant.
The maid knocked softly on the heavy oak door, announced his arrival in a trembling voice, and practically fled as Roy Ferrum's curt "Enter" echoed from within. Lloyd pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The study was exactly as he expected: imposing, orderly, dominated by the massive mahogany desk behind which his father sat, ramrod straight, face an unreadable mask of stern authority. Documents were neatly stacked, the quill resting precisely in its inkwell. But Roy wasn't alone.
Standing before the desk, facing Roy but half-turned towards the door as Lloyd entered, was another man. Tall, impeccably dressed in expensive silks that subtly emphasized his status, with silver beginning to touch his dark hair at the temples. He possessed the characteristic sharp features of the Ferrum line, but his eyes held a shrewdness, a calculating glint that Roy's direct gaze lacked. His smile, directed towards Lloyd as he entered, was smooth, practiced, yet failed to reach those observant eyes.
Viscount Rubel Ferrum. Lloyd's uncle. Head of the most powerful cadet branch of the family.
The moment Lloyd saw him, a cold, visceral anger surged through him, so potent it was almost physically sickening. It wasn't just the memory of the man's smooth usurpation of power after the assassination in his first life; it was the ingrained, instinctive loathing, the gut-deep certainty that this man was the source of the rot, one of the architects of his family's demise. Seeing him standing here, now, in his father's study, radiating polite deference while calculation glittered beneath… it took every ounce of Lloyd's hard-won control not to summon a white-hot filament of steel and sear that counterfeit smile right off his face.
He forced the rage down, locking it behind a carefully constructed wall of polite indifference. He inclined his head slightly. "Father. Uncle Rubel." His voice was steady, betraying none of the tempest raging within.
Roy Ferrum acknowledged him with a curt nod, his expression unreadable but stern. "Lloyd. Be seated." He gestured towards a heavy chair positioned directly opposite the desk, placing Lloyd under the combined scrutiny of both men.
Rubel Ferrum offered another smooth smile. "Nephew. Good to see you looking well." The pleasantry felt like a barb coated in honey.
Lloyd settled into the chair, meeting his father's intense gaze. "You summoned me, Father?"