Clint entered the Felps mansion with the same cold gaze as always.
The guard accompanying him didn't utter a single word, simply leading the way with firm steps over the dark marble of the main hallway. It was a mansion that didn't need to shout power, it whispered wealth with elegance.
They walked only a few minutes before stopping in front of a sturdy door carved with exquisite craftsmanship. Unlike the austerity of the Ravenhart mansion or the pragmatic architecture of the academy, this door was a work of art, engraved with ancient symbols of nobility and floral crowns.
It stood slightly ajar, as if awaiting his arrival.
Clint stepped inside, and before he could even announce himself, a calm yet firm voice greeted him.
"I've been expecting you. Thought you might not come."
The voice was calm, almost gentle, but carried an authority reminiscent of Duke Leonard, though less tempestuous. It was James Felps, the Marquess without territory, yet with more political influence than most land-holding nobles.
"Apologies for the delay," Clint replied without hesitation. "I had a few things to take care of first."
"No need to worry. Let's not dwell on details. Now that you're here, I'd like to get to know you better. I want to understand what Leonard and Darius saw in you."
He stood up with a faint smile.
"They've told me part of your story, but I want to hear it from you. Do you mind?"
"I don't."
With cold precision, Clint narrated his tale. From the moment he could remember being in the alleys of Kassel, to the day he met Leonard. The training under Darius. Saving Gareth. Elara's false motherhood. The ball. And finally… the blood that marked his debut in noble society.
James listened in complete silence, not interrupting even once. Only after Clint's final words did he move, picking up two crystal glasses and a bottle of wine with a deep ruby hue.
"Do you know what wine this is, Clint?" he asked while pouring. "It only exists in the Northernmost Realms. This particular bottle has been in my family for over five hundred years, passed down from generation to generation. I've saved it for a special moment. And I believe… this is one of them."
"Are you sure you want to waste something so valuable on me?" Clint asked, with a hint of sarcasm held back out of respect.
James smiled but gave no reply. He simply raised his glass.
"To your future, Clint Ravenhart. May it be a promising one."
Clint raised his own glass and toasted.
The wine was dense, bitter, and unforgettable.
Then, as if peeling off the mask of polite conversation, Clint asked:
"What exactly are you aiming for with all this talk?"
The marquess set down his glass and looked him directly in the eyes.
"What do you think of Kamira's monarchy and nobility?"
Clint understood, it was a test. But of what? Loyalty to the king? To the nation? Or something darker?
He paused for a moment and chose the answer that would keep every door open.
"Our king is wise and rules with strength," he said with a respectful, yet cold tone. "But the nobility… has many cracks. It lacks merit. It lacks control. Perhaps that can change, but not overnight."
He finished with a subtle smile.
"But we can discuss this further another time. I still have matters to handle tonight."
James stared at him for a long moment, thinking:
"What an impressive young man… barely on the board, and already knows how to move."
"Impressive, boy. You can trust me. But let's save that conversation for another day. I don't intend to keep you."
Clint stood, thanked him for the hospitality, bowed as etiquette demanded, and left with the same elegance he entered.
As the door closed behind him, one of the butlers nearby stepped forward.
James looked at him with a cold, calculating gaze.
"Watch that boy's every move. Every action, word, or silence. I want a daily report. I feel he'll be essential to Leonard's plans..."
---
The carriage provided by James Felps was made of noble wood, upholstered in leather, with silver crests adorning the details.
Emylle sat silently beside Clint, as usual.
By the time they returned to the academy, the sun was already dipping below the horizon. The gates opened, and night slowly fell over the stone courtyards.
Clint stepped down and headed straight to the dining hall, where he found Alucard seated at a first-floor table.
"You took your time," Alucard said with a smile. "Did you manage to find James Felps?"
"Yes. Thanks for the information."
"Are you free tomorrow? I'd like to introduce you to someone."
"I'll be available," Clint replied without hesitation.
After a quick meal on the first floor, the three of them returned to the dormitories.
Minutes later, a sound broke the silence.
KNOOK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
Clint turned.
"Emylle, answer the door."
The maid obeyed immediately.
And there she was.
Iris of Kamira.
She wore a crimson silk dress that clung to her body like a second skin. A side slit revealed her leg up to the hip, and the neckline framed her porcelain skin with audacious sensuality. Her loose hair fell in waves down her back, and her golden eyes sparkled with mischief.
"Strange to summon a maiden to your room at night… I hope you won't disappoint me, Clint Ravenhart," she said with a smile.
She looked at Emylle as if seeing an insect and, with a sweet voice, struck:
"What are you still doing here? Get out of my sight. I don't want anything ruining my night."
Emylle hesitated. She looked to Clint.
He didn't show any expression, just nodded.
Without a word, the maid left, closing the door behind her.
---
Iris moved forward with the grace of a cat. Without a word, she sat beside Clint and, with an innocent gesture, let one strap of her dress slip, revealing her bare shoulder.
The scarlet fabric slid down slowly, as if the silk itself bowed to her desire.
Her fingers touched Clint's chest softly, and then she leaned in, her lips brushing his in a slow, hot kiss, sweet and poisonous.
Clint inhaled the intoxicating scent from her hair, the smoothness of her skin against his hand, the heat of her body pressing into his.
For a moment, his instincts took over.
The kiss deepened.
Clint's hands slid along her waist, up her bare back.
Iris moaned softly against his lips, teasing and surrendering.
He gently pushed her back onto the bed. The dress clung to her body like a forbidden whisper. Her skin was warm. Alive. His hands roamed the curves of her perfect figure, waist, hips, thighs.
For a moment, he almost forgot why he had called her there.
Almost.
With sudden coldness, Clint pushed her body away as if a spell had been broken.
His gaze was icy. Relentless.
He calmly stood up, adjusted his wrinkled shirt, and looked at her as if the previous scene had never happened.
Then, with a voice firm and void of emotion, he declared:
"I don't have time to play prince charming with you. Spare me the games... and tell me what you really want."