Chapter : 161
She paused at the foot of the stairs, turning towards him. Her face, so achingly familiar, yet subtly different from the Jothi he remembered from his Earth-life memories of her childhood, was a perfect oval, her dark eyes, so like their father's, holding a spark of intelligence and a hint of that fierce Ferrum spirit. But as they settled on him, the spark seemed to dim slightly, replaced by a cool, almost guarded, neutrality.
"Brother," she acknowledged, her voice polite, perfectly modulated, yet carrying an unmistakable edge of something that felt like… impatience? Or perhaps just weary resignation. "You called?" There was a subtle emphasis on the 'you', as if his addressing her directly was an unexpected, perhaps even slightly unwelcome, event. The rudeness, though veiled in aristocratic courtesy, was palpable, a tiny, sharp icicle pricking at the eighty-three years of missed connection.
Lloyd felt a familiar ache, the ghost of old insecurities, but the eighty-year-old survivor within him pushed it aside. He couldn’t let her current teenage coolness, however much it stung, deter him. This was Jothi. His sister. Alive. Here. Not a fading memory, not a name etched on a memorial stone as she had become so tragically, so violently, in his first life’s brutal aftermath.
"I did," he replied, forcing a warmth he didn't entirely feel reciprocated into his tone, deliberately ignoring the subtle barb. He walked towards her, stopping a respectful distance away. He offered a small, tentative smile. "It’s… it’s good to see you, Jothi. It feels like… it’s been a while since we properly spoke." Understatement of several lifetimes, his internal monologue quipped dryly.
Jothi’s perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched slightly, a gesture so reminiscent of Rosa it was almost comical. "Has it, Brother?" she inquired, her tone flat, implying his perception of 'a while' might differ significantly from hers. "We last spoke at your wedding reception, did we not? A mere fortnight past. You inquired as to my comfort after the journey from Bathelham, and I believe I offered the customary congratulations. Standard pleasantries were exchanged." Her precision was almost surgical, designed, perhaps, to highlight the superficiality of their recent interactions.
Lloyd winced internally. Okay, so 'customary congratulations after a journey' doesn't count as 'properly speaking'. Fair enough. My bad. He pressed on, determined not to be derailed by her cool deflection. "Perhaps. But formal pleasantries are hardly a conversation." He tried again, shifting to safer, more neutral ground. "I just… I was wondering. How are you, Jothi? How are your studies progressing? At the Academy?"
He knew, from his first life, that Jothi had followed him to the prestigious Bathelham Royal Academy, the premier institution for noble scions in the Duchy, a place where academic rigor and martial prowess were equally valued. He also knew, with a fresh pang of shame that eighty years hadn't entirely erased, that his own tenure there had been… less than distinguished.
A flicker of genuine surprise, quickly masked, crossed Jothi’s face. Her dark eyes widened almost imperceptibly before her usual cool composure snapped back into place. "You… you are asking about my studies, Lloyd?" The question wasn't accusatory, but filled with a genuine, almost bewildered, curiosity. As if the concept of him expressing interest in her academic life was so alien, so unexpected, it required careful analysis. Subject Lloyd Ferrum exhibiting uncharacteristic fraternal concern. Data point anomalous. Requires further processing. He could almost hear her internal monologue, a disturbingly familiar echo of his wife’s. Were all the women in his life programmed with the same analytical, slightly disdainful operating system?
"Is that so surprising?" Lloyd asked, trying for a light, teasing tone, though the surprise in her eyes stung more than he cared to admit. "Am I not allowed to inquire after my own sister's well-being and academic endeavors?"
Jothi tilted her head, her gaze sharp, assessing. "It is… atypical," she stated finally, with the blunt honesty that was another Ferrum trait, albeit one usually wielded with more subtlety by their father. "Your usual inquiries, whenever you have graced the estate with your presence previously, tended to revolve more around the availability of Cook’s honey-glazed sausages or the precise location of your misplaced riding crop."
Ouch. Lloyd felt the barb land, a direct hit. So, that was his reputation, was it? The slightly dim, sausage-obsessed older brother with a penchant for losing things. Charming. He supposed, from her perspective, given his past lack of engagement, her assessment wasn't entirely unfair. He’d been a ghost in his own life, drifting, disconnected. Why should she expect anything different now?
He chose to ignore the jibe, focusing on the question. "Well, perhaps my interests are… broadening." He offered another small, hopeful smile. "So? The Academy? Are you finding it… stimulating? Challenging?"
Chapter : 162
Jothi’s expression shifted then. The cool neutrality, the faint surprise, coalesced into something else. Something harder. A flash of that fierce Ferrum pride, yes, but also something that looked disconcertingly like… contempt? Directed squarely at him.
She straightened to her full, surprisingly imposing, height, her chin lifting fractionally. "My studies at Bathelham, Brother," she replied, her voice losing its earlier, almost hesitant, curiosity, becoming crisp, precise, and undeniably cold, "are proceeding exceptionally well, thank you for your sudden, if rather belated, inquiry."
She paused, letting the implied rebuke hang in the air before delivering the final, devastating blow, her words sharp as honed steel, each one a perfectly aimed dart. "The… honor… that you so spectacularly managed to forfeit for the Ferrum name during your own rather brief and ignominious tenure at the Academy?" Her lip curled almost imperceptibly. "Rest assured, Lloyd. I have been diligently, and I might add, quite successfully, endeavoring to restore it. To demonstrate that not all of Arch Duke Roy Ferrum’s offspring are… disappointments."
The words, delivered with the cool, precise cruelty only a younger sibling truly secure in their own superiority can muster, struck Lloyd with the force of a physical blow. Disappointments. The word echoed in the sudden, ringing silence, a brutal, unvarnished assessment of his past self, a judgment he knew, deep down, he had probably deserved.
He remembered, with a fresh, vivid wave of shame that felt as raw as if it had happened yesterday, not eighty-three years ago. Bathelham. The hopes his father had placed in him. The tutors. The expectations. And his own… miserable failure. He hadn’t been stupid, not exactly. But he’d been unfocused, unmotivated, lost in a haze of adolescent awkwardness and a profound, gnawing sense of inadequacy. His Spirit Power had been weak, his Void control clumsy. He’d struggled with the complex theories of magic, found the martial drills exhausting and pointless. He hadn't been a troublemaker, just… mediocre. Average. A pale shadow against the brilliance of his peers, a constant, quiet embarrassment to the proud Ferrum name. He’d eventually, inevitably, been asked to… withdraw. Politely, of course. Nobles weren't ‘expelled’; they were 'encouraged to pursue alternative paths more suited to their unique talents'. Which, in his case, had meant returning to the estate in disgrace, to be quietly tutored in economics and estate management, the traditional consolation prize for heirs who couldn't cut it in the more glamorous arenas of magic or war.
Jothi, on the other hand, had apparently thrived. Excelled. Restored the family honor he had so carelessly tarnished. The pride in her voice was unmistakable, but so was the underlying accusation, the lingering resentment of a younger sibling forced to clean up her older brother’s mess, to carry the weight of his failures.
He looked at her, seeing not just the confident, accomplished young woman before him, but also the ghost of the small, adoring girl he vaguely remembered, the one whose bright eyes had once looked up to him. What had happened to that girl? Had his own failures, his own detachment, slowly eroded that childish admiration, replacing it with this cool, almost pitying, contempt? The thought was a cold stone in his chest.
He didn't try to defend himself. He didn't offer excuses. What could he say? ‘Actually, I died, got reincarnated on another planet, lived a full life as a brilliant engineer and military strategist, then came back with a magic shopping list and a plan to revolutionize the soap industry. So, you know, cut me some slack on the whole 'Academy dropout' thing?’ Yeah. That would go over well.
So, he just stood there, absorbing the blow, the shame a bitter taste in his mouth. He saw the flicker of something in Jothi’s eyes then – not triumph, perhaps, but a kind of weary confirmation. As if she had expected nothing less than his silent acceptance of her judgment. As if his lack of defense simply proved her point.
"If that is all, Brother?" Jothi said, her voice cool once more, the moment of overt condemnation passed, replaced by a brisk, dismissive efficiency. She clearly considered the conversation, such as it was, concluded. "The Summit will be commencing shortly. I wouldn't wish to be late. One of us, at least," she added, the parting shot delivered with exquisite, almost casual, precision, "should endeavor to represent the Ferrum name with appropriate dignity and preparedness."
Without waiting for a reply, without another glance, she turned, her dark hair swirling with the movement, and began to walk away, her stride confident, purposeful, leaving Lloyd standing alone in the echoing hallway, the weight of her words, the ghost of his past failures, settling around him like a shroud.
Chapter : 163
He watched her go, the proud, straight set of her shoulders, the undeniable aura of competence and ambition she radiated. A fierce, complicated mix of emotions churned within him: shame, yes, deep and bitter. Regret for the lost years, the broken connection. But also, strangely, a flicker of… pride? She was a true Ferrum, this sister of his. Strong, intelligent, fiercely determined. She was everything he hadn't been, in his first life. And a small, weary part of him, the part that still remembered the crushing weight of responsibility he’d failed to carry, was almost… grateful. Grateful that she was here, capable, ready to bear the burden he had so spectacularly fumbled.
But that was the past Lloyd. This Lloyd… this Lloyd was different. He had eighty years of experience, hidden powers, a cosmic shopping list, and a burgeoning soap empire to build. He wasn't that lost, mediocre boy anymore. And he would prove it. Not just to his father, not just to the skeptical branch families, but to Jothi. To himself.
He took a deep breath, pushing down the lingering sting of her words, the heavy cloak of past shame. The Summit awaited. Time to show them all, Jothi included, that the ‘disappointment’ of Bathelham Royal Academy might just have a few surprising tricks left up his impeccably tailored, if slightly soap-scented, sleeve. The drab duckling was about to attempt flight. And he had a feeling the landing, one way or another, was going to be spectacular.
The Grand Hall of the Ferrum Estate, a cavernous space usually reserved for state banquets, formal investitures, or the occasional, very ostentatious, wedding reception (like his own, Lloyd recalled with an internal grimace), was today a seething cauldron of hushed conversations, rustling silks, and simmering familial tension. Sunlight, streaming through the impossibly high, stained-glass windows depicting heroic Ferrum ancestors vanquishing improbable beasts (mostly dragons, with a sprinkling of suspiciously well-groomed griffins), did little to dispel the underlying chill of political maneuvering.
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The Ferrum Family Annual Summit was in full swing. Or rather, the pre-swing. The awkward, milling-about phase where distant cousins eyed each other with suspicion, uncles offered platitudes laced with veiled threats, and everyone tried to subtly assess who was currently in favor with the Arch Duke and who was about to be metaphorically (or perhaps, given his father’s mood yesterday, literally) thrown to the wolves.
Lloyd Ferrum, an island of feigned calm in this turbulent sea of relatives, sat at a small, slightly isolated table near a potted fern that looked as if it had seen better millennia. He was nursing a cup of lukewarm, disappointingly bitter tea, a beverage that, in his eighty-year-old Earth-honed opinion, was a profound insult to the noble leaf. Seriously, his internal monologue grumbled, swirling the murky liquid in his cup, who decided that boiling leaves in water and then drinking it straight was a good idea? No milk? No sugar? Not even a hint of lemon or a despairing biscuit? These people have mastered intricate Void magic, summoned spirits that could level cities, and built empires that spanned continents, but they haven't figured out how to make a decent cuppa. Priorities, people! Priorities! He made a mental note to add ‘revolutionize Riverian tea-drinking habits’ to his already lengthy to-do list, somewhere between ‘build soap empire’ and ‘avoid being eaten by mythological creatures’. It was probably less dangerous than the other two.
He scanned the hall, his gaze, carefully calibrated to normal-human-heir-mode (no Black Ring Eyes today, thank you very much, the ensuing panic would probably derail the entire Summit), sweeping over the assembled Ferrum clan. Twelve branch families, his father had said. And their associated offspring. It looked like a veritable army of cousins, second cousins, cousins thrice-removed, and a bewildering array of aunts, uncles, and assorted great-whatevers, all dressed in their finest, all radiating varying degrees of ambition, resentment, or sheer, unadulterated boredom. Sixty-plus youths, his father had estimated. Sixty potential rivals, sixty potential allies, sixty potential sources of future headaches. It was like a high school reunion, if your high school specialized in political intrigue, inherited magical powers, and passive-aggressive commentary about your choice of cravat.
Chapter : 164
He took another sip of the offensive tea, wincing internally. His presence, he noted with a familiar, detached amusement, was being treated with the kind of enthusiastic avoidance usually reserved for tax collectors or individuals with highly contagious, socially unacceptable diseases. The younger generation, the sixty-plus gaggle of Ferrum youths who were ostensibly his peers, were giving him a collective cold shoulder so frigid it could probably flash-freeze his already lukewarm tea. They clustered in animated groups, laughing, whispering, pointedly not looking in his direction, their body language screaming ‘irrelevant’, ‘disappointment’, ‘the drab duckling who somehow landed the Ice Princess’. He saw the familiar flickers of disdain, the contemptuous smirks he’d witnessed in the Guild Hall, amplified now by the shared blood and simmering familial rivalries. Charming, he thought. Nothing like a bit of good old-fashioned intra-family scorn to start the day.
A few of the older generation, the ‘geezers’ as his internal Earthling vocabulary uncharitably supplied, did deign to acknowledge his existence. Uncle Tiberius from the Blackwood Ferrums, a portly man with a booming laugh and eyes that missed nothing, offered a jovial, if slightly too hearty, clap on the shoulder and some vague pronouncements about ‘the strength of the main line’. Great-Aunt Esmeralda from the Silverstream Ferrums, a terrifyingly ancient matriarch who looked like she’d personally wrestled dragons in her youth and probably won, gave him a sharp, appraising stare that lasted several uncomfortable seconds before she sniffed dismissively and turned back to her embroidery. They weren't being friendly; they were being pragmatic. He was, after all, still the Arch Duke’s heir. The future Patriarch. Even if he was currently viewed as a particularly unpromising specimen of Ferrum manhood, his position, his potential future authority, held value. Political insurance, Lloyd recognized. A wise investment in case the ‘drab duckling’ somehow managed not to drown in the ducal pond.
Even his own sister, Jothi, now seated across the hall with a group of equally polished and alarmingly competent-looking young noblewomen from allied houses, was pointedly ignoring him. Her earlier, cutting remarks about his Bathelham disgrace still stung, a fresh wound layered over eighty years of phantom aches. She hadn't glanced his way once, her attention fully absorbed by her animated conversation, her posture radiating a confidence and poise that only highlighted his own perceived inadequacies in the eyes of the assembled clan. Well, can't say I blame her, Lloyd conceded internally, sipping his dreadful tea. From her perspective, I'm probably still the embarrassing older brother who flunked out of magic school and spends too much time thinking about soap. Not exactly prime Summit mingling material.
And Rosa…
Ah, Rosa.
She had arrived a few moments after him, a vision in a gown of deep sapphire silk that shimmered like captured twilight, her movements fluid, regal, commanding attention without a single word or gesture. But it was her face, or rather, the lack thereof, that drew every eye in the hall, including Lloyd’s. She wore a veil. A delicate, almost translucent confection of silver-threaded lace, it obscured her features from the nose down, leaving only her high cheekbones, the elegant sweep of her dark brows, and those unnerving, obsidian eyes visible. The effect was… breathtaking. It didn't hide her beauty; it amplified it, transforming her from merely stunning into something ethereal, mysterious, almost untouchable. A true Ice Princess, shrouded in mist and moonlight.
Lloyd remembered, with a jolt that was part memory, part dream, part longing. The veil. Of course. In his first life, Rosa had always worn a veil in public, especially at formal gatherings, in the presence of outsiders, those not considered immediate family. It was a Siddik tradition, perhaps, or a personal preference, a shield against the unwanted scrutiny her almost supernatural beauty inevitably attracted. He hadn't thought about it in years, not in this life, where their interactions had been confined to the shared suite, where veils were unnecessary. But seeing her now, shrouded, enigmatic, moving through the crowded hall like a silent, sapphire wraith… it was like a ghost from his past stepping into his present, a vivid, poignant reminder of the woman he had been married to, the woman he had barely known, the woman who now, inexplicably, smelled faintly of rosemary.
He watched as a hush fell over the clusters of young Ferrum men as she passed, their conversations faltering, their eyes, filled with a mixture of awe, longing, and bitter, burning envy, tracking her every movement. He saw the way their jaws tightened, the way their hands clenched, the unspoken question hanging heavy in the air: Her? With him? The injustice of it, in their eyes, was a palpable force.
Chapter : 165
Lloyd felt a strange, unexpected surge of… something. Not jealousy, not quite pride, but a sort of detached, almost clinical appreciation for the sheer, objective power of her beauty, even when partially concealed. It was a weapon, whether she intended it to be or not, capable of silencing rooms and igniting hopeless passions with a mere rustle of silk and a glimpse of obsidian eyes. He remembered the whispers from his first life, the flowery odes composed by smitten young nobles, the duels fought over a single, rumored glance from behind her veil. Lady Rosa Siddik, the Ice Flower of the South, the Unattainable Sapphire… her beauty had been legendary, a thing of songs and sighs. And she was his wife. His wife who slept on the other side of the room and communicated primarily through icy glares and the occasional, cryptic, one-word pronouncement. The irony was almost physically painful.
He took another sip of the terrible tea, his gaze lingering on her as she found a seat near his mother, Milody, the two of them forming an island of formidable, if very different, feminine power in the testosterone-heavy hall. Rosa inclined her head politely to his mother, a subtle gesture of respect, but her veiled face remained turned away from the rest of the room, projecting an aura of serene, untouchable indifference.
She is beautiful, Lloyd thought, the observation less a husband’s appreciation and more an objective, almost scientific, assessment. Even with half her face hidden, even radiating an ambient temperature that could probably sustain a small colony of penguins, there’s no denying it. The bone structure, the eyes, the way she carries herself… it’s like looking at a perfectly sculpted statue carved from moonlight and glacier ice. He remembered the almost painful intensity of her beauty when he’d first seen her unveiled, on their disastrous wedding night, her eyes wide with fear and fury. It had been overwhelming then, terrifying even, to his nineteen-year-old self. Now, filtered through the lens of eighty years of experience and a lifetime of seeing other beauties, other wonders, it was… still overwhelming. But in a different way. Less intimidating, more… intriguing. A complex, beautiful, incredibly frustrating puzzle he was only just beginning to comprehend.
And she smelled of rosemary. His rosemary. That, he decided, as he finally set down his cup of truly abominable tea, was perhaps the most intriguing, most perplexing, most unexpectedly hopeful piece of the entire, chaotic, wonderful, terrifying puzzle.
The Arch Duke was about to enter. The Summit was about to begin. And Lloyd Ferrum, armed with hidden powers, a burgeoning soap empire, a surprisingly fragrant wife, and a profound distaste for poorly brewed tea, was, for better or worse, ready. Or at least, as ready as a man who had recently been chased by two different mythological nightmares and threatened with leg-breakage by his own father could reasonably be expected to be. This, he thought with a grim, almost cheerful, sense of impending doom, was going to be interesting.
The low hum of conversations in the Grand Hall abruptly ceased, a wave of anticipatory silence washing over the assembled Ferrum clan as the massive, heraldic-emblazoned double doors at the far end of the chamber were swung open by two stoic, impeccably uniformed household guards. Every head turned, every eye fixed on the entrance. The air crackled with a new kind of tension, not just familial politicking, but the added weight of external scrutiny.
Arch Duke Roy Ferrum entered. His presence, as always, commanded the room, his stern features an unreadable mask of ducal authority, his dark eyes sweeping over the assembly with an intensity that seemed to miss nothing. He moved with a measured, powerful stride, radiating an aura of absolute, unwavering control.
But he was not alone.
Flanking him, and walking with an easy confidence that spoke of equal, if different, status, were four individuals who clearly did not belong to the Ferrum clan. Their attire, while noble and expensive, bore different sigils, different styles, hinting at allegiances beyond the Duchy’s borders. Their presence instantly amplified the existing tension, transforming the Annual Ferrum Family Summit from an internal affair into something far more significant, far more… public.
Lloyd, still nursing his now-cold, still-offensive tea, felt his senses sharpen, his internal eighty-year-old strategist instantly on alert. Outsiders. Just as Father said. But who? And why?
