Chapter : 166
His gaze swept over the newcomers. The first, a man of roughly his father’s age, with shrewd, intelligent eyes, a neatly trimmed grey beard, and an air of quiet, pragmatic authority, was instantly recognizable. Jason Siddik. Viscount Siddik. Rosa’s father. His presence wasn't entirely unexpected; as the father of the Arch Duke’s new daughter-in-law, his attendance, while perhaps not standard, was understandable, a gesture of strengthening familial ties. He offered Roy a respectful, almost familial nod as they walked.
The other three, however, were ciphers, their faces unfamiliar, their allegiances unreadable from this distance. One was a stout, florid-faced man with a booming laugh that seemed perpetually on the verge of erupting, dressed in rich velvets that strained slightly at the seams, his eyes quick and assessing. Another was older, leaner, with a scholar’s stoop and eyes that held a lifetime of patient observation, his robes simple but of exquisite quality. The fourth… the fourth man was different. He was younger, perhaps in his late thirties, with an easy, almost deceptively casual grace, his attire understated yet impeccably tailored, his features handsome but unremarkable, almost forgettable. Yet, there was something about his eyes, a keen, penetrating intelligence, a subtle aura of command that seemed to hum just beneath his unassuming surface, that made Lloyd’s internal alarms prickle faintly. This man, Lloyd sensed, was more than he appeared.
As Roy Ferrum and his distinguished guests made their way towards the raised dais at the head of the hall where the Arch Duke would preside, another, smaller drama unfolded. Viscount Rubel Ferrum, Lloyd’s ambitious, recently chastened uncle, practically sprinted from his position amongst the branch family heads, his face wreathed in a sycophantic, almost desperate smile. He intercepted the Arch Duke’s party near the center of the hall, bowing deeply, his voice, when he spoke, dripping with a honeyed deference that Lloyd found physically nauseating.
"Your Grace! Esteemed guests! A most auspicious occasion!" Rubel gushed, attempting to insinuate himself into the procession, to be seen publicly welcoming these important visitors, to subtly reassert his own diminished standing. "Allow me to personally extend the warmest greetings of the entire Ferrum—"
Roy Ferrum didn't even break stride. He didn't glance at his brother. He simply walked past him, his gaze fixed straight ahead, his silence a dismissal more profound, more cutting, than any verbal rebuke could ever have been. Jason Siddik and the other guests followed suit, their expressions carefully neutral, though Lloyd fancied he saw a flicker of amusement in the stout man’s eyes and a hint of disdain in the scholar’s. Rubel was left standing alone in the middle of the hall, his fawning smile frozen on his face, the color slowly draining from his cheeks as the full, public weight of the Arch Duke’s continued displeasure landed like a physical blow. He looked, for a moment, like a man who had just been slapped with a very large, very invisible fish. Serves you right, you scheming toad, Lloyd thought with a grim, satisfying smirk, taking another sip of his now truly vile tea.
The Arch Duke and his guests ascended the dais. Roy took his seat in the ornate, high-backed chair carved with the roaring Ferrum lion (still looking constipated, Lloyd noted). The visitors were seated in chairs of slightly lesser, but still significant, dignity on either side. The Summit was about to officially commence.
But before Roy could even clear his throat to deliver the opening address, one of the previously unrecognized VIPs, the older, leaner man with the scholar’s bearing and the patient eyes, rose from his seat on the dais. Instead of addressing the hall, however, he descended the steps and, to the surprise of everyone, Lloyd included, walked directly towards Lloyd’s slightly isolated table near the disgruntled potted fern.
Oh, here we go, Lloyd thought, hastily setting down his teacup, his mind racing. Who is this guy? And why is he making a beeline for the resident family disappointment? Does he want to borrow sugar? Complain about the tea quality? Offer unsolicited advice on fern care?
The man stopped before Lloyd’s table, his expression a mixture of grave dignity and something else… something that looked surprisingly like… gratitude? He offered Lloyd a slight, respectful bow, a gesture usually reserved for equals, not for a nineteen-year-old heir with a questionable academic record.
"Young Lord Ferrum," the man began, his voice quiet but carrying a surprising resonance, a scholar’s well-modulated tones. "Forgive this informal intrusion, but I felt I could not let this moment pass without expressing my profound, my deepest, personal gratitude."
Chapter : 167
Lloyd stared, utterly bewildered. Gratitude? For what? Had he accidentally donated to this man’s favorite charity in a past life? Returned a lost library book? "My lord…?" Lloyd managed, genuinely at a loss. "You have me at a disadvantage. I do not believe we have had the honor…"
The man’s eyes, clear and intelligent, held a flicker of deep emotion. "Indeed, we have not formally met, Young Lord. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Tiberius Kruts. Marquess of the Southern Reaches."
Kruts? Lloyd’s mind jolted. Faria’s father? He looked at the man again, seeing now the subtle resemblance around the eyes, the same underlying steel beneath the scholarly demeanor. This was the man whose daughter he had, however inadvertently and chaotically, assisted in Galla Forest. The man whose son was ailing. The man whose desperate hope now rested, in part, on the terrifying, soul-sucking Dark Vein flower Lloyd had so casually, and then so dramatically, retrieved.
"Marquess Kruts," Lloyd acknowledged, rising respectfully, offering a slight bow of his own. "The honor is mine." Okay, so this isn't about the tea. This is about the flower. And possibly the giant snake. And Ken’s rather dramatic intervention.
"The honor, Young Lord, is entirely mine," Marquess Kruts insisted, his voice thick with emotion. "My daughter, Faria… she has related to me the full, harrowing account of her recent… misadventure… in Galla Forest." His gaze swept briefly towards Lloyd, then to Fang, who was now sitting alertly at Lloyd’s feet, his golden eyes watchful. "She spoke of your courage, Young Lord. Your unexpected intervention. Your… rather unorthodox, but ultimately effective, methods." A faint, wry smile touched the Marquess’s lips. "And she spoke, with particular emphasis, of your invaluable assistance in securing the very bloom she so desperately sought. The bloom that may yet prove the salvation of my beloved son." He bowed his head again, lower this time, a gesture of profound, heartfelt thanks. "You saved my daughter’s life, Lord Ferrum. And you may have saved my son’s. There are no words, no deeds, that can adequately express the debt I, and my entire house, now owe to you."
Lloyd felt a flush creep up his neck, uncomfortable under the weight of such effusive, public gratitude. "Marquess Kruts, please," he demurred, waving a dismissive hand. "It was… not entirely intentional, I assure you. Mostly a case of being in the wrong forest at the wrong time with the wrong mythological creature with a flower fetish. And as for your daughter," he offered a genuine, if slightly sheepish, smile, "she and her guards demonstrated considerable courage themselves. I merely… provided some unexpected, and frankly quite terrifying, distractions. And called in a rather overpowered butler with a penchant for pyrotechnics. Most of the credit, I assure you, belongs to him."
"Nevertheless," the Marquess insisted, his eyes shining with sincerity, "your actions were pivotal. Faria is safe. And we have the Dark Vein. For that, House Kruts is eternally in your debt." He straightened, his expression becoming more formal. "Should you, or House Ferrum, ever require aid from the Southern Reaches, Young Lord, you need only ask. My resources, my armies, my very life, are yours to command." It was a solemn oath, delivered before the entire Ferrum clan, a political declaration of alliance forged in the crucible of shared terror and unexpected salvation.
Lloyd nodded, accepting the pledge with due gravity, while internally, his eighty-year-old strategist was already calculating the potential geopolitical advantages of having a powerful Southern Marquess as a staunch, indebted ally. Well, that Galla Forest death-trap field trip might just have paid off in ways beyond forty System Coins after all, he mused. Maybe I should add ‘inadvertent geopolitical alliance brokering via monster evasion’ to my resume.
Before Lloyd could formulate a suitably humble and politically astute response, another figure approached his table, this one even more surprising. It was the fourth man from the Arch Duke’s entourage, the younger one with the deceptively casual grace and the intelligent, almost forgettable, handsome features. He moved with an easy confidence, a subtle aura of command that seemed even more pronounced up close. He offered Lloyd a charming, disarming smile.
"Young Lord Ferrum," the man began, his voice smooth, cultured, with an undertone of amusement. "Marquess Kruts speaks with the heartfelt gratitude of a father, and rightly so. But allow me to offer my own, perhaps more… practical, commendations."
Lloyd looked at him, intrigued. "My lord? And you are…?"
The man’s smile widened. "Forgive my lack of formal introduction amidst these… rather dramatic Summit preliminaries. For now, let us just say I am an interested observer. An admirer of innovation. Particularly," his gaze flickered towards Roy, "innovation that smells as pleasantly of rosemary as it does of profit."
Chapter : 168
Lloyd blinked. He knows about the soap? The dispenser? How? Had his father already been showcasing the prototype? Talking about it with these… outsiders? The thought was both thrilling and slightly unnerving.
"Indeed," the man continued, his eyes twinkling. "I had the distinct pleasure of… sampling… your remarkable cleansing elixir this morning. The one presented by your esteemed father. The liquid version, I believe. In that most ingenious oak and steel dispensing contraption." He brought his fingertips to his nose, inhaling dramatically. "Still a faint, delightful hint of rosemary. Quite revolutionary, Young Lord. My own household staff are already clamoring for a supply. They claim their hands have never felt so… velvety."
Lloyd stared, speechless for a moment. His father had not only taken the liquid soap prototype he and Jasmin had so frantically cobbled together just yesterday afternoon – the slightly imperfect, rosemary-infused soft soap he’d presented to Roy along with the hard bar and the first dispenser – but had apparently given a sample to this… this influential stranger? A stranger who was now praising it publicly, in front of the entire Ferrum clan and other noble guests? Father, you sly old fox, Lloyd thought, a wave of surprised admiration washing over him. You didn't just assess it; you market-tested it on a VIP! This Summit wasn't just about silencing doubters; it was about showcasing Ferrum innovation, his innovation, on a much grander stage than he’d anticipated.
"I… I am gratified that the product met with your approval, my lord," Lloyd managed, recovering his composure. "It is still in its… developmental stages, of course. Many refinements are planned."
"Of course, of course," the man agreed easily. "But the core concept, Young Lord? Brilliant. The execution? Inspired. The potential? Vast. You have a keen mind for commerce, it seems, as well as for… rather dramatic forest excursions." He chuckled, a warm, engaging sound. "I shall be watching your future ventures with great interest, Lord Ferrum. Great interest indeed." He gave Lloyd a final, conspiratorial wink, then turned and, with that same deceptively casual grace, made his way back towards the dais, leaving Lloyd feeling both flattered and intensely curious about the man’s true identity and influence.
He was still processing this unexpected endorsement when he felt a subtle pressure at his elbow. He turned to see his father, Arch Duke Roy Ferrum, having descended from the dais while Lloyd was occupied. Roy’s face was an unreadable mask, but his eyes held a flicker of something… complex.
"A word, Lloyd," Roy murmured, his voice so low only Lloyd could hear it, leaning in slightly as if sharing a state secret of profound import. "That last gentleman. The one so… enthusiastic… about your soap."
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
"Yes, Father?" Lloyd prompted, his curiosity piqued even further.
Roy’s gaze flickered around the hall, ensuring no one else was within earshot. Then, he leaned even closer, his voice a mere whisper, charged with a gravity that made the hairs on the back of Lloyd’s neck stand on end. "Do not react, Lloyd. Do not show surprise. Maintain your composure. But understand this." He paused, his dark eyes locking onto Lloyd’s with an intensity that was almost physical. "That man… is His Majesty, Liam Bethelham. King of our Nation Bethelham. Here. In disguise."
Lloyd froze. The teacup, which he had unconsciously picked up again, slipped from his nerveless fingers, shattering on the stone floor with a loud, discordant crash that seemed to echo deafeningly in the suddenly too-quiet Grand Hall.
King Liam Bethelham? The King of Bethelham? Here? Disguised as some… interested soap enthusiast?
His mind reeled, desperately trying to process this new, cataclysmic piece of information. The Bathelham clan. The rulers of Bathelham. Their King. Here. In his father’s house. In disguise. Praising his soap.
What in the name of all the hells, heavens, and questionable interdimensional realms is going ON?! Lloyd’s internal monologue, which had been attempting a slow, cautious recovery, promptly had a full-blown, screaming, table-flipping meltdown. A major, nation-altering event? I don’t remember anything like this! My first life’s memories of this period are hazy, yes, filled with teenage angst and academic failure, but surely, surely, I would remember something as monumental as the King of Bethelham secretly attending a Ferrum Family Summit! This wasn't in the script! This is a whole new, terrifyingly unpredictable, probably incredibly dangerous, act!
He stared at his father, then towards the dais where the ‘interested soap enthusiast’ – King Liam Bethelham, by all the gods – was now calmly chatting with Jason Siddik, looking for all the world like just another visiting nobleman. The pieces slammed together with horrifying, undeniable clarity. The outsiders. The unusual nature of this Summit. His father’s grim intensity. The earlier assassination attempt by ‘professionals’…
This wasn't just about Ferrum unity or Rubel's treachery. This was bigger. Far bigger. Something of immense geopolitical significance was unfolding, right here, right now. And he, Lloyd Ferrum, the accidental prodigy, the fledgling soap tycoon, the heir with the demonic eyes and the overpowered butler, was standing smack in the middle of it, holding a shattered teacup and a rapidly dawning sense of profound, existential dread.
Chapter : 169
The loud, discordant crash of shattering porcelain ripped through the tense, rosemary-and-faintly-dung-scented air of Arch Duke Roy Ferrum’s study, a sound as shocking and out of place as a thunderclap in a library. Every head, already turned towards Lloyd after his father’s hushed, momentous revelation, now stared with renewed, almost horrified intensity.
Lloyd Ferrum stood frozen, his hand still hovering where the teacup had been, his face a mask of carefully controlled neutrality that did absolutely nothing to conceal the wild, screaming panic currently doing a frenetic tango with disbelief in his brain.
King Liam Bethelham? Here? Disguised? Interested in my soap? My soap?! The one made with cow fat and experimental lye in a dusty smokehouse? Is this a fever dream? Did one of those Galla Forest spores finally take root in my cerebellum and decide to stage an avant-garde theatrical production starring royalty and questionable hygiene products?
He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, the sudden, prickling awareness of every eye in the room dissecting his clumsiness, his shock, his very existence. The King of Bethelham. The man who had praised his “cleansing elixir” and “ingenious dispensing contraption” with such charming, almost conspiratorial enthusiasm, was not just some interested nobleman with a penchant for rosemary and a surprisingly astute understanding of market potential. He was Liam. Freaking. Bethelham. Ruler of a neighboring, often rival, kingdom.
Roy Ferrum’s gaze flickered towards the shattered remains of the teacup, then back to Lloyd, his expression unreadable, though a muscle twitched almost imperceptibly in his jaw. It might have been annoyance at the destruction of ducal crockery, or perhaps a flicker of understanding at his son’s rather dramatic reaction to having a monarch casually dropped into conversation. Probably both.
Lloyd’s internal monologue was now a high-pitched, continuous scream. Okay, okay, deep breaths. Don't hyperventilate in front of royalty. Even disguised royalty. Especially disguised royalty who just complimented your soap. Must maintain composure. Must not look like a gibbering imbecile who just discovered the sky is made of cheese. Or, you know, that the random rich guy is actually the King.
"My apologies, Father," Lloyd managed, his voice impressively steady despite the internal chaos. He bent down with what he hoped was dignified grace, though he felt about as graceful as a startled hippopotamus on roller skates, and began to gather the larger shards of porcelain. "Clumsy of me. The… the news was rather… unexpected."
Unexpected? his brain shrieked. Unexpected is finding a gold coin in your laundry. This is 'discovering your pet hamster is secretly a transdimensional warlord' level of unexpected!
"Indeed," Roy murmured, his voice a low rumble that brooked no further discussion on the matter of shattered teacups or royal revelations. He gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod towards the figure Lloyd now knew to be King Liam Bethelham, a silent acknowledgment that the charade, at least between them, was momentarily suspended, or perhaps, just profoundly complicated.
"My dear Lord Ferrum," the King began, his voice smooth, cultured, utterly devoid of any royal affectation, sounding for all the world like a genuinely concerned fellow nobleman. He subtly steered Lloyd away from the remaining porcelain debris, which a silent, suddenly appearing household attendant began to discreetly sweep away. "No harm done, I trust? A mere accident. Easily remedied. Though," his eyes twinkled with that same roguish amusement Lloyd had noted earlier, "I do hope it wasn’t my rather enthusiastic praise for your… cleansing elixir… that caused such a start?"
Lloyd, still reeling, managed a weak smile. "Not at all, my lord… uh… James," he stammered, remembering the name his father had whispered. Gods, calling a King ‘James’ felt like addressing a thunderstorm by its first name. "Just… a momentary lapse in coordination. The perils of early mornings and… complex family discussions."
Lloyd stared, his brain struggling to keep up. The King was still talking about the soap? After everything? After the reveal? Was this part of the disguise? Or was he genuinely, royally, obsessed with personal hygiene products?
"James" leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a more confidential tone, though still carrying easily in the sudden, almost reverent hush that had fallen over the study since the teacup incident. Even Master Elmsworth and Grand Master Grimaldi seemed to be holding their breath, sensing that this was no ordinary conversation. Jason Siddik watched with keen, narrowed eyes.
"Your father, the esteemed Arch Duke," James continued, gesturing vaguely towards Roy, who observed them with an expression that could only be described as 'intensely watchful granite', "has already pledged a considerable sum. Ten thousand Gold, I believe? A most generous, and I dare say, prudent investment." He paused, his gaze fixing on Lloyd with a new intensity, the earlier amusement overlaid with a sharp, shrewd assessment. "And I, Lord Ferrum, as a humble admirer of innovation and an individual with… certain disposable capital… find myself similarly inclined."
Chapter : 170
Lloyd’s jaw, which had been slowly returning to its normal position, threatened to detach itself again. Inclined? Inclined to what? The King of Bethelham wanted to invest in his soap? His tallow-and-ash-water, rosemary-scented, smokehouse-brewed soap? This day was officially sponsored by the letter 'W' for 'What is even HAPPENING?!'
"You… you wish to invest, my lord… James?" Lloyd managed, trying to keep the incredulity from his voice. "In… in my soap venture?"
"Indeed!" James declared, beaming as if this were the most natural, most exciting prospect in the world. "I have a keen eye for potential, Lord Ferrum. And your product, coupled with that frankly ingenious dispenser – a work of art, truly! – has 'resounding success' written all over it. Positively screams 'future ducal revenue stream' and 'delightfully soft hands for all'! I confess, I am something of a connoisseur of… creature comforts. And this," he tapped his nose conspiratorially, "this is a comfort the world desperately needs, even if it doesn’t know it yet."
He clasped his hands behind his back, adopting the air of a magnanimous, slightly eccentric, but undeniably wealthy patron. "Consider it a personal investment, of course. From one… gentleman of means… to another burgeoning entrepreneur. A small gesture of faith in your vision. Say," he waved a dismissive hand, as if plucking a figure from the air, "another five thousand Gold Coins? To supplement your father’s already generous contribution? Ensure you have ample resources for those delightful oil explorations and perhaps a slightly larger smokehouse? One with better ventilation, perhaps? The current model, while charmingly rustic, does tend to impart a certain… smoky je ne sais quoi to the surrounding atmosphere."
Five thousand Gold. From the King of Bethelham. Lloyd felt a wave of dizziness. This was beyond anything he could have imagined. His soap empire, not yet possessing a single official employee beyond a terrified but loyal butcher girl, was attracting royal investment. He should be ecstatic. He should be calculating profit margins and inter-ducal trade agreements.
Instead, a small, cynical, eighty-year-old voice in the back of his head whispered, There’s always a catch. Especially with royalty. Even disguised, slightly manic, soap-obsessed royalty.
"My lord James," Lloyd began, choosing his words with extreme care, bowing slightly, "that is… an extraordinarily generous offer. Truly. I am… honored by your faith in my humble endeavor." Humble endeavor involving cow fat and potentially explosive lye reactions. "But… if I may be so bold… such generosity from a… a new acquaintance… often comes with certain… expectations? Or perhaps," he paused, "unique conditions?"
The King’s smile didn't falter. In fact, it widened, acquiring a distinctly wolfish, almost predatory, edge. The handsome, unassuming "James" persona flickered for a fraction of a second, revealing a glimpse of the shrewd, powerful monarch beneath. "Astute, Lord Ferrum! Very astute! I appreciate a man who understands the nuances of… mutually beneficial arrangements." He chuckled again. "Indeed, I do have one small, rather idiosyncratic condition. A personal foible, you might say. Nothing too burdensome, I assure you."
He leaned closer again, his amethyst eyes (wait, were they amethyst? Lloyd’s brain struggled to recall Faria’s eye color, then mentally slapped itself – focus, idiot, the King is talking!) gleaming with that mischievous, almost challenging light. "So, my small condition, Lord Ferrum, for this modest five-thousand-gold investment in your burgeoning empire of cleanliness, is simply this: For a period of, say, five years, you will ensure a continuous, complimentary supply of your finest Ferrum soap – both the delightful solid bars and, most especially, that divine liquid in those magnificent dispensers – to the Royal Household of Bethelham. All of it. Free of charge. Consider it… an extended quality control assessment. Conducted at the highest possible level. By a very discerning, very appreciative, and potentially very influential clientele."
Five years. Free supply. To the entire Bethelham Royal Household. Lloyd’s mind, which had been briefly short-circuited by the sheer audacity of the King’s initial offer, now rebooted with the speed and efficiency of a supercomputer calculating warp trajectories. Free. For five years. The cost in materials alone…
But then, another calculation, sharper, more strategic, overrode the immediate financial concern.
The Bethelham Royal Household. Using his soap. Exclusively. For five years. The King. The Queen. The princes and princesses. The courtiers. The visiting dignitaries. Every noble, every servant, every influential guest within the walls of the Bethelham Royal Palace… smelling faintly of Ferrum Family Finest Rosemary-Infused Cleansing Elixir.
It wasn't a cost. It was an advertisement. An unparalleled, five-year-long, royal-decree-level marketing campaign. The ultimate product placement. The kind of endorsement that money, even ten thousand Gold Coins, couldn't possibly buy. If the King of Bethelham and his entire court were using Lloyd Ferrum’s soap, every other noble house in Riverio, perhaps even beyond, would be clamoring for it. The prestige, the exclusivity, the sheer snob appeal… it was a marketing coup of epic, almost mythological, proportions.
