The sight of Diego Garcia was a jolt of pure, unexpected, and profoundly welcome nostalgia. Lloyd’s carefully constructed mask of the stoic, formal lord faltered for a fraction of a second, a genuine, unguarded smile touching his lips. He had forgotten. In the grand, sweeping narrative of ancient politics and bitter rivalries, he had completely forgotten about the small, simple, and human connections that had once existed. He and Diego had been childhood friends. A brief, brilliant, and utterly improbable friendship, forged during a series of tedious, formal diplomatic summits that their fathers had been forced to attend. While their parents had engaged in the cold, stiff dance of political necessity, they, two lonely, bored boys in a world of grim-faced adults, had found a common ground in a shared love of mischief, of adventure, of the simple, unadulterated joy of skipping stones across a royal pond. Their friendship had been a small, secret, and beautiful rebellion against the cold, hard world they were destined to inherit. A friendship that had, inevitably, faded as they grew older, as the heavy, unyielding weight of their family names and their ancient, bitter histories had descended upon them. “Diego,” Lloyd said, the name a warm, familiar taste in his mouth. Diego rushed forward, his arms open wide, and enveloped Lloyd in a massive, bone-crushing, and utterly sincere embrace. “Lloyd, you old wolf!” he boomed, clapping him on the back with a force that nearly sent him stumbling. “By the gods, look at you! Taller. Thinner. And twice as grim as I remember. The North has not been kind to you, my friend!” The two guards, their expressions a mixture of shocked disbelief and a dawning, horrified respect, had snapped to attention. Read complete versıon only at 𝙣𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙡~𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔢~𝙣𝙚𝙩 Diego finally released him, his broad, cheerful face a mask of genuine, unadulterated pleasure. “What in the seven hells are you doing here? I heard you were in the South, romancing your ice-queen wife. Don’t tell me you rode all this way just to see my ugly face?” Lloyd’s smile faded, his expression turning serious once more. The brief, warm reunion was over. The mission had to take precedence. “I wish it were so, Diego,” he said, his voice quiet, his gaze direct. “But I have not come for a social call. I have not come as a friend.” He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle. “I have come as Lord Ferrum. And I am here to request an urgent, and very formal, audience with the head of your house. With the Don Garcia himself.” The cheerful, boisterous warmth in Diego’s face vanished, instantly replaced by a look of profound, and deeply troubled, concern. The easy camaraderie of their shared past was gone, burned away by the cold, hard reality of their present. “My grandfather?” Diego asked, his voice now a low, worried whisper. “Lloyd, you… you do not simply request an audience with my grandfather. He has not received a formal guest from the outside world, from your world, in twenty years.” He looked at Lloyd, his eyes filled with a new, and very real, fear. “What have you done? What trouble have you brought to my family’s door?” He knew. He understood, with a friend’s intuitive and terrible certainty, that this was not a simple, formal visit. This was a matter of life and death. Without another word, he turned, his broad shoulders slumped with a new, and very heavy, weight. He gestured for Lloyd to follow. The guards, their hostility now replaced by a cowed, fearful silence, opened the small, postern gate. “Come,” Diego said, his voice a grim, resigned sigh. “I will take you to him. But I warn you, my friend. The man you are about to meet… he is not a man. He is a piece of the old world. He is a ghost. And he does not suffer the living gladly.” And with that final, chilling warning, he led his old friend out of the light of the new world and into the heart of the ancient, brooding, and shadow-filled manor of the House of Garcia. To step through the postern gate of the Garcia estate was to step out of the familiar, sunlit world of the Bethelham kingdom and into a different, older, and far more somber reality. The air itself seemed to change, growing cooler, heavier, thick with the scent of old stone, damp earth, and the faint, almost imperceptible fragrance of a thousand years of history. The cheerful, boisterous sounds of the outside world—the distant bleating of sheep, the song of a meadowlark—were instantly cut off, replaced by a profound, echoing silence, a quiet so deep it felt like the stillness of a tomb. The architecture was a jarring, magnificent contrast to the elegant, almost delicate style of the modern Bethelhamian nobility. The manor was a fortress, its corridors vast, vaulted, and carved from a single, dark, and almost black type of stone that seemed to absorb the very light. The only illumination came from high, narrow, and deeply recessed windows, throwing long, stark shafts of pale, grey light across the polished stone floors. The walls were not adorned with the vibrant, celebratory tapestries of the new kingdom, but with ancient, faded banners that depicted the deeds of a fallen empire, their colors muted, their images ghosts of a forgotten, and perhaps more glorious, age. It was a house that was not just living in the past; it was a house that was haunted by it. Diego led Lloyd through this labyrinth of shadows and silence, his own cheerful, boisterous nature completely suppressed by the grim, oppressive weight of his ancestral home. He was no longer the jovial, welcoming friend; he was a silent, somber guide, a Charon ferrying a soul across the river of time. They finally arrived at their destination: a pair of massive, iron-banded doors, each one carved from a single, petrified ironwood tree. Two guards, clad in the same archaic, dark-green-and-silver livery, stood sentinel, their faces as grim and as unmoving as the stone walls around them. They did not challenge them. They simply, with a silent, synchronized, and almost ceremonial grace, opened the doors. The room beyond was not a hall. It was a cavern. A vast, shadow-filled space whose vaulted, cathedral-like ceiling was lost in an impenetrable darkness. The air was cold, still, and held the deep, earthy smell of a crypt. The only light came from a single, massive, and deeply recessed stained-glass window at the far end of the hall, a magnificent, and deeply sorrowful, work of art that depicted the last, tragic battle of the Al-Kazarian kings. And in the center of that hall, bathed in the muted, jewel-toned light of the window, upon a throne that seemed to have been grown rather than built, a throne carved from the petrified, gnarled heart of a single, ancient, and impossibly large tree, sat the Don Garcia. He was a man who seemed to be as ancient, as gnarled, and as deeply rooted in the past as the throne upon which he sat. He was a living relic, a ghost of a fallen age. His face was a roadmap of a thousand years of pride and sorrow, his skin the color of old parchment, his hands, which were resting on the carved, wolf-head arms of the throne, were a gnarled, twisted mass of bone and sinew. A long, thin, and startlingly white beard flowed down to his waist. But it was his eyes that held the true, terrifying weight of his existence. They were not the clouded, faded eyes of an old man. They were as sharp, as clear, and as piercing as a raptor’s, and they burned with a cold, intelligent, and utterly unforgiving light. As Lloyd and Diego stepped into the hall, those ancient, terrible eyes fixed upon Lloyd. And in that moment, Lloyd’s own formidable, supernaturally enhanced senses, the senses that had allowed him to perceive the subtle, shifting currents of spiritual energy, to face down gods and monsters without flinching, screamed in a silent, primal, and absolute alarm. He felt the Don’s gaze not as a simple look, but as a physical, tangible, and deeply invasive force. It was a probe, a scalpel of pure, focused will that was not just looking at him, but was dissecting him, peeling back the layers of his being one by one. He felt it slide past his carefully constructed mask of the polite, formal lord. He felt it test the defenses of his own powerful, B-Rank Void power, the Steel Blood humming in his veins in a silent, defensive protest. He felt it brush against the deep, hidden, and far more terrible power of his Austin heritage, the sleeping, coiled serpent of his Black Ring Eyes. He was being weighed. He was being measured. He was being… read. The old man on the throne was not just a man; he was one of the single, most powerful beings he had ever encountered, a creature whose own power was so ancient, so deep, so fundamentally different from the flashy, elemental forces of the new world, that it was a thing of pure, quiet, and absolute terror. For a long, profound, and utterly terrifying moment, the pressure was immense, a silent, psychic battle of wills being waged in the vast, echoing silence of the hall. Lloyd stood his ground, his own will a fortress, his mind a cold, calm, and unbreachable bastion against the ancient, invasive gaze. He did not bow. He did not flinch. He simply… endured.