As the echoes of the one-sided battle faded into the oppressive silence, Lloyd allowed his spirits to dissolve back into the aether. He stood alone in the center of the devastation, his breath misting in the sudden cold. He felt a presence. He turned and saw Captain Graph standing at the edge of the square, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, but the blade was still sheathed. The man’s face was a mask of what looked like pure, slack-jawed awe. Lloyd’s mind, already cold and suspicious, sharpened to a razor’s edge. He knew Graph’s reputation. The man was a veteran of a dozen border wars, a Transcended-level user whose own spirit was said to be a formidable earth-elemental. A man like that did not simply stand by and watch a fight, frozen in awe. He acted. “Captain,” Lloyd said, his voice dangerously quiet. “The battle seems to be over. Your assistance was… not required.” Graph seemed to shake himself from his stupor. He took a step forward, his eyes wide, his expression one of perfect, fawning reverence. “My Lord,” he said, his voice a low, breathy whisper of theatrical disbelief. “I… I have never witnessed such power. A storm. An inferno. Phantoms… It was… it was a magnificent, divine spectacle. I was so… overwhelmed… so completely frozen in awe at the sheer, beautiful glory of your power… that my body simply would not obey me.” The lie was so blatant, so sycophantic, so utterly, pathetically transparent that it was an insult to Lloyd’s intelligence. A cold, dangerous smile touched Lloyd’s lips, a smile that did not reach his eyes. His suspicion had just calcified into a cold, hard, and absolute certainty. Graph was not here to help. He was here to watch. He was an observer. A data collector. And he had just seen far, far too much. The game had just changed once more. The silence in the village square stretched, becoming a taut, living thing. Lloyd stood amidst the smoking, spectral remains of the Curse Knights, his simple practice sword held loosely at his side. He stared at Captain Graph, his mind a whirlwind of cold, hard calculations. The captain’s excuse was not just a lie; it was a performance, and a poorly rehearsed one at that. A man of Graph’s caliber, a hardened veteran and a Transcended-level user, would not be ‘frozen in awe.’ He would have assessed the threat, chosen a flank, and engaged. His inaction was not a failure of courage; it was a deliberate, tactical choice. Google seaʀᴄh 𝓷𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓵✶𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖✶𝓷𝓮𝓽 Lloyd’s internal monologue was a ruthless dissection of the new data. He didn’t fight. Why? Possibility one: he is a coward. Unlikely, given his reputation. Possibility two: he deemed my own forces sufficient and chose to conserve his energy. Plausible, but his role as an ally would still demand a show of support. Possibility three: he was under orders not to intervene. To observe. To gather intelligence on my full combat capabilities. This was the most logical, and the most terrifying, conclusion. Graph wasn't an ally; he was an enemy scout, and Lloyd had just given him a full, spectacular demonstration of his most secret and powerful assets. A cold, bitter anger, the fury of a general who has been tactically outmaneuvered, began to simmer beneath Lloyd’s calm exterior. He had been so focused on the immediate threat of the Curse Knights that he had neglected the snake in his own camp. He had revealed his hand, and now the information was on its way back to his uncle. “A ‘magnificent spectacle,’ Captain?” Lloyd repeated, his voice soft, almost conversational, but laced with a sliver of pure, forged ice. “I would have called it a necessary cleansing. These are not ghosts to be admired from a distance. They are a contagion. Your awe, while flattering, could have been a fatal liability had I required your assistance.” The subtle, cutting rebuke was a test. A lesser man might have flinched, or become defensive. Graph, however, remained a fortress of stoic calm. “You are, of course, correct, my Lord,” he said, his voice a low, respectful rumble. He inclined his head in a gesture of perfect, soldierly humility. “My failure to act was a breach of my duty. It will not happen again. I was simply… unprepared… for the sheer, divine nature of your power. A Transcended fire spirit is a thing of legend. To see it wielded with such absolute control… it is humbling.” He was good. Lloyd had to give him that. He was deflecting, reframing his inaction as a moment of religious awe, a reaction that was both fawning and unassailable. He was also subtly probing, confirming the rank of Iffrit, trying to gather more data. Two can play at that game, Lloyd thought. He decided to press his advantage, to turn the interrogation back on Graph. “Your own reputation precedes you, Captain,” Lloyd said, his tone shifting to one of keen, professional interest. “They say your spirit is a thing of earth and stone, a formidable guardian. A power like that would have been invaluable in containing these… apparitions. It is a pity we did not have the chance to see it in action.” It was a baited question, a direct challenge for Graph to reveal something of his own capabilities. For the first time, a flicker of something—a brief, almost imperceptible tightening around his eyes—betrayed Graph’s composure. “My Lord is too kind,” Graph deflected smoothly. “My power is crude, a thing of brute force. It would have been like using a sledgehammer where a surgeon’s scalpel was required. I would have only gotten in the way of your own elegant and precise work.” The man was a master of evasion, a wall of disciplined humility. Lloyd knew he would get nothing more from him through direct questioning. The conversation was a stalemate. “Very well, Captain,” Lloyd said, his voice turning crisp and commanding, the Lord of the House reasserting his authority. “The immediate threat is neutralized. Return to your post on the outer perimeter. Redouble your patrols. I suspect this will not be the last of our nocturnal visitors. I will remain here to continue my own investigation.” “Here, my Lord?” Graph asked, the first hint of genuine surprise in his voice. “Alone?” “The dead hold no fear for me, Captain,” Lloyd replied, his voice a chilling whisper. “And I find the silence… conducive to my work.” He turned his back on Graph, a clear and absolute dismissal. He heard the captain hesitate for a moment, then the sound of his heavy boots crunching on the gravel as he retreated, melting back into the darkness. Lloyd stood alone in the square, the adrenaline of the battle fading, replaced by a cold, simmering rage and a profound sense of unease. He is suspecting Rubel now. He is sure that man was behind this. He looked around the devastated square, at the ashes and the dust that were all that remained of the Curse Knights. His mind, however, was no longer on the dead. It was on the living, and the new, far more dangerous, and far more intelligent monster that was hiding in plain sight, wearing the face of a loyal soldier. The hunt had just become a great deal more personal. And a great deal more dangerous. The command tent was supposed to be a sanctuary of cold, hard logic, a place scrubbed clean of the emotional chaos raging outside. But as Lloyd stepped through the flap, leaving the grim reality of the quarantine camp behind, he found himself walking from one battlefield into another, far more dangerous and infinitely more confusing. Princess Amina was sitting at the makeshift command table, the flickering lamplight casting her silhouette in a soft, golden glow. She wasn’t studying the maps. She wasn’t reading a report. She was perfectly still, her hands clasped in her lap, her head bowed slightly. She was simply… waiting. For him. The thought sent a jolt of something that was not quite fear, but a close, unnerving cousin, through his exhausted body. She must have heard him enter, the soft crunch of his boots on the dry earth, but she didn’t turn. “Is it over?” she asked, her voice quiet, stripped of its usual sharp, analytical edge. It was not the voice of a princess demanding a report; it was the voice of a woman who had been holding her breath, waiting for a sign of life. “The immediate threat is neutralized,” he replied, his voice rougher than he expected. He reached up, his fingers fumbling with the stiff, sweat-slicked leather buckles of his grotesque mask. He felt clumsy, exposed. “And you?” she asked, still not turning, her voice a soft murmur that was somehow more penetrating than a royal command. “Are you… damaged?” The question was so direct, so personal, it bypassed all his defenses. It wasn’t a question about his physical state, about wounds or exhaustion. It was a question about his soul, a diagnostic scan for which he had no shield. He finally pulled the mask free, and the cool night air felt like both a balm and a shock on his face. He was exposed. “I’m fine,” he said, the lie automatic, the soldier’s default response, the wall he built between himself and the world.