Ryan · Conversa

【Sent into the Palace】 The corridor is long, the marble floor polished so brightly it reflects the tips of your shoes. Guards stand every three steps on either side, their armor gleaming, faces expressionless, eyes fixed forward like a row of bronze statues that don't breathe. The attendant leading the way walks with such light steps that they are almost silent, only occasionally looking back at you with a gaze that is hard to define—somewhere between pity and scrutiny. You've lost count of how many times you've been brought into the palace. Count Edmund—the "benefactor" who brought you from the borderlands and raised you on his estate for three years, teaching you music, chess, and etiquette—was still whispering in your ear while combing your hair this morning: "Remember, His Majesty likes them submissive. Don't talk back, don't look him in the eye, do whatever he tells you to do. You are my finest masterpiece; don't disappoint me." You only nodded at the time, saying nothing. A masterpiece. That's what he called you. When the palace doors are pushed open, a faint, cold fragrance hits you, mixed with the scent of wax residue from burnt candles and the smell of old paper. This is the King's study, not his bedchamber. You have been brought to a place more private—and less like a "place for summoning beauties"—than you imagined. A man is sitting behind the desk. He leans back in his chair, his left elbow resting on the armrest, his fingertips pressed against his temple, eyes lowered as he looks at something in his hand. The desk is piled with parchment scrolls and opened letters, and a half-empty wine glass sits to his right, the liquid glowing like amber in the candlelight. You are led to the center of the carpet by the attendant, who then quietly retreats. The door closes behind you with a dull thud of a lock. The air goes still. Following the etiquette Edmund taught you, you curtsy, bowing your head and tucking your chin just enough to reveal the curve of the back of your neck. Your skirt spreads out on the carpet, and you hear your own breathing, which is heavier than you expected. "Lift your head." His voice is lower than the rumors suggested—not cold, but devoid of warmth. It's like the wind that hits you when you open a window on a winter morning; it has no emotion, it's just... chilly. You look up. He is looking at you. Those pale ice-blue eyes, rumored to be "capable of sending a chill down a living person's spine," are currently resting calmly on your face. There is no appraisal, no scrutiny, not even curiosity. It's as if he is looking at something he has already seen a thousand times. He looks at you for about three seconds, then shifts his gaze back to the letter in his hand. "Edmund certainly spent a fortune this time," he says in a flat tone, conveying neither praise nor sarcasm. "Leave. Ilon will arrange your quarters." You are stunned. That's... it? You were jostled in a carriage for two whole days, rehearsing a dozen times in your head: *If His Majesty wants me to dance, I'll dance; if His Majesty wants me to play the lute, I'll play; if His Majesty wants me to stay the night, I'll...*—and then he says two sentences to you and dismisses you. You don't move. Noticing your lack of movement, he lifts his eyes a second time. This time, there is a trace of very thin impatience in his gaze. "Is there something else?" You open your mouth, and all the instructions are suddenly overturned by some death-defying thought in your head. You hear yourself say: "Is Your Majesty not curious why Count Edmund chose me?" The quill in his hand pauses for a moment. Then he puts the pen down, leans back completely into the chair, crosses his hands over his stomach, and looks at you properly. This time he looks for longer than before, his gaze sliding from your brow to your chin, then back to your eyes. "I am curious," he says, his tone very level. "But I am not curious about any 'pre-arranged answer.' You know very well what your master wants you to tell me. I have no wish to touch his belongings. Go back and tell him that I've kept the person and accepted the gift. As for anything else—tell him to focus his energy on proper business." Having said that, he picks up his pen again, lowers his head, and continues writing. The meaning is clear—you can go. You stand there, your ankles slightly aching. You watch his lowered brow in the candlelight, and there's a strange disconnect between the way he slumps in his chair and the words he just spoke. Rumors say he is dissolute and never refuses anyone. Rumors say he would pin a beauty directly onto the desk without even closing the door. But the man in front of you... he finds it a chore to even look at you twice. You don't leave. You take another half-step forward. "Your Majesty," you say softly, "I am not here to deliver a message for Count Edmund." His pen stops again. This time he doesn't look up, but merely taps the tip of the quill lightly on the parchment, leaving a small blot of ink. "...Then what are you here for?" His voice is a bit lower than before, carrying a subtle hesitation that suggests, *I could have chosen not to ask, but for some reason, I did.*