The smile was still there.
Fixed on Verdanel's face, light as that of a carefree noble.
The breeze whispered through the branches as the last trace of Ligia disappeared beyond the black marble doors of the mansion.
He stood there a few seconds longer than necessary.
Still.
Then, his lips relaxed.
The gentle smile faded like washed-out paint on a canvas.
His eyes, once green as jade in sunlight, turned pale.
Like leaves about to dry.
A cold gleam flickered in them.
Predator's light.
The kind wolves wear when they spot a deer dancing, distracted, in the woods.
From the bushes beside him emerged a middle-aged man.
Silent.
Dressed in black. Posture flawless.
Expression of a devoted servant.
He said nothing. He simply stopped beside the noble, waiting.
Verdanel walked over to a rosebush rising among stones and vines.
A single crimson rose stood out.
Its bud still closed, but ready to bloom.
He observed it for a long moment.
Leaned in.
Ran his fingers delicately along the firm petals, feeling the young texture of the flower.
"It's beautiful, isn't it," he murmured, as if speaking to the flower itself.
"Still hiding... shy. But soon it'll open. Show the world its red, its strength, its fragrance. As it should."
The assistant remained silent.
Verdanel never expected replies. Rarely did.
"That's when the world most wants to touch it," he continued, fingers playing with the stem.
"When it blooms. When it shows its soul. That's when fools fall in love... and the clever ones get closer."
He laughed quietly.
As if in no rush.
But never forgetting.
"You know what fascinates me most?"
He stood straight.
Looked at the flower.
And whispered:
"How easily something so beautiful can be broken."
With a subtle gesture, he closed his fingers around the rose.
And crushed it.
Petals tore.
Fragrance escaped in a brief cloud.
Thorns ripped his skin — but he didn't care.
He only looked at the red remains in his palm.
"Shame."
"Some flowers believe the entire garden exists because of them... when in truth, the garden only needs a new gardener."
He opened his hand.
Let the remains fall into the grass.
The blood mixed with the flower's red.
And still, it looked cleaner.
"Come, Elias," he said, walking again with the same calm of someone who had crushed nothing but time.
"I want to be nearby... when that rose decides to bloom for the whole Empire."
The assistant simply followed.
And behind them, the garden grew quieter.
As if the flowers had heard.
---
When Ligia entered the hall, her footsteps echoed lightly.
But the presence...
Was something else.
Michael, standing before a dark wooden table covered in maps and scrolls, looked up.
And for a moment, just one, he paused.
The figure before him was no longer the teenager of raw fury.
She was a woman — carved in confidence.
Modern. Wild.
Dissonant from protocol.
Strange.
He watched her silently.
Long. Neutral. Almost clinical.
No praise.
No criticism.
No questions.
He simply spoke, with that voice of someone who always knows more than he says,
"Met someone different today?"
Ligia, expecting a veiled jab about the dress, blinked, surprised.
Her first instinct was to deny it.
But his face gave no space for lies.
She sighed. Crossed her arms.
"Yes. A man. In the northern gardens."
"Tall, hair... green-gray. Eyes too. Wore noble garments from the south. Had that... constant smile. Like he was amused at my expense."
Michael closed his eyes briefly.
"Young Lord Verdanel," he murmured.
Ligia raised a brow.
"Verdanel? That's the House name. He didn't give me a first name."
Michael moved to the map.
Pointed to a green mark on the far south of the Empire.
"House Verdanel is one of the Four Ducal Houses, like ours. They represent the south."
"Tied to the spiritualist branch. Guardians of ancient rites, moon cults, fertility, rebirth..."
He paused briefly.
"They're also known as the Lords of Renewal."
A hint of sarcasm touched his voice.
"They do enjoy poetic titles."
Ligia mentally noted every detail.
But the image of the man flashed in her mind like a constant alarm.
"He was... strange," she said at last.
"Smiled with his mouth, but not with his eyes. And he knew who I was. Even though we'd never met."
Michael looked at her more intently.
"And what did you conclude from that?"
Ligia hesitated.
Then murmured,
"That he's dangerous. And watching me... like someone calculating the best moment to use me."
Michael didn't smile.
But his eyes — oh, his eyes — glinted with something darker.
Not concern.
Pride.
"Good read."
He stepped away from the map.
"Imperial nobility isn't made of alliances."
"It's made of fragile balances between predators dressed as allies."
His tone hardened.
It was the voice of generations.
Of old generals, dead dukes, ballroom ghosts.
"The Houses are not friends. They coexist out of necessity.
But if one grows too much... the others respond."
Ligia swallowed dry.
Fell silent.
Her gaze fixed on the crest embroidered on the banner by the wall.
The crest that now... she carried in her blood.
And then, steady,
"I'll be ready."
Michael nodded.
He didn't say "I trust you."
He didn't need to.
And Ligia... didn't expect it.