Now came the next item on his mental checklist, one far more daunting than facing down a potentially judgmental Head Cook: visiting his wife. Rosa Siddik. The seventeen-year-old political bride who had, with admirable efficiency and chilling politeness, relegated him to the sofa on their wedding night a week ago. A status quo that had persisted for three long, awkward years in his previous timeline before his untimely, and still frustratingly vague, demise.
He sighed. That had to be sigh number… thirteen? Fourteen? He was losing count, but it felt like a personal best for pre-lunchtime existential angst. Being back in his nineteen-year-old body, brimming with the cynical wisdom and accumulated weariness of an eighty-year-old Earthling, was proving to be a masterclass in cognitive dissonance. His knees didn't creak, but his soul felt ancient.
He approached the door to their shared suite – her room, his mind automatically corrected, a habit ingrained from years of sofa-bound exile. The heavy oak panel, intricately carved with scenes of Ferrum ancestors looking stoic and vaguely disapproving, seemed to loom larger than usual. He paused, his hand hovering over the polished wood.
Okay, Lloyd, game plan, he coached himself internally. Remember Earth. Remember taxes, traffic jams, terrible reality TV. This is just… interpersonal conflict. With potential magic involved. You handled board meetings where executives threw metaphorical staplers at each other. You can handle a frosty teenager.
But could he? Nineteen-year-old Lloyd certainly couldn't. That poor sap had been paralyzed by awkwardness, terrified of conflict, and utterly clueless about navigating the complexities of an arranged marriage, let alone the treacherous currents of noble society. He'd defaulted to passive avoidance, hoping the problem would just… go away. Which, technically, he did, by dying. Not the ideal resolution.
This time, he resolved, steeling himself with the memory of lukewarm instant coffee and the sheer boredom of his second retirement, things will be different. No more Sofa King. Time to actually engage. Even if it's like trying to engage with a particularly beautiful, well-dressed iceberg.
He thought about the System, the tantalizing promise of power flickering at the edge of his awareness. Gaining strength was paramount. But strength in Riverio wasn't just about Spirit Power or Void abilities. It was about influence, alliances, perception. Having his own wife treat him like an inconvenient piece of furniture wasn't exactly projecting strength or stability. If he wanted to survive, let alone thrive and maybe figure out why he died, he needed to change the dynamics within these very walls. Starting now.
He took a deep breath, channeling the calm he used to employ before complex physics simulations or explaining to his Earth grandkids why wifi wasn't actual magic (a surprisingly difficult conversation). In… and out. He knocked, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet hallway. Silence. He knocked again, a fraction louder, firmer.
"What?"
The voice from within was muffled, sharp, laced with impatience. Not exactly a welcoming mat rolled out. More like verbal barbed wire.
Lloyd winced internally but kept his external expression neutral. Progress, not perfection.
"Rosa? It's Lloyd," he called through the thick door, pitching his voice to be clear but not aggressive. "May I come in?"
A beat of silence stretched, long enough for Lloyd to mentally inventory the potential projectiles within the room. Then, a resigned sigh, barely audible. "The door is unlocked."
Not quite a 'yes', but definitely not a 'get lost'. He'd take it. Pushing the heavy door inward, he stepped across the threshold, bracing himself.
The room was as opulent as he remembered. Sunlight streamed through the tall, arched windows, illuminating the rich tapestries depicting pastoral scenes, the gleaming dark wood of the vanity table cluttered with silver-backed brushes and delicate vials, the plush velvet armchair angled towards the fireplace. And dominating the space, the enormous four-poster bed, a fortress of silk sheets and embroidered pillows.
The scent of expensive potpourri, predominantly lavender and something vaguely citrusy, hung in the air. But underneath it, fainter, yet distinct to his slightly re-awakened senses, was a low hum. A subtle vibration of energy, like the thrumming of a plucked string just beyond the range of normal hearing. It centered around the bed.
Rosa sat there, perched not defensively this time, but regally, in the exact center of the mattress. Her legs were crossed in a meditative posture, hands resting palms-up on her knees. Her eyes were closed, long dark lashes brushing against her high cheekbones. Her usual severe hairstyle was slightly loosened, tendrils escaping to frame a face locked in intense concentration. The air around her seemed clearer, sharper. The sunlight didn't just illuminate her; it seemed to cling to her, drawn towards the focus of her power.
She was cultivating. Drawing in the ambient Spirit Energy from the world, funneling it into her core, refining it, making it her own.