Chapter 109: Mask of Devotion: Calibrating the Tyrant’s Heart

The words hung in the vast, dead air of the dining hall, heavy and frustratingly calm, giving off obsessive vibes.

Florianthum swallowed hard, forcing the dry lump down her throat.

The cold panic in her chest didn’t leave, but she smoothed it over with a practiced, elegant mask.

She couldn’t fight him physically- not in this heavy velvet trap, not with her vision still swimming at the edges.

She took a slow, deliberate breath, letting her hands fall gracefully to her sides, smoothing the thick, bruised-red folds of the gown.

When she looked up, her eyes were no longer wide with terror.

They were soft, shining with a carefully measured devotion.

"My esteemed Lord,"

she said, her voice dropping into a low, silk-smooth melody that masked the trembling in her jaw.

"You mistake my exhaustion for a lack of respect. I have spent these past days doing nothing but securing rankers’ army among the valid required skills of the court and your protection."

Her voice soften as she continued,

"If the wine took me, it was only because my mind finally found peace knowing I was safely within your walls."

She stood and took a small, elegant step forward, the velvet rustling softly against the marble.

Shhhk.

"The council ledgers, I wanted to talk about them earlier," she continued, offering a faint, sorrowful smile that looked perfectly genuine.

"I did not bring this topic out of malice. We live in your sacred world where the system dictates our every rise and fall. The sky’s age defines us as your blessings, my Lord Highness."

She finally walked a few steps and stood just beside his throne. Her voice was diligent and calm, like a powerful queen as usual.

"...it has always been old but powerful, bleeding us dry, yet making us stronger than ever! "

She paused a bit, and sighed with concern. Then again she continued,

"While we carry its laws in our pockets like hidden debts, why hidden when we love to protect you? I can never imagine that something bad would happen to you."

The King Lord smiled while having the next piece of his steak, cutting and eating it with the fork.

"Lordess, you can speak directly."

His eyes still focused on the food.

"I brought you the records earlier to prove my standing, to ensure that if this goes like what it is... How I’ll live without you?"

She keeps her long fingers on the royal banquet table, besides his cuisine,

"Our mutual interests remain unbroken it states... What I’ll do of it after anything happens---"

I remember the whole thing, her mind hissed in the dark, frantic behind the calm facade of her face. I remember the bathhouse.

The memory hit her like a splash of scalding water.

Right after the wine had stained her midnight-silk gown, he had taken her into the steaming, echoing stone chambers of the royal bath.

He had been strange there... unusually close, fingers digging into her shoulders, clingy in a way that made her skin crawl.

And then, the air had died.

A massive, roaring wind had ripped through the steam out of nowhere, shattering the high windows.

A voice like an angry god had torn through the rafters, booming with an impossible, heavy pressure that crushed the King’s monstrous ego in an instant, ripping the very buttons off his shirt until they exploded across the wet tiles like shrapnel.

Lord Vilucious had shrunk under that voice. He had been terrified.

He is trying to rebuild his broken pride right now, she realized, her pulse doing a quiet, erratic dance beneath her skin.

He is hiding behind this stiff doublet because the god in the bathhouse stripped him bare. He thinks this tight uniform makes him look strong again.

Vilucious didn’t move.

He stood by the corner of the long walnut table, his light grey glass eyes scanning her face for any tear in the fabric of her performance.

The heavy silence was broken by the sharp, metallic clack of the double doors at the far end of the hall swinging open.

One of Lord Vilucious’s secret militants stepped into the white glare of the chandeliers, clad in silent, midnight-grey leather.

Tucked securely under his arm was Vermonia: the pristine, white cat, her pale fur contrasting sharply against the dark leather.

Walking just behind the militant was the palace kitchen chef, his face pale, keeping his eyes glued to the floor as he carried a covered silver tray.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The militant’s boots made a rigid, disciplined sound on the marble as they approached the table.

Without a word, the militant set Vermonia down on the glossy dark wood.

The white cat didn’t seem bothered by the cold environment; she merely stretched her front paws forward, her long white tail curling lazily around the untouched silver goblet.

The chef stepped forward next, his hands shaking slightly as he placed the silver tray next to the cat and lifted the lid, revealing tiny, perfectly squared cuts of fresh liver.

The Lord waved his pale hand, a dismissive gesture that sent both the militant and the chef scurrying backward into the shadows of the doorway.

Clink.

Vilucious picked up a small silver fork from the tray. He didn’t look at Florianthum anymore.

His entire focus shifted to the white cat.

He broke off a tiny piece of the meat and held it out on the silver tines.

Vermonia sniffed it once, her pink nose twitching, before delicately taking the meat from the fork with a faint, wet smack of her jaws.

"You speak of old skies and loyalty towards the Kingdom, Florianthum,"

Vilucious said softly, his voice dropping into that terrifying, flat calm as he watched the cat chew.

"Yet even the most loyal beasts require constant... calibration."

Shhh.

The sound of the kitchen double doors swinging shut died out, leaving the dining hall in a heavy, stagnant silence.

Vermonia did not touch the meat.

Instead, the white cat suddenly lifted a single, elegant paw and firmly shoved the silver tray of fresh liver to the side, sending it sliding across the glossy wood away from her.

Clink.

The tray bumped against the edge of the untouched silver goblet.

Vermonia didn’t even look at the food.

Instead, she leaned her weight back onto her haunches, her spine relaxing.

Her long, pale tail began to sweep lazily across the dark, polished walnut wood, the fur brushing against the surface with a gentle, comforting swish-swish-swish.

Her light blue eyes fixed entirely on the King Lord, blinking with a sudden, strange, and soothing affection.

Florianthum took her cue instantly.

She leaned forward, letting her long fingers slide just a fraction closer to his plate on the royal banquet table, her entire posture shifting into a display of deep, desperate vulnerability.

"We were in the bathhouse, my Lord Highness,"

She murmured, her voice cracking just enough to sound fragile, yet perfectly smooth.

She tilted her chin up, letting her eyes map the rigid lines of his jaw, down to the stiff, high collar of his doublet.

"Your neck... are you fine? I saw the pressure of that horrific wind. As your Lady Lordess, I truly care for you. I cannot simply let this chaos slide while your safety is at stake."

Thump-thump, thump-thump.

Behind the flawless, shining devotion in her eyes, her mind completely anchored itself in him.

Please be alright, her thoughts pleaded.

A sudden, fierce wave of protective warmth flooded her chest.

She allowed herself to feel the raw weight of his vulnerability, letting her heart ache for the proud, broken king before her.

She forced every ounce of her spirit to soften. A genuine flush rose to her cheeks, and a soft tremble shook her hands.

It wasn’t just a mask anymore.

She let the care consume her entirely, radiating a deep, all-encompassing affection from every single line of her body, desperate to shield him from whatever monster had stripped him bare in the steam.

Vilucious did not answer right away. His light grey fluid like eyes dropped first to the white cat.

Prrrrrt.

Vermonia let out a low, vibrating purr.

She stepped forward, nudging her wet pink nose right against the King’s pale knuckles, completely ignoring the food she had pushed away.

Her tail wagged faster now, a rhythmic, loving tap against the dark wood.

Slowly, the King lowered his head.

The stiff part of his collar creaked against his skin as he bent down, pressing his thin lips right against the cat’s cheek, just beside her long, white whiskers.

Smack.

It was a tiny, dry sound of a kiss against fur.

Florianthum felt a sudden, involuntary jolt in her chest. Without thinking, her hand left the table.

Her long fingers rose to gently touch the curve of her own cheek, right where the skin felt hot and exposed under the bright glare of the chandeliers.

Vilucious pulled back from the cat.

His gaze slowly dragged upward, his light grey eyes locking onto Florianthum’s face.

He tracked the slow movement of her hand against her skin. A cold, faint smirk played at the edge of his mouth, though his eyes remained entirely dead.

"So,"

Vilucious said softly, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that cut through the quiet room.

"You really do have affection."