Chapter 70: Clerk’s Jealousy: He Kneels to Rule Her Heart?

Floriantum did not look at Fukuro. Her gaze remained fixed on the shadow where Cassius stood, her features hardening into a mask of sharp, aristocratic disdain.

When she spoke, her voice carried a biting, deliberate clarity, meant entirely for the heavy frame lingering in the gloom.

"The dumbest thing I have ever expected," she said, the words cutting through the damp chill of the passage, yet not reachable to Cassius.

"He does not listen. He simply assumes the world bends to his silence. If even a single thread of this madness uncurls incorrectly, Fukuro, you know the consequences. For all of us."

Cassius did not blink as he guessed that it were the regular harsh words. Instead, his massive frame shifted away from the rotting pillar. Slowly, deliberately, the giant bent his knees, lowering his bulk toward the soot-covered floorboards.

The old timber gave a low, agonizing creak under his weight. With agonizingly calm precision, he set the blank paper, the ink vial, and the ridiculous pink flamingo quill flat against the dirt.

Then, he stood back up to his full, towering height and began to walk toward them.

The sheer mass of him moving through the narrow passage caused the low ceiling to feel even tighter. Watching the giant advance, the words died instantly in Floriantum’s throat. Her posture stiffened, her breath catching as the distance between them evaporated.

Cassius stopped right in front of her, his shadow swallowing her completely. He looked directly down into her eyes, his dark grey gaze heavy and unreadable. Before she could demand an explanation, he suddenly raised his right hand.

He placed a single, massive index finger firmly against his own lips. Gesturing: Shh.

What? The thought flared frantically in Floriantum’s mind. Confusion and a sudden spike of adrenaline rushed through her chest.

But before she could pull away or demand what game he was playing, Cassius reached down. His calloused, soot-stained hand was surprisingly warm against the freezing chill of her skin. He did not grab her roughly; instead, his large fingers slid smoothly between hers, interlocking his fingers tightly into her hand.

A sharp, microscopic gasp escaped Floriantum’s throat; a soft, involuntary sound of absolute shock that cut through the dead silence of the basement.

Instantly realizing what she had done, she slapped her free hand over her own mouth, sealing the rest of the sound behind her palm. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Her hazel eyes widened behind her aristocratic mask, staring up at him in utter disbelief as the giant gently, unyieldingly, began to lead her forward into the dark, pulling her along in his wake.

Cassius didn’t stop. He kept walking, pulling Floriantum along as if she were a vital, quiet anchor. His bare foot crunched into the debris as he led her out of the narrow corridor and back toward the wider, decaying heart of the ruined basement where structural pillars met the damp stone floor.

Passing an old, discarded wooden desk that lay half-buried under fallen plaster, Cassius didn’t even break his stride. With his free hand... the one not locked intimately within hers; he reached down, hooked his thick fingers under the heavy oak edge, and lifted the massive piece of furniture entirely off the ground with a single, effortless grunt.

He dragged it along for a few paces, the wood groaning against the strain, before slamming it down onto a clear patch of the stone floor with a dull, echoing thud.

A cloud of choking grey dust erupted from the surface.

Through the haze, Cassius turned his head. He shot a single, sharp look back toward the corridor where Fukuro was hovering in the shadows. It was a flat, piercing glare that screamed a single, unyielding command: Clean it.

Fukuro jolted as if struck by lightning. "Ah! Yes, right away, instantly, moving!" he squeaked, scrambling forward so fast his boots nearly slipped out from under him.

Mid-sprint, Fukuro’s hands became a frantic blur. He pinched his fingers together in the air, tapping into his clothes-needling magic. With a sharp, localized zip-snap sound, the threads of his own sleeve rippled violently, detaching and weaving themselves mid-air into a neat, square piece of grey cloth.

He caught the freshly conjured rag out of the sky and threw himself onto the table like a man scrubbing for his life.

He polished the wood with exaggerated, violent circles, his lopsided glasses bouncing wildly on the bridge of his nose. He blew furiously at the stubborn dust bunnies, coughing into his elbow while maintaining a terrified, toothy grin directed entirely at Cassius.

With one final, dramatic flourish, he wiped the surface until it practically gleamed in the greasy dark, tossed the rag over his shoulder, and stood rigidly at attention, panting heavily.

Cassius didn’t acknowledge the performance. He turned his attention back to Floriantum. Slowly, he released his grip on her hand, though the lingering warmth of his palm stayed behind on her skin.

He extended his arm, flattening his massive hand toward the newly cleaned surface in a silent, formal invitation. He was offering her a seat.

Floriantum looked at the table. Then she looked down at her own attire. Her jaw tightened behind her stoic mask.

The table was unusually tall, its top surface resting at a height that meant she couldn’t simply slide onto it with her usual aristocratic grace. To get up there, a high-ranking, formidable soldier of Lord Vilucious would have to clumsily hoist herself up, risking an undignified scramble that completely defied her stature.

He expects me to climb this like a common stable hand? she thought, a flash of pure, haughty resentment burning through her veins. Her eyes narrowed into a cold, lethal glare, her posture rigid with an immediate discomfort she refused to voice.

Cassius caught the subtle shift instantly. The slight tilt of her chin, the hardening of her eyes... he read her pride like an open ledger.

Without a word, he moved. He stepped directly into her personal space, his massive frame blotting out the room. In one smooth, heavy motion, he dropped his weight, sinking down until one knee pressed firmly against the soot-stained stone floor. He took the classic, low stance of a knight presenting himself to a sovereign.

Before Floriantum could even register the gesture, Cassius brought both of his calloused hands together. He cupped them tightly, palms upward, and positioned them directly above his raised thigh, creating a sturdy, flesh-and-bone stirrup.

He didn’t look up, but his posture was absolute.

He was offering his own body as a stepping ladder. First her boot on his solid thigh, then into the cradle of his locked hands, providing a seamless, effortless ascent onto the table without a single ounce of her dignity being compromised.

Floriantum did not let her hesitation show. Suppressing a sharp intake of breath, she lifted the hem of her uniform and pressed the heavy sole of her leather boot directly onto Cassius’s tensed thigh.

The moment her weight shifted onto him, Cassius immediately snapped his head to the side. He locked his gaze onto the far, dark corner of the cellar, completely refusing to look at her as she ascended. With his face turned away, his locked hands remained perfectly steady, rising with mechanical precision as she stepped into the cradle of his palms.

The sheer, unyielding strength of his grip didn’t waiver for a single second. Borrowing the effortless momentum of his lifting hands, Floriantum glided upward and swung her legs gracefully onto the high wooden table, settling onto the polished surface with the exact, unblemished dignity of a high-ranking commander.

Standing a few paces away in the shadows, Fukuro watched the entire display unfold. His jaw dropped so low his lopsided glasses nearly slid clean off his face.

You giant, conniving, muscle-brained parasite! Fukuro screamed in the absolute silence of his own mind, his teeth gritting together so hard the enamel practically clicked.

He glared at the back of Cassius’s head with a furious, twitching intensity. Look at him! Posing like some tragic, chivalrous knight from a cheap romance chronicle! Kneeling down like a literal footstool just to win her favor!

Fukuro’s chest heaved with a mixture of comical outrage and pure, bitter jealousy.

I literally just conjured a fresh rag from my own sleeve and scrubbed that entire table until my knuckles bled, and he gets the credit?

Fukuro continued to fume internally, his hands curling into pathetic, trembling little fists at his sides but as soon as Florianthum looked at him for a second, his outer expressions became totally opposite off his inner feelings as he was showing all his thirty-two teeth like a formal smile.

Cassius rose in one smooth motion, stepped over to the writing supplies, and scooped them from the floor. Moving with deliberate care, he laid the blank paper onto the polished wood right beside Floriantum.

He wrapped his thick fingers around the ink jar and twisted the seal with a sharp, controlled pop, setting the open glass safely on the far corner to ensure not a single stray drop could ruin the Lordess’s immaculate uniform.

Finally, holding the ridiculous, glitter-coated spine of the pink flamingo feather between his massive fingers, he extended his arm and handed the quill directly into her palm.

From the shadows, Fukuro’s eye twitched so violently his lopsided glasses nearly wobbled off his face.

Oh, look at him! Look at the gentle giant go! Fukuro shrieked in the absolute silence of his own mind, his teeth grinding in hysterical bitterness.

Mr. Thoughtful! Mr. Immaculate Manners! A brute who cut down a monster militant on my face in the dark of the King’s palace is suddenly terrified of a stray ink smudge on the Lordess?

Fukuro’s hands curled and his mind shouted into pathetic, trembling little fists as Cassius handed over the quill. And he uses my feather! My brilliant, majestic, beautifully pink discovery! The oversized thief is playing the board and using me as a cheap inkwell!

Floriantum dipped the sharp tip of the garish pink feather into the ink. Her eyes locked onto Cassius’s face one last time, searching for a crack in his stone facade, before she dropped her gaze to the blank sheet.

A crisp, rhythmic scratch-scratch broke the dead silence as she slashed a few quick, jagged lines across the paper. She didn’t write a protocol. She didn’t write a plan.

With a sharp flick of her wrist, she left the quill standing upright in the jar. She remained seated on the high table, her boots dangling over the edge, staring down at the fresh, wet ink as a heavy, tense silence settled back over the basement.