Chapter : 885
He was trapped in a perfect, beautiful, and career-ending checkmate. To defy her would be treason. To obey her would be to sanction an act that his every instinct told him was a fundamental violation of the sacred laws he had sworn his life to uphold.
He looked from the serene, veiled figure in the Royal Box to the quiet, unassuming, and now deeply, profoundly mysterious man in the healer’s robes. And he did the only thing a man in his position could do. He temporized.
“Your Highness,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly, and deeply respectful rumble, though the confusion in his one good eye was a raging storm. “Your word is, of course, law. But the rules of the Challenge, as written by your own grandfather, the great Sultan Asad Ullah, are clear. No challenger over the age of twenty-five is permitted to compete. The power displayed by this man… it is, by all known measures, the power of a man of far greater years. Forgive my impertinence, Your Highness, but for the sake of the integrity of the Challenge… how can you be so certain?”
It was a masterful, and incredibly dangerous, piece of political maneuvering. He had not defied her. He had simply asked for a clarification, a piece of evidence, a reason that he could enter into his official report. He was asking her to show her hand, to reveal the source of her impossible, absolute knowledge.
The entire arena seemed to lean forward as one, waiting for her answer. The mystery of the challenger’s power had been momentarily eclipsed by the new, and even more fascinating, mystery of the Princess’s certainty.
Lloyd himself was at the heart of this new storm, and his mind was racing. He had, in his own, arrogant brilliance, failed to account for this. He had been so focused on the reactions of the crowd, on the predictable moves of the knights, that he had never once considered that a member of the royal family would simply… declare him innocent, and in doing so, create an even bigger, and more dangerous, puzzle. He quickly ran through his own analysis, his mind arriving at the same, inevitable, and deeply unsettling conclusion he had reached before. Sumaiya. It had to be.
He looked up at the Princess, a silent, desperate prayer in his mind. Just say her name. Just say you trusted your attendant. Give me the logical, plausible out.
The Princess Amina stood at the balustrade, a picture of serene, regal calm. She let the knight’s question, and the collective, unspoken question of the entire arena, hang in the air for a long, dramatic moment. She was a master of the stage, and she knew the power of a perfectly timed pause.
When she finally spoke, her voice was a cool, clear, and utterly unassailable instrument of pure, royal authority.
“I am certain, Sir Knight,” she said, her voice carrying to every corner of the silent arena, “because I am the Princess of this kingdom. And it is my business to know the truth of the matters that concern it.”
He had to speak with her.
He began to walk towards the grand staircase that led to the Royal Box, his movements slow, deliberate, and imbued with a new, quiet authority. The crowd, which was now buzzing with a thousand different, wild theories about the secret, and likely very scandalous, relationship between the slum doctor and the veiled princess, parted before him like the sea before a prophet. The mockery and the scorn were a distant memory, replaced by a new, potent mixture of awe, fear, and a burning, insatiable curiosity.
He reached the base of the stairs just as the Princess and her magnificent, intimidating entourage were beginning their descent. The two Guards of Amiras at the front of the procession, their gilded, lion-faced helms seeming to snarl in the sunlight, immediately moved to block his path. They did not draw their weapons. They did not need to. Their sheer, silent, and immovable presence was a statement more powerful than any drawn blade. They were a wall of pure, disciplined steel and absolute, unwavering loyalty, and he was not on the list of approved visitors.
Lloyd stopped. He did not challenge them. He was a master of reading power dynamics, and he knew that to force a confrontation here would be a foolish, and very public, mistake. He simply stood, his head bowed in a gesture of profound respect, a humble subject seeking a moment’s audience with his royal benefactor.
The Princess, who was descending the stairs behind her guards, paused. She looked down at the disheveled, blood-and-sweat-stained figure of the slum doctor, at the man who had, in the space of a single afternoon, become the single most talked-about, most mysterious, and most controversial figure in her entire kingdom.
For a long, tense moment, the entire arena seemed to hold its breath again. The veiled, enigmatic Princess and the humble, miraculous doctor, a world apart in station, were locked in a silent, public standoff.
Then, to the profound, collective shock of every noble, every guard, and every commoner who was watching, the Princess did something that was so far outside the bounds of royal protocol that it was almost a scandal in itself.
She spoke a single, quiet word to her guards. “Stand down.”
The two massive, armored sentinels hesitated for a fraction of a second, as if they could not believe the order. But the command had been absolute. They stepped aside, their movements stiff and reluctant, opening a path for the strange, slum doctor.
Lloyd raised his head, his eyes meeting the Princess’s veiled, unreadable gaze. He ascended the first few steps of the staircase, stopping a respectful ten feet below her, and he gave another, deep, and sincere bow.
“Your Highness,” he said, his voice the quiet, humble tone of Doctor Zayn, but now it was filled with a raw, genuine, and deeply profound gratitude. “I… I do not have the words to express my thanks. You have saved me from a great injustice. I do not know what angel whispered in your ear, what convinced you to believe in the word of a humble man like myself, but you have my eternal, unwavering gratitude.”
He was, of course, fishing. He was offering her the perfect, elegant opportunity to mention Sumaiya, to confirm his theory that his loyal assistant had been the source of her conviction. He was laying a gentle, conversational trap, hoping to catch the truth of her motives.
The Princess was silent for a moment, her dark, intelligent eyes studying him from behind the thin, silk screen of her veil. He could almost feel the weight of her analytical gaze, the sharp, brilliant mind that was dissecting his every word, his every gesture.
“The whispers of angels are for poets and priests, Doctor,” she said at last, her voice a cool, melodic hum. “I do not deal in faith. I deal in facts. And the fact is, you are a legitimate victor. The matter is closed.”