Chapter : 891
Lloyd sat perfectly still, his mind, which had been a raging, chaotic sea of shock and disbelief, was now a frozen, silent, and perfectly clear lake of ice. The emotional response—the humiliation, the anger, the grudging, professional admiration—had been ruthlessly suppressed. The Major General was back in command. He had been compromised. His cover was blown. His entire operation was on the verge of catastrophic failure. This was no longer a game of manipulation; it was a crisis, and it required a new, and immediate, tactical assessment.
He analyzed the woman opposite him, not as Sumaiya, the compassionate friend, not as Amina, the enigmatic princess, but as a hostile, or potentially hostile, entity. He cataloged her known assets: a brilliant, strategic mind that was at least the equal of his own. A deep, and now proven, mastery of disguise and social infiltration. An intimate, and likely comprehensive, knowledge of his own activities, both as the doctor and as the challenger. And, of course, the entire, overwhelming power of the Zakarian throne at her disposal.
The conclusion of his assessment was simple, brutal, and undeniable. He was, by every conceivable metric, completely, utterly, and hopelessly outmatched. He was a foreign agent, operating on hostile territory, and he had just been cornered by the enemy’s queen.
Any move he made—violence, escape, further deception—would be a futile, and likely fatal, gesture. He had only one viable, strategic option left.
The truth. Or at least, a carefully edited, and strategically advantageous, version of it.
He slowly, deliberately, broke the silence. He did not speak as the humbled Zayn. He did not speak as the silent Challenger. He spoke, for the first time, with the quiet, inherent authority of a man who was accustomed to power.
“You have played a magnificent game, Your Highness,” he said, his voice a low, calm, and perfectly steady baritone. The respect in his tone was genuine, the admiration of one master for another. “I confess, I did not see you at all. It was a flawless performance.”
Amina’s smile, which had been so triumphant and so mocking, softened into something more genuine, more appreciative. He had not crumbled. He had not blustered or made excuses. He had conceded the loss with the grace and the dignity of a true grandmaster.
“As was yours, Doctor,” she replied, her own voice now shedding the last, lingering traces of Sumaiya’s gentle humility, and taking on the full, resonant timbre of her royal authority. “The ‘Saint of the Coil.’ A beautiful, and almost perfect, piece of theater. The selfless healer, the tragic warrior, the reluctant hero. You had the entire kingdom, including my own father, eating out of the palm of your hand.”
“Almost perfect?” he queried, a flicker of his own professional pride stung by the qualifier.
“Almost,” she confirmed, her dark eyes gleaming with a new, intellectual light. “You made one, small, and very human mistake. You were too good. Too perfect. Miracles, I have found, are rarely so neat. And men who can command demons of fire do not, as a rule, possess the gentle, patient soul of a true saint. The contradiction was… too beautiful to be true. It made me curious.”
So that had been it. His own, masterful performance had been the very thing that had unraveled him. He had created a character so compelling, so mythically perfect, that it had triggered the suspicions of the one person in the kingdom who was intelligent enough to see the lie at the heart of the beautiful story.
“And Sumaiya?” he asked, the question not just a tactical inquiry, but a personal one. “Was any of that real?”
A new, strange, and almost wistful expression crossed her face. “More than you might think,” she said softly. “The palace is a gilded cage. The life of a princess is a life of profound, and very public, loneliness. To walk through the city as a nobody, to serve, to help, to be a part of the real, messy, and beautifully human world… it is a freedom that is more precious to me than any crown.” She looked at him, and for a moment, he saw a glimpse of the genuine, compassionate woman he had known in the clinic. “The work we did, the people we helped… that was not a performance. That was the most real thing I have done in my entire life.”
The confession was a disarming, and deeply strategic, move. She was offering him a small, genuine piece of her own truth, a gesture of goodwill, an invitation to a more honest, and more productive, conversation.
He accepted the offering. “The boy,” he said, his voice now stripped of all artifice. “Tariq Qadir. I did not lie about his condition. Or the cure.”
Chapter : 892
“I know,” she replied. “My father’s own spymaster confirmed every detail of your miracle. Which only deepened the mystery. A man who possesses a divine and secret healing art, and a man who can shatter the Demon of Jahl, do not, as a rule, inhabit the same body. You are a paradox, Zayn. A puzzle. And my father, and I, are very, very interested in the solution.”
She had just laid the kingdom’s cards on the table. They knew of his power. They knew of his deeds. And they were not treating him as an enemy. They were treating him as a new, powerful, and incredibly valuable piece on the great board. They were not seeking to capture him; they were seeking to recruit him.
The crisis was not a crisis at all. It was a job interview.
Lloyd’s mind, which had been preparing for a desperate, last-ditch battle for survival, now shifted gears with a breathtaking speed. The objective was no longer to escape. The objective was to negotiate.
“Your Highness is correct,” he said, his voice the calm, measured tone of a diplomat. “I am a man of… certain, unique talents. And I have come to your kingdom with a specific purpose. A purpose that I believe aligns with the interests of the Zakarian throne.”
He had just made his opening move in this new, and far more honest, game. He was not a threat; he was a potential ally.
Amina’s smile returned, this time a true, genuine, and deeply appreciative smile of a fellow strategist. “I thought as much,” she said. “My father is a man who respects ambition. Especially when it is backed by the kind of power you have so… dramatically… demonstrated.” She leaned forward, her expression now one of pure, focused, and mutually beneficial business. “So, tell me, Doctor. What is it, precisely, that you want from my kingdom? And what, in return, are you offering?”
The humble healer and the compassionate attendant were gone. The masked challenger and the veiled princess were a memory. In the quiet, opulent, and now intensely charged space of the royal carriage, the Saint of Rizvan and a Princess of the South were about to begin the delicate, dangerous, and world-altering process of forging a new, and very powerful, alliance.
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Lloyd regarded the woman opposite him, a silent, appreciative moment of professional respect passing between them. The game of masks was over, and the true, exhilarating game of power had begun. He had been so focused on his own intricate deceptions that he had failed to recognize a fellow master at work. The realization was both humbling and intensely stimulating.
He met her direct, intelligent gaze with one of his own. The time for humility and misdirection was past. It was time for a man of power to speak to his equal.
“My needs are simple, Your Highness,” he began, his voice a calm, resonant baritone that filled the small space with a new, and very real, authority. “I require a stable, reliable, and exclusive supply of high-grade Lilith Stones. And I require a secure, private, and well-funded space in which to conduct my… research.”
He had laid his needs on the table, a direct, and almost breathtakingly arrogant, opening bid. He was not just asking for a resource; he was asking for a royal monopoly and a state-sponsored secret laboratory.
Amina’s eyebrow arched in a gesture of cool, aristocratic amusement. “A simple request,” she said, her voice dripping with a dry, elegant irony. “You ask for the keys to my family’s treasury and a secluded corner of the kingdom in which to perform your secret works. And in return for this… profound generosity?”
“In return,” Lloyd replied, his voice a low, confident hum, “I will give your kingdom the future.”
He did not elaborate. He let the simple, audacious, and utterly magnificent statement hang in the air between them, a promise so vast, so profound, that it was either the ravings of a madman or the declaration of a god.
Amina was silent for a long, contemplative moment. She studied his face, searching his eyes for any hint of delusion, of bravado. She found none. She saw only the calm, unshakeable certainty of a man who was speaking a simple, and terrifying, truth.
“The future,” she repeated softly, the words tasting strange and wonderful on her tongue. “That is a bold claim, Doctor. Even for a man who can conjure mountains of fire.”