Chapter : 887
It was a masterful, and deeply frustrating, deflection. She had not taken the bait. She had not mentioned Sumaiya. She had not given him a single, useful clue. She had simply stated her judgment as a matter of absolute, and completely unexplained, royal authority.
The procession began to move again, the Princess and her retinue continuing their slow, stately descent down the stairs. The moment, the opportunity, was about to be lost.
Lloyd knew he had one final, desperate card to play. It was a move of profound, almost suicidal, audacity, a breach of protocol so severe that it could have him arrested for impertinence. But he had to know.
“Your Highness!” he called out, his voice a little too loud, a little too desperate, a clear violation of the respectful silence that was supposed to accompany a royal departure.
“Your attendant,” he said, his voice now a low, gentle murmur. “The one who escorted me to the Qadir estate. Sumaiya. She is a woman of incredible character, of a profound and selfless compassion. A mistress who can inspire such loyalty in a servant is a woman of true, and rare, quality. I only wish to thank you, Your Highness, for trusting in her judgment of me.”
He had done it. He had laid all his cards on the table. He had explicitly linked his own gratitude, and his own fate, to that of her trusted attendant. He had forced her hand.
The Princess was silent for a long, profound, and deeply unreadable moment. The entire world seemed to be waiting for her response.
And then, she gave a small, almost imperceptible, nod.
She spoke a few, quiet, and absolutely world-shattering words to the captain of her guard. “Dismiss the retinue. The doctor will be accompanying me back to the palace. Alone.”
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The Princess’s command was a thunderclap in the silent, expectant atmosphere of the arena’s grand entrance. It was a statement so far outside the bounds of reason, so profoundly and shockingly contrary to every known rule of royal protocol, that for a moment, no one moved. The Captain of the Guards of Amira, a woman whose entire existence was a monument to discipline and order, simply stared at her mistress, her mind clearly struggling to process the impossible, and frankly insane, order she had just been given.
“Your… Highness?” Captain Angelica stammered, her voice a low, incredulous whisper. “Alone? With… with him?” She did not need to elaborate. ‘Him’ was the disheveled, blood-and-sweat-stained, and deeply mysterious slum doctor, a man who, less than an hour ago, had been a complete and utter nobody, and who was now, apparently, about to be granted a private, unsupervised audience with the heir to the throne. It was not just a breach of protocol; it was a security nightmare of catastrophic proportions.
The Princess did not turn to look at her captain. Her gaze remained fixed on Lloyd, her expression still a perfect, unreadable mystery behind her veil. “You have your orders, Captain,” she said, her voice as calm, as cool, and as absolute as a glacier. “Dismiss the retinue. Secure the perimeter. The doctor and I have matters of a… delicate nature to discuss. We will not be disturbed.”
The finality in her tone was a thing of iron and diamonds. It was not a request; it was the unshakeable will of a monarch. Captain Angelica, for all her training, for all her authority, was still a servant. She bowed her head, her posture a stiff, reluctant admission of defeat. “As you command, Your Highness.”
Chapter : 888
She turned and, with a series of sharp, angry hand signals, began to dismiss the royal procession. The Guards of Amiras, their own confusion and disapproval a palpable, almost shimmering, aura around them, reluctantly broke their cordon. The eunuch servants, their faces blank masks of perfect, professional obedience, returned the empty palanquin to its place. The entire, magnificent, and intimidating apparatus of royal power was being dismantled, piece by piece, on the order of a single, quiet command.
A fresh wave of shocked, disbelieving, and absolutely delicious gossip erupted among the remaining nobles and commoners who were close enough to witness the incredible, scandalous scene. The Princess was not just protecting the slum doctor; she was taking him. Alone. Into her carriage. The implications were so wild, so lurid, so fantastically improbable, that the rumor mill would be feasting on this moment for months, if not years, to come.
Lloyd himself was in a state of profound, and deeply satisfying, shock. His audacious, last-ditch gambit had not just succeeded; it had succeeded beyond his wildest, most optimistic projections. He had been hoping for a small opening, a quiet word, a future invitation. He had not, in his most arrogant dreams, anticipated this. A private, one-on-one audience, granted in the most public and most dramatic way possible. He had wanted to understand her motives. Now, it seemed, she was about to explain them to him personally.
The grand, royal carriage, a magnificent creation of polished black lacquer and gleaming gold leaf, was brought around. It was a fortress on wheels, its windows made of thick, magically reinforced crystal, its crest, the roaring lion of Zakaria, emblazoned on its doors.
The Princess, with a graceful, almost imperceptible nod, gestured for him to enter first. It was another, subtle, but profound, breach of protocol. The commoner was being invited to precede the royal. It was a statement, a clear and public declaration of his new, elevated, and deeply mysterious status.
Lloyd, playing his part of the overwhelmed, humble doctor to perfection, hesitated for a moment, his eyes wide with a feigned, fearful awe. He gave a small, almost subservient, bow and then climbed the short, carpeted steps into the carriage, his heart a steady, triumphant drum.
He stepped into a small, opulent world of silk cushions, polished cedarwood, and the faint, clean scent of lavender and old, expensive leather. The interior of the carriage was a masterpiece of quiet, restrained luxury, a mobile version of the Sultan’s own private solar. It was a space designed for quiet contemplation, and for secret, high-level conversations.
He sat on one of the plush, cushioned benches, his posture a little too stiff, his hands placed awkwardly on his knees. He was the perfect picture of a poor man who has accidentally stumbled into a king’s treasury.
A moment later, the Princess entered, her movements a silent, fluid grace. She took the seat opposite him, the door of the carriage closing behind her with a soft, final, and deeply significant click.
They were alone. The world outside, with its roaring crowds, its political intrigues, its assassins and its spies, was shut out. All that remained was this small, quiet, and intensely charged space. And the two players of the great, and very strange, game.
The carriage lurched slightly as it began to move, its journey smooth and silent on its perfectly engineered suspension. For a long, profound, and deeply awkward minute, neither of them spoke. Lloyd remained in his posture of humble, nervous silence, his gaze fixed on his own dusty boots. The Princess sat opposite him, a still, regal, and utterly unreadable figure, the silk of her veil a barrier between their two worlds.
Lloyd knew, with the instincts of a master strategist, that the first move in this new, intimate game had to be his. He had to reinforce the persona, to re-establish the narrative that had brought him here.
He finally raised his head, his eyes filled with a raw, genuine, and profoundly grateful light. “Your Highness,” he began, his voice the soft, humble tone of Zayn, a voice that was now thick with an almost overwhelming emotion. “Again, I must thank you. I… I still do not understand why you have shown me such favor. But the debt I owe you is one I can never hope to repay.”