The boy stayed still for a second longer, the silence thick around him like a storm cloud—
and then, he moved.
A blur.
A gust of his long coat whipping past.
Gasps broke from the crowd as he dashed through the air with a single, fluid motion, and in less than a heartbeat—he was there.
Right before her.
The imperial guards reacted instantly—blades half-drawn, feet shifting with practiced precision—
"Stand down."
Her voice cut sharper than any sword.
And they froze.
The crowd didn't dare breathe again.
Because the black-eyed boy had not drawn a weapon. He hadn't summoned mana. He hadn't so much as flared a fraction of intent.
He stood before Princess Priscilla Lysandra with his head gently bowed—not low, not groveling, but respectful.
Measured.
Balanced.
The white cat still perched on his shoulder let out a soft rumble, as if protesting the sudden movement, then returned to its lounging silence, tail curling around the back of his neck.
And then, he spoke. Smooth. Calm.
