Louis heard the request clearly.
For a moment, he simply stood there, looking at Noah—genuinely caught off guard. Not offended. Not angered. Just… surprised.
They had never spoken.
No shared training. No rivalry. No conflict.
Nothing that would justify this.
His gaze sharpened as he studied Noah more carefully, searching for the obvious answer. He followed Noah's line of sight instinctively, expecting it to drift toward Natasha.
It didn't.
Noah's eyes were fixed squarely on him.
That gave Louis pause.
Slowly, his attention shifted—not to Noah, but to the three men standing behind him. Their expressions were loose. Casual. Amused. Too familiar with one another.
Understanding dawned.
It wasn't about Natasha.
It was about him.
Whether it was boredom, irritation, or a need for amusement, they had chosen him—deliberately. A target. Something to poke. Something to provoke.
Louis didn't know why.
But the realization settled quietly.
And without his noticing—
A smile crept onto his face.
A sharp voice cut through the hall.
"Bastard! Why are you smiling?"
The word snapped him out of his thoughts. Louis blinked and raised his head, startled. His hand rose instinctively, fingers brushing his mouth.
He froze.
He was smiling.
No—grinning.
Wide. Unrestrained. Almost from ear to ear.
A breath escaped him, followed by a low, quiet laugh. Not loud enough to echo. Not soft enough to hide. A teasing sound, meant for no one but himself.
Only then did he take in the hall.
The atmosphere had shifted.
Not outrage. Not shock.
Discomfort.
A weight pressed down on the room, subtle but undeniable. It didn't care for rank or level. Some felt it more faintly than others—but everyone felt it.
Louis didn't.
Instead, memory stirred—not of warmth or affection, but of reactions. Of how people used to look at him back in his old world whenever he smiled like this. Supervisors who stiffened. Teachers who snapped. Strangers who suddenly felt challenged—insulted, even—by something they couldn't name. It was never hatred. Just something about that grin that unsettled them—something that made tempers flare and hands move before thought caught up. A shove. A slap. A sharp word meant to put him back in place. Louis had learned long ago that this smile invited confrontation, even when he hadn't meant it to.
It made people angry.
It made them uneasy.
Louis exhaled slowly and forced the grin down, schooling his expression back into neutrality. Then he looked directly at Noah.
"Why," he asked calmly, "are you looking at me?"
The question was aimed at Noah—but the silence afterward made it clear it belonged to the entire hall.
Then Louis turned slightly, gesturing toward Natasha.
"If you have a request," he continued evenly, "shouldn't you be asking the person involved?"
The pressure in the room shifted again.
And this time, it wasn't Louis causing it.
Louis's words shifted the hall's focus.
Not to Noah.
To Natasha.
The moment her name entered the air, Counselor Marcus stepped forward.
"My king," Marcus said quickly, his voice smooth but strained, "if I may clarify—Instructor Natasha's presence has already been accounted for. She is not an asset to be reassigned at convenience."
It was not a denial.
It was an attempt to close the matter before it deepened.
Louis noticed it then—the tightness in the counselor's expression. Not irritation. Not anger.
Apprehension.
"As her responsibilities fall under academic supervision," Marcus continued, choosing each word carefully, "any movement involving her would require proper authorization."
For a brief moment, it seemed the issue might end there.
Then another voice entered the hall.
"Counselor."
Seraphel Dorn stepped forward.
He did not raise his voice. He did not hurry. Yet his presence settled over the chamber like a weight laid gently—but firmly—into place.
Marcus stopped speaking.
Seraphel's gaze did not go to the king first, nor to Noah. It rested briefly on Natasha, then returned to Marcus.
"You are correct," Saraphel said evenly. "Her responsibilities are not yours to assign."
The emphasis was subtle.
"She is under my supervision."
A ripple passed through the nobles.
Saraphel continued, tone unchanged. "Instructor Natasha serves as my aide by designation. Her duties are academic, not logistical. Any assumption otherwise is… premature."
Marcus inclined his head slightly, accepting the correction without protest. The tension in his shoulders did not fully ease.
His presence did not dominate the hall, yet the murmurs faded all the same. When he addressed Marcus, his tone was courteous—measured enough to pass as respect.
"Counselor," he said, "this matter no longer requires your involvement."
The words were gentle. The meaning was not.
Marcus drew a slow breath, his expression tightening, but he did not argue. Seraphel did not wait for acknowledgement before continuing.
"As for the request you raised," Seraphel continued, his attention settling on Noah at last, "you have already seen the extent of this discussion."
His tone remained even.
"She will not be able to accompany you."
No further explanation followed.
Only then did Seraphel speak again, his voice steady as he addressed the hall.
"There is one point that should be clarified," he said. "Natasha is not simply an assistant under my guidance. Her status reflects sustained focus and achievement. She holds the title of Scholar."
That, more than anything else he had said, stirred the room.
A Scholar—at her age—was rare enough to warrant notice. Among those who understood what such a title represented, the weight of it was immediate.
Seraphel paused, then added, almost as an afterthought—
"And… there exists the possibility—however distant—that her path may one day diverge further."
He did not name it directly. He did not elaborate.
The hall fell quiet.
No one spoke. No one pressed him for clarification. Whatever that possibility implied, it lingered only briefly before being set aside—too improbable to pursue, too dangerous to dwell on.
Seraphel inclined his head toward the throne.
"Your Majesty."
Then he stepped back, leaving the matter where it stood.
Few in the hall needed reminding of who Seraphel Dorn was.
His standing did not come from appointment or favor, but from recognition—his status bearing the mark of a Grand Scholar, earned at an age when most had yet to truly settle into their paths.
That fact alone drew quiet attention.
And because of that youth, whispers followed him wherever knowledge was valued. Not certainties, not promises—but speculation. That if his growth continued unchanged, the title of Sage might one day answer him.
It was not a conclusion anyone dared voice aloud. But it was there, all the same.
The King let out a hearty laugh, the sound rolling through the hall and cutting cleanly through the lingering tension.
"Well," he said, clapping his hands together once, his expression bright and openly pleased, "it seems enough has been said for one morning."
His gaze swept across the gathered heroes and nobles alike, lingering just a moment longer than necessary on the counselor before moving on. Whatever irritation had been brewing earlier was gone now, replaced by genuine good humor.
"You have your assignments. You know the road that lies ahead. Prepare yourselves accordingly."
He waved a hand dismissively, almost cheerfully. "This audience is concluded. Rest well. You depart soon."
With that, the King rose from his seat, still smiling, clearly satisfied as the hall began to stir.
As the hall emptied, Louis's gaze found Noah once more.
He didn't glare. He didn't react outwardly at all. He simply watched—Noah and the group clustered around him, loud, certain, untouched by doubt.
Louis exhaled softly through his nose.
He'd better not die from his own arrogance, he thought. I'd rather not have his blood wasted on someone else.
His eyes narrowed just a fraction.
If he's going to die, Louis decided calmly, it should be by my hand.