My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode : 82

Chapter : 163

He watched her go, the proud, straight set of her shoulders, the undeniable aura of competence and ambition she radiated. A fierce, complicated mix of emotions churned within him: shame, yes, deep and bitter. Regret for the lost years, the broken connection. But also, strangely, a flicker of… pride? She was a true Ferrum, this sister of his. Strong, intelligent, fiercely determined. She was everything he hadn't been, in his first life. And a small, weary part of him, the part that still remembered the crushing weight of responsibility he’d failed to carry, was almost… grateful. Grateful that she was here, capable, ready to bear the burden he had so spectacularly fumbled.

But that was the past Lloyd. This Lloyd… this Lloyd was different. He had eighty years of experience, hidden powers, a cosmic shopping list, and a burgeoning soap empire to build. He wasn't that lost, mediocre boy anymore. And he would prove it. Not just to his father, not just to the skeptical branch families, but to Jothi. To himself.

He took a deep breath, pushing down the lingering sting of her words, the heavy cloak of past shame. The Summit awaited. Time to show them all, Jothi included, that the ‘disappointment’ of Bathelham Royal Academy might just have a few surprising tricks left up his impeccably tailored, if slightly soap-scented, sleeve. The drab duckling was about to attempt flight. And he had a feeling the landing, one way or another, was going to be spectacular.

The Grand Hall of the Ferrum Estate, a cavernous space usually reserved for state banquets, formal investitures, or the occasional, very ostentatious, wedding reception (like his own, Lloyd recalled with an internal grimace), was today a seething cauldron of hushed conversations, rustling silks, and simmering familial tension. Sunlight, streaming through the impossibly high, stained-glass windows depicting heroic Ferrum ancestors vanquishing improbable beasts (mostly dragons, with a sprinkling of suspiciously well-groomed griffins), did little to dispel the underlying chill of political maneuvering.

The Ferrum Family Annual Summit was in full swing. Or rather, the pre-swing. The awkward, milling-about phase where distant cousins eyed each other with suspicion, uncles offered platitudes laced with veiled threats, and everyone tried to subtly assess who was currently in favor with the Arch Duke and who was about to be metaphorically (or perhaps, given his father’s mood yesterday, literally) thrown to the wolves.

Lloyd Ferrum, an island of feigned calm in this turbulent sea of relatives, sat at a small, slightly isolated table near a potted fern that looked as if it had seen better millennia. He was nursing a cup of lukewarm, disappointingly bitter tea, a beverage that, in his eighty-year-old Earth-honed opinion, was a profound insult to the noble leaf. Seriously, his internal monologue grumbled, swirling the murky liquid in his cup, who decided that boiling leaves in water and then drinking it straight was a good idea? No milk? No sugar? Not even a hint of lemon or a despairing biscuit? These people have mastered intricate Void magic, summoned spirits that could level cities, and built empires that spanned continents, but they haven't figured out how to make a decent cuppa. Priorities, people! Priorities! He made a mental note to add ‘revolutionize Riverian tea-drinking habits’ to his already lengthy to-do list, somewhere between ‘build soap empire’ and ‘avoid being eaten by mythological creatures’. It was probably less dangerous than the other two.

He scanned the hall, his gaze, carefully calibrated to normal-human-heir-mode (no Black Ring Eyes today, thank you very much, the ensuing panic would probably derail the entire Summit), sweeping over the assembled Ferrum clan. Twelve branch families, his father had said. And their associated offspring. It looked like a veritable army of cousins, second cousins, cousins thrice-removed, and a bewildering array of aunts, uncles, and assorted great-whatevers, all dressed in their finest, all radiating varying degrees of ambition, resentment, or sheer, unadulterated boredom. Sixty-plus youths, his father had estimated. Sixty potential rivals, sixty potential allies, sixty potential sources of future headaches. It was like a high school reunion, if your high school specialized in political intrigue, inherited magical powers, and passive-aggressive commentary about your choice of cravat.

Chapter : 164

He took another sip of the offensive tea, wincing internally. His presence, he noted with a familiar, detached amusement, was being treated with the kind of enthusiastic avoidance usually reserved for tax collectors or individuals with highly contagious, socially unacceptable diseases. The younger generation, the sixty-plus gaggle of Ferrum youths who were ostensibly his peers, were giving him a collective cold shoulder so frigid it could probably flash-freeze his already lukewarm tea. They clustered in animated groups, laughing, whispering, pointedly not looking in his direction, their body language screaming ‘irrelevant’, ‘disappointment’, ‘the drab duckling who somehow landed the Ice Princess’. He saw the familiar flickers of disdain, the contemptuous smirks he’d witnessed in the Guild Hall, amplified now by the shared blood and simmering familial rivalries. Charming, he thought. Nothing like a bit of good old-fashioned intra-family scorn to start the day.

A few of the older generation, the ‘geezers’ as his internal Earthling vocabulary uncharitably supplied, did deign to acknowledge his existence. Uncle Tiberius from the Blackwood Ferrums, a portly man with a booming laugh and eyes that missed nothing, offered a jovial, if slightly too hearty, clap on the shoulder and some vague pronouncements about ‘the strength of the main line’. Great-Aunt Esmeralda from the Silverstream Ferrums, a terrifyingly ancient matriarch who looked like she’d personally wrestled dragons in her youth and probably won, gave him a sharp, appraising stare that lasted several uncomfortable seconds before she sniffed dismissively and turned back to her embroidery. They weren't being friendly; they were being pragmatic. He was, after all, still the Arch Duke’s heir. The future Patriarch. Even if he was currently viewed as a particularly unpromising specimen of Ferrum manhood, his position, his potential future authority, held value. Political insurance, Lloyd recognized. A wise investment in case the ‘drab duckling’ somehow managed not to drown in the ducal pond.

Even his own sister, Jothi, now seated across the hall with a group of equally polished and alarmingly competent-looking young noblewomen from allied houses, was pointedly ignoring him. Her earlier, cutting remarks about his Bathelham disgrace still stung, a fresh wound layered over eighty years of phantom aches. She hadn't glanced his way once, her attention fully absorbed by her animated conversation, her posture radiating a confidence and poise that only highlighted his own perceived inadequacies in the eyes of the assembled clan. Well, can't say I blame her, Lloyd conceded internally, sipping his dreadful tea. From her perspective, I'm probably still the embarrassing older brother who flunked out of magic school and spends too much time thinking about soap. Not exactly prime Summit mingling material.

And Rosa…

Ah, Rosa.

She had arrived a few moments after him, a vision in a gown of deep sapphire silk that shimmered like captured twilight, her movements fluid, regal, commanding attention without a single word or gesture. But it was her face, or rather, the lack thereof, that drew every eye in the hall, including Lloyd’s. She wore a veil. A delicate, almost translucent confection of silver-threaded lace, it obscured her features from the nose down, leaving only her high cheekbones, the elegant sweep of her dark brows, and those unnerving, obsidian eyes visible. The effect was… breathtaking. It didn't hide her beauty; it amplified it, transforming her from merely stunning into something ethereal, mysterious, almost untouchable. A true Ice Princess, shrouded in mist and moonlight.

Lloyd remembered, with a jolt that was part memory, part dream, part longing. The veil. Of course. In his first life, Rosa had always worn a veil in public, especially at formal gatherings, in the presence of outsiders, those not considered immediate family. It was a Siddik tradition, perhaps, or a personal preference, a shield against the unwanted scrutiny her almost supernatural beauty inevitably attracted. He hadn't thought about it in years, not in this life, where their interactions had been confined to the shared suite, where veils were unnecessary. But seeing her now, shrouded, enigmatic, moving through the crowded hall like a silent, sapphire wraith… it was like a ghost from his past stepping into his present, a vivid, poignant reminder of the woman he had been married to, the woman he had barely known, the woman who now, inexplicably, smelled faintly of rosemary.

He watched as a hush fell over the clusters of young Ferrum men as she passed, their conversations faltering, their eyes, filled with a mixture of awe, longing, and bitter, burning envy, tracking her every movement. He saw the way their jaws tightened, the way their hands clenched, the unspoken question hanging heavy in the air: Her? With him? The injustice of it, in their eyes, was a palpable force.