Chapter 220: Playtime

Alistair asked with a cautious voice, even though he didn’t understand why he was being like that towards a child.

"Change of plans, I am bored," Seraphina announced, hopping off stairs. She waddled over to his side, staring up at him. "Papa left. Mr. Sebastian is checking the perimeter. You are the only one left to entertain me now."

Alistair felt a cold sweat break out on his flawless brow. The trauma of the neon-pigtails was still fresh.

"I do not work here to entertain anyone," Alistair stated rigidly, crossing his arms and attempting to project academic superiority. "I am a scholar. If you require amusement, I suggest you return to the nursery. Play with the terrifying giant rabbit His Grace procured. Or chase a butterfly."

Seraphina did not leave.

Instead, she locked her target on him.

For the next four hours, Seraphina von Nacht became the most terrifying, relentless, unshakeable shadow in the history of the Imperial Capital.

When Alistair tried to retreat to the dining hall for a quick, solitary lunch, Seraphina followed him. She didn’t say a word.

She just pulled up a chair directly opposite him, rested her chin on her hands, and stared at him while he tried to eat his soup.

Alistair’s hand trembled, the spoon clinking loudly against the porcelain bowl. ’She is staring at my soul,’ Alistair panicked internally, a bead of sweat rolling down his neck. ’Why is she looking at me like that? It’s like she’s analyzing my molecular structure. She’s waiting for me to show my weakness.’

Desperate to escape her unblinking gaze, Alistair abandoned his soup and fled to the indoor gardens, intending to read a book on fiscal policy in peace.

He sat on a marble bench, opened his book, and took a deep breath.

He felt a presence.

He looked to his left.

Seraphina was sitting on the bench right next to him. She had brought her own book, a massive, heavy tome titled The Geopolitical History of the Southern Wastes.

She wasn’t looking at pictures. She was actively, rapidly turning the pages, her dark eyes scanning the dense, academic text with terrifying speed.

Alistair stared at her.

The fussy, arrogant scholar within him was suddenly experiencing a profound, deeply disturbing cognitive dissonance.

He closed his book, deciding to conduct a covert, psychological observation of his own.

’Something is fundamentally incorrect about this child,’ Alistair analyzed, his emerald eyes narrowing as he watched her read.

He mentally reviewed the events of the past week.

At breakfast that morning, the chef had served steamed broccoli, a vegetable universally reviled by every noble child in the Empire.

Normal children screamed, threw their plates away and demanded sugar.

Seraphina had simply picked up her fork, eaten the broccoli without shedding a single tear, and then politely requested the salt shaker to improve the seasoning.

’She consumed a cruciferous vegetable without emotional trauma,’ Alistair noted in his mental ledger, feeling a chill run down his spine. ’This is a statistical anomaly of the highest order.’

However, Alistair was suspicious, because he didn’t know Seraphina’s past.

In the Orphanage back then, even getting fresh vegetable on the table once in a week was considered to be a luxury. Seraphina was maybe now living a better life than at that time, but she didn’t forget her roots, she didn’t forget sleeping with a thin, sewn together blanker, or sometimes without any blanket, on those cold, biting nights.

She couldn’t forget them.

Alistair didn’t know, as he thought about her ’playtime’.

Earlier that week, he had witnessed Sir Lucas and Sir Boris attempting to play ’tag’ with her in the courtyard.

Instead of running around giggling, Seraphina had stopped the game, drawn a detailed map in the dirt with a stick, and spent forty-five minutes lecturing the two Vanguard commanders on their flanking maneuvers.

Sir Lucas had actually taken notes.

’She does not break vases, or play with dolls. She treats the Vanguard not as her playmates, but as subordinate officers in a military briefing,’ Alistair realized, his breathing quickening.

He watched her turn another page of the geopolitical history book.

’She is acting. She only acts like a child when His Grace is in the room. When he is present, she puffs her cheeks, demands pastries, and acts coquettish. But the moment he leaves... the mask slips. The bubbly toddler vanishes, and I am left in the room with a calculating intelligence.’

What’s more, for some reason, Alistair felt as if she intentionally revealed her true nature only in front of him, though he didn’t understand why she did it.

Alistair felt a genuine spark of terror ignite in his chest.

He wasn’t dealing with a spoiled brat. He was dealing with a sociopathic genius who was actively manipulating the most dangerous warlord on the continent.

"Lady Seraphina," Alistair said, his voice cautious, testing the waters.

Seraphina looked up from her book, her dark eyes flat and unreadable. "Yes, Alistair?"

"I was thinking," Alistair began smoothly, attempting a diplomatic maneuver. "The Imperial Banquet approaches. It is customary for young noblewomen of your station to integrate into Capital society prior to such a grand event. I have taken the liberty of reviewing your correspondence."

Alistair reached into his robes and produced a thick stack of perfumed, pastel-colored, gold-embossed envelopes.

"You have received over forty invitations to various children’s tea parties, garden galas, and pony-riding excursions hosted by the Countesses and Duchesses of the Capital," Alistair presented them like evidence. "These are vital networking opportunities. An ordinary child of your age would be ecstatic to attend. Which one shall I accept on your behalf?"

Seraphina looked at the pile of glittery, perfumed envelopes.

She didn’t reach for them.

She didn’t look excited.

She looked at them with an expression of disdain.

"None of them," Seraphina replied, her voice cold and flat.

Alistair pressed his advantage. "None? But My Lady, you must socialize! You must make friends! If you do not attend, they will whisper that the North is unsociable."