The Cold Scrutiny

After about ten days of the regulated routine between the tower cell and the exercise yard, Elara had almost begun to think Duke Reinhardt had truly forgotten about his lowly "Object Seven," like a brief, cold wind that had passed, leaving her abandoned in the castle's chilly corner. Perhaps, to a great lord like him, she was merely a slightly peculiar insect found during the hunt, observed for a few days until the novelty wore off, then discarded like worn-out shoes.

This thought even offered her a minuscule, almost self-deceiving sliver of hope amidst the boundless fear.

However, reality cruelly proved that the demon's patience, or rather, his interest in toying with his prey, was far more enduring, and far more... unpredictable than she had imagined.

One afternoon, as Elara finished her hour of "activity" in the courtyard, feeling numb from the cold stone walls and Knight Kaelen's silent gaze, Frau Helga's figure, like that of a banshee, appeared punctually at the courtyard entrance once more.

"His Grace wishes to see you." The same cold command, devoid of any human emotion.

Elara's heart seized as if caught in an invisible vise, instantly tightening! Was it time again? Back to that study that felt like a torture chamber? Or... somewhere even more unimaginable? Every summons meant a new round of unknown torment. She unconsciously clenched her fists, nails digging deep into her palms, trying to use the sharp pain to suppress the fear that threatened to make her collapse.

This time, Frau Helga didn't lead her to the study filled with the scent of iron and blood, but guided her to a parlor on the second floor of the main keep. Pushing open the heavy, ornately carved wooden door, a wave of warmth mixed with the strange fragrance of expensive spices washed over her, a stark contrast to the damp chill elsewhere in the castle.

The room's decor also seemed more "lived-in." A roaring fireplace illuminated the entire room warmly and brightly. Thick, soft Persian rugs with intricate exotic patterns covered the floor, muffling footsteps. Several relatively soft oil paintings depicting serene forests and lively prey hung on the walls. In the center of the room were several comfortable-looking velvet armchairs and a low table, upon which even sat an exquisite silver tea set.

However, this seemingly "comfortable" atmosphere did nothing to alleviate Elara's fear; instead, it made her more uneasy. Because she knew the master of this castle was by no means someone who indulged in comfort. Beneath this "gentle" facade, something deeper, more chilling, must be hidden.

Indeed, her eyes quickly caught the discordant mark of the master in the room—above the fireplace hung a massive, lifelike black tiger head trophy. Its glass eyes glinted coldly and cruelly in the firelight, seemingly watching every living being in the room with detachment.

Duke Reinhardt sat in a wingback chair near the fireplace. Unlike last time, he seemed to have just bathed. He wore a soft, perfectly tailored dark blue silk robe, its collar and cuffs embroidered with intricate, understated family crests in silver thread. His damp black hair fell loosely over his shoulders, lessening his usual cold hardness but adding an air of lazy, wicked charm. He wasn't toying with a dagger this time but held a crystal goblet containing amber liquid, swirling it gently.

The soft firelight outlined his profile, perfect as a god's, yet cold as an iceberg. His long lashes cast faint shadows beneath his eyes, concealing the usual sharp, icy gaze. In this moment, he looked almost... gentle?

But Elara's heart beat faster! She would rather face the Duke in armor, weapon in hand, cold as a mountain, than this man before her, seemingly unguarded, appearing even more... dangerous and unpredictable! He was like a predator with claws retracted, seemingly harmless, yet capable of launching a fatal attack in the next second!

Frau Helga led Elara to the center of the room, gestured for her to kneel, then retreated silently into the shadows, gently closing the door behind her. The heavy door shut out the outside world, and also locked away Elara's last chance of escape.

Only Elara and the Duke remained in the room, along with the crackling sound of logs burning in the fireplace.

Elara knelt on the soft yet cold rug, head bowed low, not even daring to steal a glance at the man with the corner of her eye. She could clearly feel his gaze, like an invisible spotlight, moving slowly and deliberately over her, scrutinizing her hair, her neck, her back trembling slightly with tension...

That gaze was filled with unquestionable possessiveness, as if she weren't a living person, but merely his private property, to be manipulated at will. This realization filled Elara with immense humiliation and... nausea.

Silence, heavy as the most brutal torture device, pressed down on Elara's nerves, inch by inch.

"Come here."

After an unknown period, the Duke's low, magnetic voice finally broke the suffocating stillness.

Elara flinched, not daring to disobey. She looked up, saw the Duke watching her with those cold eyes, his expression unreadable. She could only bite her lip, force her legs, numb with fear, to move, crawling on her knees, slowly, humiliatingly, inch by inch towards the Duke's armchair. The soft carpet muffled the sound of her movement, which felt like a silent mockery.

She stopped a step away from the Duke, head bowed again, waiting for her unknown fate like the humblest slave awaiting her master's judgment.

The Duke didn't speak immediately. He drained the wine in his goblet, then placed the empty glass casually on the low table beside him. The soft clink sounded exceptionally loud in the quiet room, striking Elara's heart.

Then, he leaned forward slightly. The scent belonging to him—a mix of wine, spices, and his own unique essence, sharp like pine yet invasive—enveloped Elara again. He reached out his hand, the long-fingered, cool hand, for the third time, lifting Elara's chin.

This time, his movement seemed slower, more... deliberate. He forced Elara to raise her head, meet his gaze.

Elara saw her own reflection clearly in his eyes—her pale, terrified face, marked by faint tear tracks (tears shed involuntarily moments ago out of extreme fear). She saw in his cold eyes... a flicker of extremely complex, unreadable emotion? Was it disgust? Curiosity? Or... something deeper, darker?

"You seem... thinner." The Duke finally spoke, his voice low, carrying a hint of assessment. "Has Helga not been giving you enough food?"

Elara's heart tightened. How should she answer? Say yes? Would that implicate the silent serving maid, or make the Duke think she was ungrateful? Say no? Would that make him think her previous complaints (if he perceived any) were lies?

"...Answering Your Grace," she finally chose the safest possible response, "the food... is sufficient to sustain life."

"'Sustain life'?" The Duke seemed to savor the words, a cold, mocking curve touching his lips. "Merely sustaining life? It seems you are... quite dissatisfied with your current situation?"

Elara's heart leaped into her throat! She knew, no matter how she answered, she seemed destined to fall into his trap!