Poll's footsteps rang out against the marble floor with a deliberate rhythm, each one a calculated announcement of his approach. Stopping in front of the towering wooden doors, he let his fingertips glide over the intricate carvings. The cool texture beneath his touch seemed to anchor his thoughts, sharpening his focus. He exhaled softly, a smile playing at his lips as he delivered three deliberate knocks. Each tap was slow, precise—less a request for entry and more a heralding of his arrival.

The sound echoed through the corridor, resonant and heavy, as though carrying with it the weight of inevitability.

With a faint smirk, Poll pushed the doors open, his movements measured and fluid. He stepped inside, his demeanor no longer that of the cheeky boy who had sipped milk and traded barbs with the king. Instead, his presence filled the room like a tide creeping in—quiet yet impossible to ignore. The air shifted subtly, thickening with a tension that seemed to ripple outward from him. A faint, dark-purple hue glimmered briefly around his figure, like an afterimage that teased the senses without fully revealing itself.

The king, seated at the far end of the room, paused mid-thought. His sharp eyes, honed through decades of political survival, rose to meet Poll's. His hand, which had been tapping absentmindedly on the armrest, stilled. This wasn't the same boy who had left mere moments ago. The light-hearted charm was gone, replaced by a composed authority that bordered on unsettling. For a fleeting moment, the king felt a pang of something unfamiliar: unease.

Poll's steps were deliberate as he approached, the faintest echo trailing him like whispers. He bowed, deeply but without submission, as though fulfilling the formality for its own sake rather than out of deference. His face was a perfect mask of calm, yet his eyes gleamed with a quiet intensity that spoke of unspoken depths.

"Greetings, Your Majesty," Poll said, his voice smooth, rich, and far too composed for someone his age. It wasn't loud, yet it carried through the chamber with a weight that seemed to settle in the corners of the room. "I have returned, as I shad."

The king's brow furrowed ever so slightly, though his expression remained largely impassive. Years of courtly battles had trained him to conceal his thoughts, but even he felt the faint itch of disquiet. Poll's words, his tone, his very presence—they all hinted at something calculated, something far beyond the reach of an ordinary boy.

The king studied him in silence, his gaze sharp and unyielding. Who are you really, Poll? What is this game you've drawn me into?

Poll's steady gaze didn't waver under the king's scrutiny. Instead, there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes, as though he were perfectly aware of the storm of questions swirling in the ruler's mind—and was content to let them simmer unanswered.

The king's surprise began to give way to something more dangerous: intrigue. A thrill stirred deep within him, a spark he hadn't felt in years. This child—no, this creature—was a puzzle, each piece fitting into place with maddening precision. Every word, every gesture, seemed to carry layers of meaning, all intentional, all crafted with the precision of a master tactician. If I could harness this mind, the king thought, suppressing a shiver of excitement, it would change the very fabric of the court. But tread carefully. A blade like this is as likely to cut its wielder.

Straightening in his seat, the king let his own mask of control slip into place. He wouldn't allow Poll to see the growing hunger behind his eyes, the need to claim this strange boy as a piece on his own board. "You certainly know how to make an entrance," the king remarked, his voice calm, though edged with curiosity. "I must admit, it's rare to see someone so… young handle themselves with such gravitas."

Poll inclined his head slightly, a faint smile curling at his lips. "Gravitas, Your Majesty, is merely the ability to make people believe you're larger than you are," he replied. His tone was light, but the weight behind his words was unmistakable. "A useful illusion, don't you think?"

The king chuckled softly, though his eyes sharpened at the subtle jab. "Illusions are dangerous things," he said, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbows on the armrests. "Especially in the wrong hands."

"And yet," Poll countered smoothly, his gaze unwavering, "they're often the only tools worth mastering."

The king's lips twitched, almost breaking into a smile. "Dangerous words for someone so young," he mused, though there was an undeniable glint of respect in his eyes. "Tell me, Poll. Is this little display part of some grand plan? Or are you simply enjoying the sound of your own voice?"

Poll's smile widened, though it never quite reached his eyes. "A plan? Perhaps," he said lightly. "But I prefer to think of it as… an ongoing negotiation. After all, a good discussion isn't about winning or losing, is it? It's about control."

The king felt a flicker of annoyance—followed by admiration. He's testing me. Prodding at the edges to see where I give. A dangerous mind indeed. "Very well, Poll," the king said, his tone steady, though he felt his grip tightening on the armrest. "Let us continue this… discussion. And regarding that ace card you mentioned earlier," he added, his voice laced with intrigue, "I'd like to hear more about it."

Ah, Of course, Your Majesty

***