The Debt Of Fate-Chapter 265: Not simply.

The steward turn to have a good look at Miss Magdalene, his expression shifted, faint but firm, as he raised his gaze to hers. "No, my lady. The Lord of the Black Sea does not accept favors, nor does he owe them. What he pays, he pays in full. To be otherwise is displeasing to him."

For a heartbeat, silence lay heavy between them. The seamstresses dared not move. Miss Magdalene, though caught off guard, inclined her head gracefully.

"Then forgive me, I only meant respect," she replied softly. She had guess that her request would be rejected she did not just expect it to be so firm.

The steward gave a short bow, his manner courteous but unyielding. "Respect is noted. Let it remain so, without debt." With that, he took the dress from the that was now been handed to him, turned and departed, leaving only the fading sound of his boots against the wooden floor.

Miss Magdalene watched him go, her mind already turning. It finally made sense why the Lord could exist for so many years and remains mysterious. Those that worked closely to him were very disciplined.

.....

The lanterns of the city glimmered faintly in the dusk, their flames bowing to the growing wind. Inside the carriage, the steward of the Black Sea sat with the gown carefully folded beside him, his posture still as stone. Outside, the wheels rolled steadily over the cobblestones, the rhythm almost lulling in its sameness.

From the driver’s seat, the coachman leaned slightly over his shoulder and spoke low, his voice carrying through the small window.

"Master, we’re being followed."

The steward did not glance up from the faint tracing of his gloved thumb over the embroidery. "Who?"

"A man on horseback. Cloaked. he has kept his distance, but he has not lost us since we left the shop."

For a moment, silence filled the carriage, broken only by the snort of the horses. The steward finally looked up, his eyes narrowing. "Then take him where we want her to go." He paused, "also send a signal and find out who it is," he instructed.

The coachman cracked the reins, and the horses surged forward, not into haste, but into a deliberate pattern of turns. Down a narrow lane lined with shuttered bakeries, through a courtyard where lanterns swayed over washing lines, then across a deserted square where shadows swallowed all sound.

Behind them, the man pressed on, keeping the lantern glow in sight, his heart drumming. He noticed something was strange and he guess that he had been discovered but he could not return without reporting the location of the Steward.

This information was very important to his boss.

The steward lifted the curtain briefly, watching the flicker of her silhouette in the distance. A faint smile touched his lips, cool and knowing. "Let us see how long he keeps his nerve." the boss has anticipated this situation so they had used a convenient carriage.

The carriage wound its way into the merchant district, where evening trade had not yet slept. Crowds pressed thick, hawkers called their last bargains, and carts creaked under the weight of goods. The coachman steered skillfully through the throng, but the man struggled, his horse jostled by men and beasts alike.

He could not chase them openly as he did notean for a confrontation.

When he fought through to the next bend, the carriage was gone. No lanterns, no wheels, no trace—only the deafening chorus of merchants closing their stalls.

The night was dark , making it impossible to see the wheels of the carriage.

Breathless, the man reined in his horse. He wanted to hit himself for failing at such a simply task.

Inside the carriage, now hidden on a quieter road, the steward let the curtain fall back into place. "Persistent," he murmured. He felt that the man was quite skilled to have kept up for so long.

The carriage rattled steadily along the quiet street

The noise of the merchant quarter had long since faded behind, replaced by the still hush of narrower lanes where only the shuffle of late passersby stirred the silence.

At last, the coachman drew the reins, and the horses came to a halt before a popular inn. Its timbered walls glowed with lamplight, laughter spilling faintly from inside.

The steward stepped down from the carriage, the precious gown folded carefully in his arms, and made his way through the door. The inn smelled of wine and roasted meat, the din of merchants and sailors thick in the common hall. No one looked twice at him as he crossed the floor and climbed the narrow staircase to the rooms above.

At the far end of the corridor, behind a heavy door, the air shifted. A single lamp burned low, its flame trembling against the draft. Seated in the shadows was a figure cloaked in dark robes, a mask covering his face. The mask bore the faint etchings of waves, its surface gleaming faintly like stone wet from the sea.

The steward knocked twice a practice gesture before he pushed the door opened and entered with a bowed. He laid the gown on the table, the ivory silk catching the lamplight, the silver-threaded vines shimmering with quiet dignity.

"My lord," the steward said, his voice steady. "The dress is finished, as requested."

The Lord of the Black Sea reached out, his gloved hand brushing the embroidery with deliberate care. For a moment, silence stretched—heavy, measured, like the tide holding its breath.

"And the road?" the masked man asked at last, his tone soft but edged with command.

The steward lowered his eyes, as expected the Lord always has foresight. "There was a rider following us. A man. He shadowed the carriage from the shop. I led her through the merchant quarter, and in the crowd, He was very skilled, not easy to lose. I have sent words out that his identity be uncovered.

A pause followed. The masked man leaned back, fingers drumming once against the table. "There is no need to investigate. Now that your face has been exposed in public, your will return to the base tomorrow and not return for a while.’

"Yes, my Lord," the steward bowed knowing that his Lord did not like to be questioned. He just wished to find out who the dress was made for

The person that made his Lord to revil his hand in public she not be simply.