As she spoke, she inched her face closer and closer to his, until she was only a few centimetres away from his lips. Even though she was standing on her toes, she barely reached his face.
She wasn't a short woman by any means. Standing at five feet and nine inches, she was considered average—if not tall—for a woman. In most social circles, her height alone would have been enough to make her presence felt. However, compared to Gareth's towering six-foot-five frame, she was undeniably on the shorter end.
Her brows knit slightly as she stretched, clearly aware of the difference between them.
Seeing her struggle ever so subtly, Gareth didn't comment. Instead, he simply allowed his head to tilt forward, closing the remaining distance with deliberate ease. His movement was slow, controlled—almost indulgent. In a matter of moments, their faces were so close that he could feel the warmth of her breath against his skin.
And then, with his deep, steady voice, he spoke, letting his own warm breath wash over her in return.
"I will accept any punishment my Lady wishes to give me," he said softly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he stared directly into her eyes.
The room thickened with tension.
It was the kind of tension that pressed down on the air itself, making it difficult to breathe. The space between them felt charged, alive, as though the slightest movement would ignite something uncontrollable. To an outsider, it would have looked as if they were seconds away from smashing their lips together, consumed by impulse and desire.
Yet, despite the closeness, neither of them crossed that final threshold.
Gareth hesitated—and for good reason.
They were not lovers.
They were master and servant.
No matter how tempting the moment was, no matter how her proximity stirred something dangerous within him, he would not make a move without her explicit consent. That line, once crossed without permission, could not be uncrossed.
As for Countess Virelle's inaction…
It wasn't hesitation.
If anything, it was the opposite.
She was savouring the moment.
The way his eyes darkened. The way his breathing subtly shifted. The way his restraint spoke volumes about his discipline. The longer she delayed, the sweeter the eventual reward would be—should she decide to take it.
Her gaze flicked briefly to his lips, full and inviting. For a fleeting instant, she imagined pressing herself against him, devouring that quiet confidence with reckless abandon and giving in to pure, unfiltered lust.
But only for an instant.
The Countess reined herself in with practiced ease.
A sultry smile curved her lips as she withdrew her hands and stepped back, turning away from him as though nothing had happened.
The sudden distance was almost jarring.
Gareth blinked once, then smoothly composed himself. He walked back to his previous position in front of her desk, standing straight and still, his posture once again that of a dutiful subordinate.
Countess Virelle returned to her seat, settling behind the desk with effortless grace. As she did, something about her changed.
The playful heat vanished.
The seductive edge dulled.
In its place was calm authority.
In Gareth's eyes, it was as though she had transformed from a seductive, dangerous succubus into a composed and regal queen. The shift was so abrupt, so absolute, that it caught him completely off guard.
He had always thought of the Countess as a purely indulgent woman—someone driven by desire, uninterested in appearances, politics, or long-term power. To him, she had seemed like someone who lived only to satisfy herself, unconcerned with consequences as long as her whims were met.
That had been the image he held of her.
But watching her earlier—reviewing documents, issuing orders, managing her territory with sharp precision—had already begun to crack that perception.
Now, sitting across from her as she regarded him with cool focus, Gareth finally understood.
That image had been incomplete.
Dangerously incomplete.
She was far more than she let on.
The realization sent a faint shiver down his spine.
He had underestimated her.
For someone who prided himself on caution, on thinking several steps ahead before acting, this oversight unsettled him. Somewhere along the way—perhaps after their first encounter—he had unconsciously lowered the level of danger he attributed to her.
Maybe it was because she indulged him.
Maybe it was because of the intimacy they shared.
Or maybe it was because a foolish part of him had begun to think that if he could bed her, truly claim her, then he would have conquered her.
Now, he saw the truth.
That belief was nothing more than a beautiful illusion.
One that could have cost him dearly had he acted on it without restraint.
At least he had realized it now—before making a mistake he couldn't undo.
Gareth took a slow, measured breath, grounding himself. He locked away the lingering thoughts and desires, restoring the mental distance he should have maintained from the start.
All of this happened within the span of a few heartbeats.
To Countess Virelle, he appeared unchanged.
Satisfied, she leaned back slightly and spoke, her voice firm and businesslike.
"Now that you are able to feel the mana in the air, it won't be long before you become an Ardent. Normally, individuals train for years before reaching that point. By the time they awaken, they already understand how to wield their newfound power."
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"Your case, however, is different."
Gareth listened intently.
"You have no formal combat training," she continued. "Nor do you possess any foundational knowledge of magic. That means that once you become an Ardent, you will be significantly weaker than others at the same level."
She paused, letting the implication sink in.
"That is unacceptable. And it is something we must correct."
She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the desk.
"So," she said, her gaze piercing, "let me ask you something."
Her voice dropped just enough to demand attention.
"Do you want to be a mage… or a warrior?"
Mage or warrior, huh?
Gareth repeated the words silently.
Among Ardents, there were generally two recognized paths.
The first were mages.
Mages used mana to manipulate the elements of the world. Fire, water, wind, earth—along with more esoteric forces—were shaped through will and understanding. They moulded mana into spells capable of reshaping the environment itself, unleashing devastating attacks or achieving feats that bordered on the miraculous.
The second were warriors.
Rather than transforming mana into external phenomena, warriors channelled it inward. They infused their bodies with power, strengthening themselves beyond mortal limits. Their speed, strength, and endurance increased exponentially, and they paired this enhancement with refined martial techniques capable of obliterating their foes.
Both paths were powerful.
Both were dangerous.
Before anyone was granted the opportunity to become an Ardent, they had to prove their worth. This could be done by demonstrating overwhelming martial prowess or exceptional magical knowledge.
Neither path was easy.
But one was undeniably more demanding at the outset.
To become a warrior meant one was already skilled—exceptionally so. It required years of relentless training, honing one's body and techniques to a near-superhuman level. Only then would a patron even consider granting them mana.
By the time most individuals became Ardent warriors, they were already seasoned combatants—masters of their chosen weapons, lethal and disciplined.
Gareth clenched his jaw slightly.
That path… was not meant for him.
At least, not yet.