A Smiling Saboteur.

Roy scratched his head, fingers raking through his dark hair as if he was trying to unearth a buried memory. His face contorted into a mix of bitterness and amusement; his eyes flickered with the weight of the past. He began to speak, voice low yet steady, each word carrying a sharp edge. "When I became a Colonel, the air around me changed. The stares weren't respectful glances you'd expect from subordinates; however, these were different—sharp, filled with resentment and barely veiling their contempt. It was envy, plain and simple. "And honestly? I can't blame them. Imagine this: you've spent ten, maybe twenty years grinding away in the same position, sacrificing everything for a promotion that always feels just within reach. Then, out of nowhere, a sixteen-year-old—a nobody from nowhere—walks in and takes it. No amount of discipline or decorum can erase that kind of frustration, because even a saint would feel the sting of it. And these men? They were no saints."

He reclined in his chair, a smirk deepening across his face. "Most of them were nobles—arrogant, entitled and utterly unaccustomed to losing. However, there was me, a filthy commoner who overcame every obstacle, shattered every barrier and obliterated anyone foolish enough to stand in my way. They despised me and I comprehended the reason why. To them, I wasn't merely competition; I was an affront, a reminder that all their titles and bloodlines signified nothing." Erika, seated across from him, observed him intently. Her silver eyes glinted with curiosity, her arms crossed as if she were dissecting every utterance he made. "And yet, despite all that, you became their superior," she remarked, her tone neutral but probing. "It wasn't merely luck, was it?" "Luck?" Roy scoffed, shaking his head with disdain. "No, it was far from luck. It was strategy. Ruthlessness. I outworked them, out-thought them and most importantly, I refused to let them intimidate me. But becoming a Colonel wasn't simply about power or prestige—it offered me something far more valuable: the chance to sabotage Narzan."

He paused, his expression darkening for a moment, as if he were weighing his next words. "I had countless chances to betray Miral. To flip the game entirely. It would've been easy." Erika raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. "Then why didn't you? Why stay loyal to Father when you could've walked away with everything?" Roy's lips curled into a dangerous smile, his gaze locking onto hers. "Why? Because betrayal is boring, Erika. Where's the satisfaction in that? No, I wanted to see them break. Not through cheap tricks or sudden reversals, but through sheer brilliance. Miral and I—we didn't just hurt Narzan. We dismantled them, piece by piece. Every blow we delivered wasn't just calculated—it was personal. Their best generals, their brightest minds, their most foolproof strategies—I tore them apart before they could even take shape. I was their shadow, Erika. Every time they thought they had a chance, I was already one step ahead, feeding their plans straight to Miral." Erika's eyes narrowed, her voice steady but tinged with disbelief. "You're saying you turned Narzan's own strengths into weaknesses? That you used their greatest minds against them? However, this raises a troubling question: could loyalty be more potent than treachery? Although the path of betrayal seemed enticing, you chose a different route, one fraught with its own complexities. But why? Because, in the end, it's the intricate dance of strategy that captivates you."

"Precisely." Roy's tone had turned frigid, his words cutting like a finely honed blade. "They believed themselves invulnerable, convinced their strategies were unassailable. However, they failed to consider me. With each secret I divulged, with every scheme I unraveled, I ensured they understood it was not mere fortune at play. It was my doing. And that kind of defeat? It doesn't merely inflict pain—it leaves a mark." The atmosphere in the room grew heavy, the gravity of Roy's revelation palpable. Erika observed him, her intrigue intertwined with a sense of discomfort. She had always recognized Roy's cleverness, but this—this was an entirely different realm. "So," she ventured after a prolonged silence, her tone now more gentle, "you didn't merely combat Narzan. You sought to make them aware of who was their undoing." Roy's smirk resurfaced, yet it held no trace of humor. Only a chilling, merciless satisfaction. "Precisely. Miral may have wielded the sword, but I was the hand that directed it. Together, we forged an entity Narzan could not withstand. And the most satisfying aspect? They will never truly recover. Not completely. Because every time they attempt to rise, they'll be haunted by the tempest we unleashed." Erika reclined, the faintest hint of a smile gracing her lips. "You are a perilous man, Roy."

"And don't you forget it," he replied, his voice imbued with both pride and caution. The silence lingered between them once more; however, this time it was not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that ensues after a revelation (the calm before the storm). In that moment, Erika understood one thing: Roy wasn't merely a survivor. He was a weapon, forged in fire, sharpened by hatred and tempered by ambition.

And he was far from finished.

**To Be Continued...**