The Throne Hall was indeed imposing; even Morris had no intention of denying that.
If he had arrived as a foreign guest, Morris might have restrained himself a little.
But now, as a captive held here illegally, he felt free to act as he pleased. He certainly didn’t treat that wicked woman sitting on the throne with the respect due to a queen.
Morris ignored her presence altogether, casually surveying the room.
As for Elvira’s silent smile as she watched him, Morris could more or less guess her thoughts.
So he didn’t bother to ask and simply waited in peace.
About three minutes later, three young women, each strikingly different in both dress and demeanor, appeared together in the corridor outside the Throne Hall.
Having noticed them in advance, Morris immediately ceased his survey of the hall and turned his attention to the three women.
Though their attire varied, their figures and hair color made it clear: these were the women who had accompanied Elvira in kidnapping him that day.
Among them was the blonde maid who, for reasons unknown, had treated him so harshly last night.
But today, she was not wearing her maid uniform, but rather a more formal white outfit. The white pencil skirt paired with black tights emphasized her shapely thighs, giving her a distinctly alluring appearance. She held a stack of papers—likely documents—in her hands, and a polite smile adorned her face, presenting an image of an intelligent and gentle office worker.
If Morris recalled correctly, her name was Roselia.
She was both Elvira’s female secretary and head maid; the official title was Queen’s Assistant. She had once helped Elvira successfully seize the throne—a talented individual excelling in both civil and martial affairs.
Roselia now was nothing like the person who had met with Morris alone. Even after noticing his gaze from afar, she merely smiled and nodded at him.
She showed no sign of annoyance at his scrutiny, even responding in a remarkably friendly manner.
In contrast, the young woman on the far left, with long, teal twin-tails, only gave him a cold glance before losing interest and never looking at him again.
Her sharp eyes and crisp, commanding aura, coupled with the black, form-fitting uniform—clearly designed for mobility—marked her as a straightforward martial type.
The two sheathed longswords hanging at her waist further emphasized the point.
Though they had not met directly before, Morris had heard that Elvira commanded a special unit akin to a Queen’s Guard, comprised entirely of elite women chosen from other divisions.
The captain, “Dorinnia,” was famed as a master of dual blades.
Today, Morris finally saw her in person. Her beauty exceeded even his expectations, and that black mask covering her face looked undeniably cool—a formidable presence, without doubt.
Yet despite their prominence, Dorinnia and Roselia simply flanked the sides, leaving the center position to someone else.
The two were indeed eye-catching, but compared to the woman in the middle, they were a little lacking.
After all, the woman in the center boasted both dragon horns and elven ears, wore an elegant black gown befitting nobility, and possessed an exquisite beauty paired with a cold, aristocratic indifference.
Her long, crimson hair—darker than typical red—almost brushed her ankles, a length far beyond what ordinary people would maintain. No doubt, like Elvira, she relied on magic to care for it.
Unlike Dorinnia, who glanced at Morris only once, this noble-looking woman—possibly a dragon-elf hybrid—had fixed her gaze on Morris from the very beginning.
That doll-like, beautiful face betrayed no emotion whatsoever; it was impossible to tell what she might be thinking.
Though this was likely their first meeting, Morris had a good idea who she was.
She was the youngest marquis in Dreatnia, the head of the Frost Marquis Household, known as the “Scarlet Devil,” Sivirinde.
Rumor had it that her dragon horns and elven ears were a result of her having “eaten” a dragon.
Whether that was true or not, no one really knew; in any case, she exuded an air of transcendent mystery—a true heiress.
Her appearance, bearing, and the impression she gave were nothing like Elvira’s, yet there was a certain resemblance between the two.
Yes—danger.
“Nightmare Witch” and “Scarlet Devil”—just hearing their titles was enough to know how dangerous they were.
If possible, Morris really didn’t want to get involved with either of them.
Unfortunately, Morris had no choice.
As he brooded, Elvira’s three trusted subordinates entered the Throne Hall through the corridor.
They naturally ignored his presence, and after paying their respects to Elvira, began their discussions.
First, Roselia delivered her report on palace affairs.
Next, Dorinnia reported on the performance of new recruits.
During all this, Sivirinde—who wasn’t entirely considered Elvira’s subordinate—kept her gaze fixed on Morris.
Her reddish dragon eyes, tinged faintly with pink, held no emotion at all, as if she were simply projecting his reflection.
Being scrutinized so intently, Morris naturally felt a bit at a loss.
As things stood, he was already the odd one out.
What’s more, the moment Dorinnia spoke, Morris realized that she really was the third-country spy from last night.
Who would have thought she’d made it all the way to captain of the Queen’s Guard? Was the entire Queen’s Guard full of traitors now?
Already feeling conflicted, Morris found Sivirinde’s persistent stare made things even more awkward.
Yet while Morris felt embarrassed, Elvira, listening to her subordinates’ reports, appeared quite pleased.
She knew full well her dear friend would bring Morris a unique kind of pressure.
As expected of her childhood companion—the marquis heiress who was cold to women and even colder to men. No, now she should be called the marquis herself.
Elvira sat on the throne, listening to the reports and thoroughly enjoying Morris’s uncomfortable attempts to maintain his composure, a wicked grin spreading across her face.
But the reports couldn’t last forever.
Once Dorinnia and Roselia finished, Sivirinde—who had remained silent throughout—finally turned her gaze to Elvira on the throne, then spoke in that familiar, indifferent voice Morris recognized:
“…El, what did you bring this man here for? Are you asking me to eat him right in front of you?”
At first listen, it sounded strange; on closer thought, it was even stranger—a line worthy of a beast.
Especially since Morris now realized her voice was exactly the same as the first person to come last night. He tensed up at once, looking at the cold-faced Sivirinde in disbelief.
Seriously? Just like that?
Weren’t they supposed to forget all about last night?
How could she ask such a question in front of Elvira?