The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 466: The Sisters’ Shock

The morning sunlight spilled through the wide windows of the Drakhan mansion’s smaller lounge, painting the space in warm gold and soft shadows. The faint aroma of tea lingered in the air as Tiara and Clara sat across from each other, their porcelain cups clinking faintly with each tentative sip.

Tiara broke the silence first, her voice hushed but heavy with disbelief.

"I… I ended up talking a lot with him."

Clara, sitting rigid in her seat, looked up sharply, the delicate spoon she had been stirring pausing mid-circle.

"M-me too!" she burst out, eyes wide. "Who knew Draven could actually hold a conversation without scaring us to death?"

Both sisters stared at each other, bewildered and slightly embarrassed, their minds replaying the evening like a strange dream. Tiara set her cup down with more force than intended, the soft clatter breaking the stillness.

"I mean… I was ready to call him out," Tiara blurted suddenly, her cheeks tinged pink. "I thought I could demand answers. Maybe even scold him a little for—" she hesitated, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "—for asking us those personal things out of nowhere. Like, what does he care, right?"

Clara nodded furiously, her hands gripping the edge of her saucer. "Exactly! I thought—no, I swore—I was going to confront him. Maybe even…" She trailed off, her eyes darting around as if someone might overhear. "Pay him back for all those years of scaring us witless. I thought I’d throw his cold stares back at him. Make him uncomfortable for once!"

Tiara snorted, though her expression softened into something closer to disbelief. "And yet…"

"And yet," Clara echoed, groaning and slumping back in her seat. "We didn’t even get close. He completely swept us away."

Tiara looked up sharply, her eyes narrowing as she recalled the conversation. "It’s like he knew exactly where to steer it. Every time I thought about questioning him—like really questioning him—he’d say something sharp or… or clever, and then suddenly, we’re talking about trade laws and city reforms instead of… you know. Us."

Clara nodded, her brow furrowed in frustration. "It wasn’t just that, either. He made it all seem so normal. Like, how did we end up discussing workshop budgets and orphanages when we were supposed to confront him about… him?"

"And politics," Tiara groaned, covering her face with her hands. "We actually let him drag us into a discussion about politics."

Clara threw her hands in the air. "And then, I swear, it was like I couldn’t stop! He’d make one comment—just one—and I’d have to respond. Like when he mentioned how the new city workshops were cutting down slum crime rates? I had to say something. And then it kept going and going!"

Tiara peeked through her fingers, her face incredulous. "I ended up agreeing with him about merchant taxation rates. Agreeing! I don’t even understand merchant taxes that well. How does he do that?"

Both sisters exchanged looks of mutual defeat.

"It’s like," Clara began slowly, her voice quieting, "it’s like he made us forget we were supposed to be mad at him."

Tiara stared down at her tea, the steam swirling faintly in the golden morning light. "He’s still indifferent. Still cold," she said softly, almost to herself. "But the way he talks… he plays the topics so well it doesn’t feel awkward. Like he’s keeping us at arm’s length, but not… cruelly."

Clara leaned forward, her voice tinged with confusion. "It’s almost like… like he’s trying. But for what?"

"It was weird," she said, pressing her lips into a thin line. "At first, it felt like he was… measuring us. Like he does with everyone. That stare—cold, sharp, like he’s calculating the worth of everything he sees."

Clara nodded vigorously, her shoulders sinking slightly. "Exactly! I was ready to leave the moment he looked at me like that. But then…" She hesitated, eyes darting toward the window as if searching for answers. "It changed. Somehow."

Tiara leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He started talking about the city—about the trade reforms, the workshops, the orphanage. At first, it felt like he was avoiding anything personal, but then…"

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"The conversation flowed," Clara finished, her voice soft, as though saying it out loud made it even harder to believe.

The two sat in stunned silence, reflecting on how their guarded, estranged brother had managed to keep them engaged without a hint of force or frustration. Draven had played the role of a host—aloof, yes, but precise in steering the discussion. He had expertly avoided the snags that might have made the air tense. Clara fidgeted with her sleeve, her voice breaking the silence again.

"He’s still indifferent," she said, almost defensively. "But he… talked. And it didn’t feel awkward."

Tiara nodded slowly, staring into her tea. "It’s almost like… like he’s trying. But for what?"

They both fell quiet again, their thoughts tangled. Draven was a man of icy precision, his words measured, his actions deliberate. And yet—there had been subtle moments the night before, small gestures that left them unsettled. He had cleaned crumbs off their clothes with barely a flick of his fingers. Adjusted the temperature of the room when he noticed their slight shivers. Small things, inconsequential to most, but to them? It was unsettling.

Clara finally huffed, breaking the spell. "You saw how he looked at us, right? Like we were still annoying little kids, but he’d tolerate us."

"I did," Tiara muttered. Her gaze flicked up to meet Clara’s. "But it’s more than that. He’s different, Clara. Still Draven—still cold—but different."

The wind outside howled faintly, as if punctuating her words. For a moment, the sisters simply stared at each other, neither willing to voice the unspoken question lingering between them.

What was Draven hiding?

_____

The sharp sound of the main doors rattling in their frames interrupted their thoughts. A sudden gust of wind blew through the mansion, slipping through unseen cracks and gaps, sending a biting chill into the cozy lounge. Tiara flinched, hugging her arms around herself.

"What—what was that?" she stammered, glancing toward the door. "That doesn’t feel natural."

Clara frowned, the unease plain on her face. "It’s not." Her voice was steady, but her hand gripped the edge of her seat. "Something’s happening."

Before they could say more, a maid appeared in the doorway, her presence startling both girls. She gave a quick curtsy.

"My ladies, Lord Draven is currently meeting a visitor," she said softly. "An official from the capital."

Tiara exchanged a glance with Clara, suspicion lighting her features. "Who?"

The maid hesitated. "Lady Sophie von Icevern."

The room fell silent.

Clara’s brows shot up. "Sophie?"

Tiara’s face mirrored her surprise, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Sophie von Icevern? That rigid royal knight?"

The maid bowed her head. "Yes, my lady. She delivered an official letter. I believe it is of some importance."

The moment the maid left, Tiara stood abruptly, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. "We need to see this."

Clara followed, her steps hurried. "Draven and Sophie? Together? Something’s definitely going on."

"Let’s go peek," Tiara whispered, a grin tugging at her lips despite the tension.

Clara grabbed her sister’s arm, pulling her toward the hallway. "Quickly, before we miss anything."

The sisters crept silently along the upper hall, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. They stopped at the balcony overlooking the entrance hall below. From their vantage point, they could see everything.

Draven stood in the center of the hall, his commanding figure framed by the massive double doors, a silent force that seemed to draw every ounce of light and air toward him. The sheer weight of his presence was undeniable, exuding an authority that could suffocate lesser souls. Opposite him, Sophie von Icevern stood like an unyielding statue of marble, her pristine Royal Knight regalia gleaming under the filtered light. Every detail of her appearance—her polished armor, the sword hilt visible just behind her shoulder, the immaculate way her cape fell—screamed discipline and justice. Her movements, even in their stillness, were sharp, deliberate, as if each gesture was etched into her soul through years of rigorous training.

The contrast between them was stark. Draven’s air of cold indifference was a wall, one that could not be breached no matter how hard Sophie stared at him with those smoldering eyes. Her posture was perfect, her spine impossibly straight, but there was a tension there, an invisible strain tightening the muscles beneath her calm facade. Each flicker of her gaze held layers of restrained emotion—hatred, anger, and perhaps something far more personal.

Draven’s sharp eyes observed it all in an instant, taking stock of her like he was evaluating a broken mechanism. To the casual observer, it would have seemed as though he were simply standing still, but his gaze cut through her polished exterior with a precision that suggested he already knew her every thought. There was no greeting from him, no pleasantries offered—only a cold silence that deepened the distance between them, even as they stood mere feet apart.

She saluted him formally, the motion crisp and deliberate. "Lord Drakhan," she said, her voice carrying across the hall.

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In her gloved hand, she held two envelopes. She stepped forward and extended them toward him.

"An official invitation for the upcoming symposium," she announced, her tone perfectly formal, "and the Queen’s direct orders. You are expected, Lord Drakhan."