Urban Plundering: I Corrupted The System!-Chapter 505: Father (Gentle) and Princess (Spoilt?)

The ballroom still trembled from her voice.

Annabelle’s heels clicked away with finality, her words lingering like incense over a funeral pyre. Around her, nobles whispered behind polished goblets and mask-thin expressions. The Ashfords had been reduced to the cautionary tale of the age, and their disgrace crackled in the air like old magic, raw and inescapable.

But on the far end of the room—half-shadowed beneath one of the floating crystal chandeliers—stood a man who said nothing, who did not blink or join the chorus of shocked gasps and speculative murmurs.

Robert Voidhowl.

Tall. Composed. Dressed in midnight and silence. A wineglass in his hand untouched, his eyes not on Parker, not on Dominic—but on her.

On his daughter.

She felt him before she saw him. The weight of his gaze was not oppressive—it never had been—but it held the certainty of gravity, the quiet reminder that someone knew the girl behind the storm.

She turned. Their eyes met.

He said nothing.

Just... nodded.

Not an order.

A gesture. An invitation. A father’s call.

Annabelle’s expression didn’t shift. Her lips didn’t twitch. But something in her posture eased by a single breath. She pivoted smoothly, her coat trailing behind her like smoke, and walked toward him. Not fast. Not slow. Just steady. As if her soul had always known she’d be walking this path.

Together, they slipped from the ballroom.

Past the golden arches. Through velvet-draped corridors. Past watchful statues older than most empires and enchanted tapestries that shimmered when no one looked too directly. Their footsteps echoed softer with each corridor, fading like music retreating into memory.

Then—outside.

And the world changed.

Evening had arrived with ceremony.

The sun was no longer a source of light, but a wound stretched across the sky, spilling gold and blood and all the colors between into the clouds. The air shimmered, still warm from the day’s breath, but touched now with the first chill of night’s approach. Trees stood like cathedral columns, swaying in slow rhythm beneath an endless dome of molten amber.

The garden beyond the estate was silent, reverent. Not quiet like absence—quiet like awe.

The lanterns lit themselves one by one as they passed. Not harsh, not electric, but soft—warm flames contained in glass, trembling as if they recognized who walked beneath them.

A breeze moved through the hedges, as if to greet her. Or warn her.

The marble beneath her heels was colder here, more honest. No music. No performance. No eyes.

Just her. And him.

Robert Voidhowl stopped at the edge of a stone veranda overlooking the descending gardens, the violet horizon stretching into nothingness.

He did not turn to face her immediately. He did not need to.

She stood beside him, arms crossed, her fire still coiled just beneath her skin.

He let the silence stretch—like a ritual that had to breathe before it broke.

The ballroom vanished behind them like a dying illusion.

Stone archways gave way to quiet, and the heavy hush of evening embraced the Voidhowls as they stepped into the descending light.

The air beyond the estate tasted different—crisp with approaching night, yet thick with floral warmth still clinging to the day. Jasmine and deep-spiraling roses spilled from enchanted vines along the balcony’s edge, glowing faintly where dusk brushed them.

They walked in silence down a narrow stretch of polished obsidian, flanked by hovering lanterns that flickered to life with each of their steps—elegant, flame-fed spheres that floated chest-high, as if summoned not by motion, but recognition.

The shadows bent a little around Robert as he passed, as they always did, like they knew his name too well to pretend.

Above, the sky was a bleeding canvas. God-painted. Streaks of gold, garnet, and violet smeared toward a horizon that threatened to swallow the stars and spit out prophecy.

Annabelle exhaled once, slow and controlled. Her heels tapped in rhythm against stone cooled by evening. She said nothing, but her body language—shoulders pulled back, jaw still angled with defiance—spoke enough.

At the edge of the great terrace, where the stone gave way to descending gardens and ancient whispering trees, Robert stopped. His hands rested lightly on the carved marble railing, fingers callused from eras before quills, contracts, and whispered war pacts had replaced swords.

He didn’t look at her right away.

He didn’t need to.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a cathedral of restraint—something old, quiet, and holy in its own bitter way.

Then, at last, he spoke.

"You didn’t have to eviscerate the boy that thoroughly," Robert said at last, his voice as soft as old thunder. Not reprimanding. Just... tired.

Annabelle didn’t look at him either. Her eyes tracked the horizon, where the sun was sinking like an emperor’s crown slipping beneath the sea.

"Yes, I did," she said. "If I left even a bone unbroken, he’d have stitched it back together with arrogance. I gave him mercy, Daddy."

"Mercy," Robert echoed, letting the word rest on his tongue like a grain of salt. "You think that was mercy?"

"I could’ve done worse," she said, tilting her head slightly toward him. "You know I could have."

He breathed in slowly. The scent of garden smoke, spice-laced wind, and old lavender curled around them like memory.

"You know," he said, "when your mother named you Annabelle, she hoped you’d grow up to be gentle."

She laughed softly. Not cruelly—just knowingly.

"And you gave me the name Voidhowl. What exactly did you hope for?"

He smiled, faint and dry, eyes still fixed on the distance. "Something in between."

"Well," she murmured, leaning on the railing beside him, "I am something in between. Between devotion and wrath. Between a kiss and a kingdom burned to ash."

He turned to look at her finally. Not her mask, not her poise—the raw thing beneath.

"I saw how you looked at him tonight," he said.

"Which one?" she asked, though they both knew.

"The Prince of Existence."

Her lips twitched. "He’s more than that to me."

Robert nodded once. "That’s what worries me."

She said nothing. A breeze lifted the hem of her coat, curling it like a banner. She didn’t bother brushing it down.

"You know he won’t be caught," Robert said. "Not by you. Not by anyone."

"I don’t want to catch him," she replied. "I just want to stand close enough to burn. That’s enough."

He frowned, the lines around his eyes deepening. "So it’s not love."

Annabelle’s gaze followed the shape of a bird drifting across the molten skyline, its wings catching the last light.

"Of course it is," she said. "Just not the kind that ends with matching rings and white gowns. You don’t love someone like Parker gently, Daddy. You love him like a cult. You kneel. You bleed. You survive... or you don’t."

Her voice didn’t crack. It never did.

Robert looked at her then—not as a noble, not as a Voidhowl, not even as a legend’s daughter.

Just his daughter.

"Does it scare you?" he asked.

"Not anymore," she whispered.

"It scares me."

"I know."

She looked at him, for real this time. Her fire dimmed, if only a fraction. She didn’t say thank you. She didn’t need to. He had followed her out of the ballroom—not to lecture, but to make sure she wasn’t alone.

"You’re still my daughter," he said. "My only daughter. I would burn every name in this world if it meant keeping you from being swallowed whole."

She gave him a slow, small smile. Not the one she used on Aleric. Not the one that disarmed men in boardrooms. The real one.

"Then be proud," she said. "I made them remember I was yours. But father, I love him, and you know he’s the only man worthy of me, only one I’ll ever love."

He stared at her for a long, silent second.

Then he nodded, the sky burning behind him.

And in that moment—beneath godlight skies and haunted trees—father and daughter stood together. Not as monsters or nobles, not as voidborn or witches.

Just two shadows in the flame of something much larger than themselves.

The source of this c𝐨ntent is freewe(b)nov𝒆l