The three guests—King, Duke, and Bishop—stood facing one another, the air between them crackling with quiet tension. Not a word was spoken, yet the weight of their gazes spoke volumes: authority, ambition, and faith in a silent clash for dominance.
Count Charles was the first to recover from the shock. Years of noble discipline steadied his mind. He turned sharply toward a nearby servant, leaned close, and whispered a swift command.
The servant bowed low. "At once, my lord," he murmured before dashing off down the hall.
Moments later, the heavy doors opened again. A squad of soldiers entered, carrying a magnificent throne carved from dark oak, its arms gilded in gold leaf, the back crowned with the royal insignia. They set it carefully upon the raised platform at the head of the hall. The crimson carpet beneath it glowed faintly in the filtered sunlight, lending the space an almost divine grandeur.
Charles stepped forward and bowed deeply.
"Your Majesty," he said formally, his voice clear yet humble. "It is my family's honor to receive you in our home. Please, permit us to offer the throne befitting your station."
The King's piercing blue eyes regarded him for a long moment. Then, his lips curved in a faint smile.
"The Astleys have ever been loyal," he said, his voice carrying both warmth and power. "Since the days of your ancestor, the First Astley, the bond between our houses has been steadfast. I see that loyalty endures."
He moved toward the platform, the royal children following closely. The servants bowed as he passed, their knees trembling from both reverence and fear.
The King took his place upon the central throne. To his right, the young prince settled into a smaller yet finely wrought chair, its design echoing his father's. To his left, the princess took her seat with delicate grace, her small hands folded neatly upon her lap.
When the royal family had been seated, the nobles in attendance lowered themselves in deep bows, offering greetings and blessings. Voices overlapped in a careful symphony of deference — every word measured, every gesture polished to perfection.
Charles turned to one of the maids standing near the doorway.
"Inform the Lisa," he said quietly but firmly. "Tell her the King has arrived. She must come with Saphy at once — it would be discourteous to keep His Majesty waiting."
The maid's eyes widened. "Y-Yes, my lord!" she squeaked before running off toward the inner chambers, her footsteps echoing through the hallways.
As she disappeared around the corner, a hush fell once more over the hall. The nobles continued their subdued chatter, but their eyes flicked often toward the grand staircase.
Everyone knew what her appearance would mean.
The stage was set, the King enthroned, the Church watchful, and the Duke calculating.
All that remained was the arrival of the girl whose name had shaken the realm — Saphy Rosabelle Astley.
In one of the manor's finely lit chambers, the gentle glow of candlelight reflected off silken fabrics and jeweled combs — a peaceful evening sight… if not for the chaos unfolding within.
Saphy sat trapped in front of her vanity like a small, miserable prisoner of beauty. Powder brushed, ribbons tied, curls twisted — her mother and maids were working with the intensity of soldiers preparing for war.
"Mother…" Saphy groaned softly, "I can't feel my scalp anymore."
"That means it's perfect," her mother said without missing a beat.
One of the maids nodded seriously. "A little discomfort is a small price for elegance, my Lady."
Saphy slumped in defeat. "Then I must be the most elegant person alive…"
The maids had been at it for nearly an hour, changing her hairstyle, adjusting her corset, and redoing her makeup at least three times. Each adjustment came with dramatic commentary:
"The pearl pins are too heavy!"
"The lace sleeves wrinkle too easily!"
"The shade of lipstick must match the ribbon — not clash with it!"
Saphy stared blankly at her reflection. Her face looked flawless, her hair gleamed like gold under the candles… but her spirit was visibly gone.
Then—
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!!!!!
A rapid knocking broke through the fashion battlefield.
"Come in!" Lady Astley called, slightly irritated — she was in the middle of perfecting a braid.
The door burst open, and a young maid nearly stumbled inside, panting heavily. Before she even crossed the threshold, she blurted out in panic,
"Th-The King! His Majesty has arrived! The Count requests your immediate presence, my Lady — please hurry!"
The room fell into absolute silence.
Even the brush froze midair.
"The King!?" Lady Astley exclaimed, eyes wide.
"Yes, my Lady!" the maid cried, nearly out of breath. "The throne's been set — everyone's waiting!"
For a second, Saphy's expression was blank. Then her lips curved into a blissful smile.
"So… my torture is finally over."
"Language, Saphy!" her mother snapped — but her own hands were already flying faster than ever.
"Quickly! The outer braid — fix it!"
"The ribbon — no, the other one!"
"Dust off the skirt, straighten the hem—she can't go before the King looking like she's survived a hurricane!"
The maids scrambled like startled birds, tugging, brushing, adjusting at lightning speed. One pinned the last curl, another dabbed the final touch of gloss. Saphy sat motionless, wide-eyed, watching them swarm around her like a blizzard of silk and panic.
"Mother, are we preparing me or summoning a goddess?" she muttered weakly.
"Both," her mother replied briskly. "Now stop talking, and hold still."
Within minutes, the frantic blur of motion settled.
Lady Astley stepped back, breathing hard, and inspected her daughter from head to toe.
"Perfect," she said at last, with the satisfaction of an artist finishing her masterpiece.
Saphy sighed in relief, shoulders slumping. "Finally… I can breathe again."
"Not yet, dear," her mother said, smoothing the final crease of her dress. "Save your breath for the King."
In the party hall, everyone, after finishing their own engagements, began to mingle. Some stayed with their old circles, exchanging polite words and familiar jokes, while others ventured to create new ties, seeking alliances or advantageous connections. A noble's party was not merely a social gathering—it was a stage where futures were shaped, influence was negotiated, and reputations were made or broken. Every conversation, every polite smile, every subtle bow held weight far beyond casual civility. In this world, friendships and enmities were born over whispered words by the side of a gilded table, and a single misstep could echo through generations.
Amidst this intricate dance of diplomacy and social maneuvering, Saphy arrived. The moment she stepped into the hall, she became the undeniable center of attention. She wore a soft pink gown, layers of fabric cascading like delicate waterfalls, each tier catching the light in glimmers that resembled morning dew on rose petals. Her pure white hair was lightly curled, each lock framing her face with perfection, and tiny flowers were woven into the curls like a crown, blooming with colors that seemed too vivid, too flawless, to be merely natural. Lilies, roses, and violet buds intertwined seamlessly, forming a halo of delicate beauty around her head.
She had applied light makeup, accentuating her natural charm without overshadowing it. Her cheeks held the soft glow of dawn, and her lips carried the gentle shine of fresh petals. Though she had chosen heels to appear taller, it mattered little—her presence alone commanded the room. To those present, she was no ordinary young noblewoman; she was as if the Goddess of Beauty had descended in human form, sculpted by divine hands and placed amidst mortals.
As she descended the grand staircase, every movement radiated grace and innocence. The layers of her skirt swayed with the rhythm of her steps, and the flowers in her hair shimmered under the chandelier light. Conversations paused, eyes followed her like moths to a flame, and the hall seemed to hold its breath. Every noble present recognized, instinctively, that her appearance was not just a marvel of beauty—it was an event, a turning point. For in a gathering where alliances were made and power was measured by influence and presence, Saphy's arrival shifted the very currents of attention, ensuring that she would be remembered long after the evening ended.
The royal family was already seated, the king in his grand chair, the young prince beside him, and the princess leaning slightly toward her brother with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
As Saphy began her descent down the grand staircase, the king leaned toward the young prince, a teasing smile playing on his lips. "Are you still against the marriage talks?" he whispered, his voice soft but filled with amusement.
The young prince froze, eyes fixed on Saphy, his face turning a deep, unrelenting shade of red. He opened his mouth to respond… and then promptly closed it, utterly incapable of forming words.
The princess noticed her brother's predicament immediately and stifled a giggle. "Big brother," she whispered, her tone dripping with amusement, "you're supposed to be composed, not… this." She leaned closer, her grin widening. "I've never seen you like this before… speechless, flushed, and completely undone!"
The young prince glared helplessly at his sister, trying to maintain what little dignity he had left, but the embarrassment only deepened with every sway of Saphy's skirt visible from the stairs.
The king chuckled softly, clearly enjoying the show, while the princess continued her quiet teasing, delighting in her brother's bright red face.
Soon, Saphy reached the foot of the grand staircase and came in front of the king. She performed a perfect noble curtsey, her tiny frame bending with practiced precision. "Sapphire Rosabelle Astley greets His Majesty, the King," she announced.
The king chuckled softly, seeing a little girl of barely five years old trying to speak with all the gravity of an adult. To Saphy, her words sounded perfectly proper, yet her delicate lisp betrayed her age to anyone listening closely.
"You may rise," the king said, smiling warmly.
Saphy straightened and continued, her voice earnest, "It's truly an honour to have you at my most special day. It truly fills me with joy."
The king's amusement only grew. The way the tiny lisp clung to her formal speech made the entire scene irresistibly charming. "No need to be this stiff, little one," he said, chuckling. "It's your special day. I'm just an old man on the sidelines."
Saphy curtsied again, thanked the king, and then proceeded to greet the royal children. The princess replied with flawless politeness, her words clear and confident, earning a nod of approval from Saphy.
The young prince, however, stumbled over his greeting, his usual composure completely betrayed. His sister, noticing immediately, leaned closer with a sly grin. "Big brother," she whispered, barely suppressing her laughter, "are you always this… eloquent around… little ladies?"
The prince's face turned a deep shade of crimson, and he shot her a glare that was all embarrassment and no menace. But the princess's teasing only continued, and the king chuckled again, thoroughly entertained by the scene before him.
Saphy, oblivious to the sibling comedy she had sparked, smiled politely and moved on, her tiny steps light but commanding attention, leaving the royal children scrambling to maintain their dignity.
Before Saphy could continue greeting other guests, her attention was drawn to an approaching figure. She had already been informed of his arrival—an elderly man moving with deliberate grace, his presence commanding yet gentle. This was the bishop.
Saphy straightened and performed another precise curtsey. "Your Grace," she said formally, her voice carrying the respect due to someone of his stature.
The bishop returned her greeting with a kind, warm smile, his eyes twinkling behind spectacles perched on his nose. He spoke with exceptional gentleness, each word measured yet infused with warmth. Even from a distance, nobles and attendants alike could see the care in his demeanor—how he made the effort to put the young girl at ease and to present himself as approachable. It was clear he intended to make a good impression, not just on Saphy, but on all who witnessed the exchange.
After the formalities, the bishop spoke to Saphy with a soft authority. "We should commence with the ceremony," he said. "Important matters are best attended to early, so that the day may proceed smoothly."
With that, the hall seemed to hold its breath. The moment they had been waiting for—the most significant events in Saphy's young life—was about to begin. Nobles straightened in anticipation, the royal children leaned forward with wide eyes, and even the tiniest movements of the attendants carried a heightened sense of importance.
Thus, under the gaze of the king, the royal children, and the assembled dignitaries, the most important moments of Saphy's life officially began.