Étienne de Valeroche stood in the grand hall of Valeroche Castle, a figure seemingly carved from stone. Broad-shouldered and solidly built, his steps were slow but deliberate, as if each movement pressed the earth beneath him with his own will. His face remained expressionless, dark eyes staring blankly at the arriving guests, yet his countenance exuded an authority so heavy it seemed to press against the very air.
Every gesture he made had extraordinary effects. As he walked toward the center of the hall, the aged wooden floorboards groaned, cracking in a few places. The large candles along the walls flickered violently, their flames dancing as if upon a restless sea. The servants held their breath, afraid to make sudden movements that might trigger additional "disasters," while watching the young Duke, who seemed a walking gravity well.
Lucien de Rivemont, standing on the upper balcony draped in a dark cloak, observed the scene with keen eyes. His pen danced across his sketchbook, recording every expression of Étienne with meticulous care. He wrote, 'Even in silence, he brings destruction—fascinating.' Lucien leaned slightly forward, trying to suppress a smile he could not quite hide, for watching a Duke who could "shatter the floor unconsciously" was absurdly captivating.
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At the side of the hall, a young servant named Pierre approached, holding a silver tray, trying to remain calm. "Your Grace…" he said, voice trembling, "perhaps I could serve some—" Before he could finish, the gravity around Étienne seemed to "notice" his presence. The silver spoon in his hand slipped free, falling to the floor and bouncing several times. Pierre staggered back, pale, holding his breath as if the world had just ended.
Étienne regarded him, face as expressionless as marble, and uttered a single word in a deep tone: "Careful." The word seemed to carry an extra gravitational weight, prompting Pierre to bow deeply, clasping his hands in front of his face—not out of courtly formality, but sheer fear of cracking the floor beneath him.
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From the balcony, Lucien stifled a laugh and noted in his sketchbook, 'A servant nearly dies because of the Duke's gravity, and it's only the first five minutes.' He lifted his gaze, watching Étienne remain completely oblivious to the chaos he caused. Truthfully, Étienne didn't care. Every move, every word, every blink reminded those around him that this world was not made for them, but for him.
Elsewhere in the hall, a few noble guests began noticing the small phenomena. A luxurious chair cracked as Étienne passed nearby, and the candles flickered more violently than before. An elderly nobleman braced himself to avoid falling, while a young lady gasped softly, nearly tripping over her long gown. Comedic chaos ensued when a servant attempted to calm the guests, only for the Duke's surrounding gravity to lift a tray of drinks slightly into the air before spilling them—a dramatic, yet absurd, moment in the royal hall.
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Étienne strode toward the small podium at the center, his pace deliberate, yet every step seemed to affect the entire room. The nearby candles nearly extinguished under the subtle pressure his presence exerted on the air. Servants adjusted their movements carefully, brushing shoulders to maintain balance, while guests standing too close frowned, unsure if they were at a ballroom or witnessing an inexplicable natural phenomenon.
Lucien wrote again, 'He moves like a planet—calm, slow, yet every step has its own orbit. All objects around him obey the laws he dictates.' He paused, lowering his sketchbook momentarily before continuing, unwilling to miss a single moment.
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Pierre, the servant who had nearly lost a spoon minutes ago, tried again with a fresh tray. This time, he treaded carefully along what he judged the safest path. Yet Étienne merely turned his head, and gravity seemed to adjust itself accordingly. Small glasses on Pierre's tray began to slide, sending him into a panic. One glass flew into the air, spinning before landing near Étienne's feet without breaking. Everyone held their breath—Étienne raised a single brow slightly, as if issuing a silent reprimand.
Pierre bent awkwardly, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Lucien, still on the balcony, jotted down quickly, 'This Duke truly makes ordinary people dance in the air. Tragic, yet hilarious.'
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In a distant corner of the hall, two nobles whispered. "Did you see that?" one asked, voice trembling. "That young Duke… he doesn't even realize each step could crush our spines."
"Of course," the other replied. "I've read about his family's strange reputation—but this… this is literal."
Élise, who would appear in the coming chapters, had not yet arrived, but Lucien chuckled quietly, already anticipating the absurd interactions that awaited.
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Étienne turned toward the grand window, watching the evening light spill into the hall, casting long shadows across the splintered floorboards. The sun's rays made his silhouette appear even more dramatic, as if every crack in the wood were part of a live theater performance. He inclined his head slightly, evaluating his path, his hand moving only to brush a stray lock of hair aside—enough to make a nearby candle flicker once more.
Lucien wrote, 'He has no intention of destroying the world, yet the world always seems to crumble around him. An art of absurdity.'
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Pierre attempted a third time, carrying a smaller tray, silently praying nothing would fly. Yet as Étienne shifted his position, gravity tugged at the spoons, glasses, and napkins—lifting them briefly before they clattered to the floor. Pierre gasped quietly, realizing he had to dance with the laws of physics just to navigate the hall.
Étienne looked at him with dark, unwavering eyes, uttering a single word: "Control." Pierre was unsure if it was an order or a warning, bowing and crawling toward the exit while Lucien jotted a brief note: 'Control—words that bring both destruction and fascination.'
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As night approached, the candles in the hall dimmed, yet Étienne's gravitational aura made the air feel heavy. Guests began to mutter complaints, and the servants realized their day's work would become legendary stories in their families. Étienne remained at the podium, dark eyes fixed blankly, expression unchanged, as if he were the true center of the world—not just physically, but socially as well.
Lucien closed his sketchbook briefly, smiling faintly. 'If the world is to end, perhaps it won't be by fire or war, but by a single step of this Duke,' he thought.
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Outside the hall, a few servants whispered, stifling laughter. "Do you think he does this on purpose?" one asked.
"No, but look at his face—he doesn't even notice the chaos. That's what makes it funny," replied another, holding back a laugh.
On the balcony, Lucien added his final note for the night: 'Duke Valeroche—fate and disaster walk hand in hand, and the world will never be the same after seeing him once.'