"It's done, Your Highness," the maid said, stepping back.
Lucien turned toward the full-length mirror—and froze.
The reflection staring back at him looked like it had stepped out of a Renaissance portrait. His white hair was neatly combed and tucked behind his ears.
Midnight-blue velvet draped heavily over his shoulders, embroidered with a gold-and-silver sunburst pattern. Beneath the cloak, a tailored jacket hugged his frame. His fitted white trousers were cleanly tucked into knee-high navy boots.
Lucien stared at himself for a long moment, unsure whether to feel pride or dread.
Ten days had passed since Cyrus and Tristan departed for Estrine to attend the peace talks. Tonight marked his—no, Lucien's—coming-of-age ceremony, his first official debut in high society.
"Your Highness, would you like to review the guest list one last time?" Alfred's voice came from behind.
Lucien spun to see his steward approaching with a bundle of neatly bound documents. Taking them, he flipped through the pages.
"Please remember to greet the envoys from the neighboring kingdoms," Alfred reminded gently. "And be sure to speak with the Godfrey vassals. Also, don't forget to offer a dance to their princesses… and any eligible noble daughters."
"That's manageable," Lucien replied absently, eyes still scanning the list.
"Umm… by any chance," Alfred leaned in and whispered, "have you gotten rid of it?"
"I haven't. Why?" Lucien spared him a glance. It referred to the banned book he'd smuggled from the market days ago.
Alfred visibly paled, retreating a step as horror crept onto his face. "Her Majesty… is on her way here."
Lucien shrugged nonchalantly. "As long as it's hidden, you'll live."
"Unfortunately, my neck disagrees, Your Highness," Alfred groaned, clutching his head in frustration. "If she finds it—"
Lucien tuned out the theatrics, letting Alfred spiral in the background as he resumed skimming the file.
The novel told the tale of Tristan's battle against a cult operating across the continent. Their true motives remained unclear—he hadn't finished reading the book yet—but one thing was certain: they were obsessed with collecting artifacts said to grant any wish and unimaginable power.
The banned book listed several of these relics in unsettling detail. Judging by its contents, it seemed the cult had authored it themselves. In the hands of a desperate man, it read less like a warning and more like a promise—tempting enough to make someone sell their soul in pursuit of a utopian dream.
Somehow, the poetry etched onto the monument tower in the Western Palace came to mind—a warning against the pursuit of power. Be a keeper of balance, it urged.
But what exactly did balance mean?
Letting out a sigh, Lucien shoved the thought aside. Why was he wasting time on something so pointless? It wasn't his concern. That role belonged to Tristan—the protagonist of this realm. He had no intention of getting involved with the cult or its plot.
"Here." Lucien handed the guest list back to Alfred.
"Have you finished reviewing it?" Alfred asked, accepting the pages.
Lucien nodded. "Yes. I remember most of the high nobles and envoys."
Alfred dipped his head in acknowledgment. "Understood." Then, as if recalling something, he added, "Ah, Kyle and I will remain outside the ballroom. Should you need anything, don't hesitate to call us." He offered one last bow. "Good luck, Your Highness."
Lucien inclined his head in return. "Thank you, Alfred."
"Her Majesty the Empress is entering!" The herald's voice echoed through the room, drawing everyone's attention to the entrance.
The grand doors swung open, revealing Roseanne—trailed by several ladies-in-waiting—as she stepped inside. Her gown, in imperial navy to match his own, was embroidered with a sun motif in silver thread. Her blonde hair was swept into a high, elegant bun, crowned with a gleaming diadem.
The assembled attendants bowed in unison.
When she reached him, Lucien greeted her. "Mother."
"My son." Roseanne's expression softened as she gently cradled his face with her gloved hands. "Congratulations on your seventeenth birthday." Leaning in, she pressed a tender kiss to his forehead.
Lucien allowed himself a rare smile. "Thank you, Mother."
Oddly enough, her affection felt… natural.
His gaze fell on the familiar necklace at her neck. "That necklace suits you."
Roseanne chuckled softly. "Of course. It was a gift from my dearest son."
Her hands smoothed an invisible wrinkle on his lapel. "The time has come. Are you nervous?"
"A little," he admitted, a weight settling on his shoulders even though this wasn't truly his celebration.
Roseanne's lips curled. "That's only natural. Don't overthink it—you only need to survive the first hour," she whispered conspiratorially. "After that, it's just smiling… and dancing."
He hummed. "Sounds like trouble."
"It is." She laughed melodically. "Then, shall we?"
Lucien offered his arm. "After you, Mother."
With quiet grace, she placed her hand upon his.
Together, they walked through the corridor, the warm flicker of sconces casting long shadows along the stone walls. With each stride, the distant strains of strings and the low hum of voices grew clearer.
At the towering twin doors of the ballroom, they paused. Roseanne turned to him one last time. "Are you ready?"
Lucien gave a quiet nod. "I am."
At her signal, the herald announced their arrival. "Her Majesty the Empress and His Highness Prince Lucien, entering!"
The golden doors groaned open, unveiling a grand ballroom bathed in light and splendor. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling like frozen stars, scattering brilliance across polished marble. Nobles in embroidered gowns and gleaming uniforms turned in unison, the swell of music faltering mid-note. At the far end, a pedestal stood on the raised dais.
Lucien's smile faded, gaze sharpening. Now begins the game of masks and knives.