Those present bowed as Lucien and Roseanne advanced, parting to form a path straight to the dais. They stopped at the foot of the staircase leading to the platform and turned to face the assembled nobles.
"All of you may rise," Roseanne's voice rang clear across the hall.
As they straightened, every gaze shifted to Lucien, eyes glinting with a mix of curiosity and scrutiny.
"Thank you all for joining us on this momentous evening," Roseanne began, drawing the nobles' attention. "Tonight, we celebrate the coming of age of my son, Prince Lucien Atreilight."
A wave of applause rippled through the ballroom. Lucien offered a polite bow.
"Now, let us begin the ceremony," she declared.
With a subtle nod from the Empress, the herald called out, "The Honored Imperial Elders are entering!"
From behind the massive throne, four black-robed figures emerged. Clad in ceremonial garments embroidered with golden suns, they moved in solemn silence; their faces were hidden deep beneath their hoods.
At the center of the dais, the foremost elder stepped forward. A golden goblet materialized in his hand, and he set it upon the pedestal. The gemstones encrusting its surface glimmered under the chandeliers' light.
The elder's deep voice reverberated through the hall. "Your Highness, Prince Lucien Atreilight, please step forward."
Lucien ascended the stairs. Each step echoed in the hushed hall, the faint clink of the silver chains on his attire trailing like chimes before a gathering storm.
Reaching the top, Lucien paused before the pedestal.
The foremost Elder spoke. "Tonight, we bestow upon you the blessing of the Empire—as one who shall serve, command, and carry its weight." A flask appeared in his hand, and he poured the deep crimson liquid into the goblet.
"May balance walk beside you when power tries to lead."
Lucien's gaze fixed on the swirling wine. Silence pressed in around him.
Balance, again.
Why did that word keep surfacing? Why was balance so important in imperial rites? No record ever explained it, not even in the whispers of the court. Yet the way the Elder said it…
It felt like a warning disguised as a blessing.
The Elder stepped back. Another approached and poured more into the goblet. The wine deepened in hue, darker than blood.
A woman's voice rose. "May clarity guide you when all else fades into noise."
She withdrew, and the third Elder stepped forth.
"May you seek strength," he intoned, "but never be ruled by it."
The fourth followed. "May your name carry not fear, but flame; one that warms, not destroys."
Finally, the first Elder returned, lifting the now-brimming goblet and holding it out to him. "Drink, Prince Lucien, and bind your name to the Empire."
Lucien accepted the goblet, his reflection rippling across its surface. He raised it to his lips and drank. The wine was cool and weighty—bitter, with an aftertaste of iron and spice.
As he lowered the cup, the Elder's voice carried once more. "With this, the Empire welcomes its grown son."
A wave of applause erupted.
After offering their farewells, the Elders slipped back into the shadows behind the throne.
Descending the stairs, a lady with platinum-blonde hair and cyan eyes stood beside his mother, the partner arranged for his dance.
Lucien bowed politely and extended his hand toward her. "Lady Irene, may I have this dance?"
She smiled and curtseyed. "It would be my honor, Your Highness."
They stepped onto the floor for a quadrille—a formal group dance with representatives of the empire's ducal houses, fostering cooperation among the noble lines.
Three other couples soon joined them on the floor, but a young woman with soft pink hair caught his eye—Roschella, the same lady from the market plaza—offering a warm smile.
Roseanne's voice boomed. "Let the celebration begin."
The orchestra swelled back to life. The dancers formed a rectangle, and they turned in unison, bowing and curtseying to their partners. On the following beat, Lucien and Roschella stepped forward to exchange their formal salute.
"Your Highness," she greeted with a graceful dip.
"Lady Roschella," he replied evenly.
They retreated, then advanced once more. Lucien extended both hands, and Roschella placed hers lightly in his. A faint trace of rose lingered in the air—sweet and powdery, her perfume.
"I owe Your Highness an apology for my knight's conduct at the market," she murmured as he led them into a full whirl.
He inclined his head. "No offense taken."
They ended the whirl and returned to their partners as the set completed the figure. Despite the seamless flow, he caught the fleeting distaste on the Vazquez lady's face when their paths crossed—a reaction he found entirely expected.
Well, it seemed every Vazquez vassal had been raised to despise him. Nothing new there.
As the formation shifted again, Roschella came to him once more. He raised his right hand at shoulder height, and she accepted it without hesitation.
"I happened to see Her Majesty wearing the necklace Your Highness purchased," she said as they glided across the marble floor.
Lucien's gaze flicked to her—long lashes, straight nose, soft lips—before snapping ahead, cutting himself off.
"Indeed, she's quite fond of it," he replied.
Their hands parted for a turn; her gown brushed lightly against his legs as they rejoined, left hands meeting in rhythm. "I suppose I owe you my thanks for yielding to me that day."
Her lips curved into a gentle smile. "There's no need to thank me."
They drifted apart, easing back to their places. As the final note of the quadrille faded, applause rippled across the ballroom, and the dancers bowed and curtseyed toward their partners.
Lucien straightened, offering his arm to Irene. "You danced wonderfully, my lady."
She accepted it with a modest smile. "You honor me, Your Highness."
They stepped off the floor, weaving between murmuring nobles. Countless eyes followed him like a tide, but he brushed them off.
After returning Irene to her chaperone and exchanging the expected pleasantries with a few vassals, he excused himself. With the first task completed, the next would be conversations and more dances with foreign envoys.
Lucien sighed. For all the glitter and music, the night felt less like a birthday celebration and more like an errand. Strangely, he missed Tristan; even his insufferable teasing was better than this hollow feeling.
Taking a crystal glass from a passing butler's tray, he sipped the chilled wine and drifted through the scattered clusters of courtiers.
***
A sharp knock reverberated through the room, followed by a familiar voice.
"Your Highness, this is Alfred."
Lucien stirred, blinking against the pale light filtering through the curtains. The door creaked open, and Alfred stepped inside—an uncharacteristic lapse in decorum.
"Forgive my intrusion," he said, closing the door as he approached him. "But there seems to be… a development from last night's ball."
Lucien sat up, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "What is it?"
His voice was rougher than usual. He felt sluggish, a faint ache settling behind his eyes—he'd had a little too much to drink.
"Rumors are circulating about Your Highness and Lady Roschella."
Lucien froze mid-motion, then sighed and reached for the robe draped over a chair. "Of course there are."
Of the many ladies he'd danced with last night, only Roschella's name lingered. It was politics, after all. No matter what one did, someone always found a way to twist it.
Swinging his leg off the bed, he marched toward the arching windows as Alfred continued.
"Apparently, someone overheard fragments of your conversation—'the market,' 'the necklace you purchased,' 'fond of it,' and 'I owe you.' Combined, they… sounded rather suggestive."
"Marvelous." He drew the curtains open; sunlight pierced the dim room. Below, servants and knights bustled about the courtyard. "Out of an entire conversation, they managed to catch the most incriminating parts."
With the orchestra blaring through the ballroom, the nobles couldn't possibly have heard their conversation. That left the dancers nearby—and the culprit was rather obvious.
In this era, a secret rendezvous between unmarried nobles was considered a scandal—one that could derail alliance negotiations, damage marriage prospects, and stain reputations. And their social standings only made the fallout worse.
Lucien massaged the bridge of his nose. He could already imagine Godfrey's vassals either bristling with anger or turning the rumor into leverage. Still, his greater concern lay with the Ecklette household; the last thing he wanted was to make enemies of the neutral faction on his very first debut in society.
Lowering his hand, he asked. "And my mother?"
Alfred's reflection flickered in the windowpane as he answered, "Her Majesty hasn't mentioned it. Yet."
"Then it's only a matter of time." Turning to Alfred, he ordered, "Send the Duchess an apology discreetly. Add that I will be observing the hounds' preparations near the western terrace before the hunt."
To quell last night's gossip, he planned to "run into" Roschella on the western terrace, speaking loudly enough for the right ears to overhear that their meeting in the plaza had been nothing more than a coincidence. Of course, success hinged on the Duchess's cooperation, but given the situation, he expected her to agree.
Alfred regarded him with a conflicted expression. "Your Highness, are you certain about this?" he asked at last, then exhaled. "If I may advise, it would be wiser to avoid further appearances together—at least until the chatter dies down."
Lucien shook his head. "No, I'd rather end the rumor before it grows legs."
Alfred's brows drew together; uncertainty lined his features, but he bowed nonetheless. "As you command, Your Highness. I shall see to it immediately."
When the door closed behind him, Lucien sighed and sank into the armchair by the window. "Ridiculous."
Orchestrating gossip just to erase it…
He leaned his head against the backrest and shut his eyes. The day had barely begun, and already, it promised to be exhausting.