The Rosenthal carriage swayed into a gentle stop in front of Duke Galvath's estate, the wheels crunching over the smooth stone pathway illuminated by the lanters in the gilded sconces. As the sigil of the household came into view, an assortment of servants bowed low, guards stood straighter, and nobles halted conversation.
Anwir stepped down first.
As protocol demanded of butlers.
He adjusted his cuffs, scanned the crowd with veiled efficiency, and turned, just as Selvaria reached the edge of the carriage.
Even now, with the scent of perfumes and polished egos in the air, she moved like winter—poised, cold, and beautiful in that dark violet gown stitched with sapphire thread. Moonlight kissed her silver hair, and her eyes… those sharp, calculating eyes…
He extended his hand with the same grace he offered a blade. "Mistress."
Her fingers slid onto his palm elegantly.
She gazed at him for a second longer than she needed to.
Too long.
But there was no change in her expression. Not really. Just something unreadable beneath the frost.
Anwir said nothing.
He helped her down. Gently. Carefully.
And tried not to think too hard about the silence wrapped around her gaze.
A loud, exaggerated cough broke the moment like a thrown pebble cracking still water.
"Ahem," Selene announced, hand fluttering to her chest with mock delicacy. "Did the butler forget that there's another beautiful flower in this carriage?"
Anwir didn't turn right away.
He took a slow breath, eyes half-lidded, then finally glanced over his shoulder.
Selene sat at the edge of the carriage, chin lifted, expression an artful mix of wounded pride and theatrical longing. "I may wilt if not attended to."
A small twitch tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Gods save me," he muttered.
Still — he stepped forward, offered his hand with all the practiced poise of a long-suffering knight, and helped her down.
"Your petals are accounted for," he said dryly. "Try not to trip on the marble."
Selene grasped his hand with all the pomp of a noble princess descending her throne.
"Trip? I glide. Thank you very much," she said, lips turning up into a grin. "Some of us were simply not born with a stick up our -"
"Caution," Anwir interrupted, light tones masking a warning.
"Relax," she winked. "I would not besmirch the house reputation… in front of the enemy."
He gave her a long-suffering patrician stare yet offered no more protest as she lightly stepped onto the stone path.
Together, they both fell into step behind Selvaria, who had already begun her way up the highest set of steps leading to the banquet hall. In her wake, guests made a silent path for her—nobles with mouths open in mid-sentence, their eyes drawn as if by some heavy gravity.
Selene smoothed her skirt, leaned slightly toward Anwir, and whispered, "So, how many corpses do you think this party'll end with?"
He didn't answer.
But the fact that he considered it?
Said everything.
As they trailed behind their Mistress, Anwir's gaze swept the crowd gathering within the grand estate courtyard — nobles in silks and velvets, jeweled masks of civility barely concealing the predatory glint in their eyes.
In his mind, a thought formed — calm, observant.
In this world, quarrels between nobles rarely ended in personal duels.
No, they had people for that.
When tension simmered at events like these — insults dressed in lace and veiled threats wrapped in smiles — it was rarely the nobles who drew steel. It was their retainers. Their shadows. Their blades.
Servants like me.
He adjusted his posture subtly, the weight of expectation pressing invisible on his shoulders. Each house had its pride—and they showed it not just in titles or wealth, but in the strength of those who served them.
Some flaunted elite knights clad in ceremonial plate. Others brought court mages who walked with enchanted rings on every finger. But the Rosenthal family?
They had butlers.
Steelblood butlers.
And he, Anwir, stood among them.
If a dispute broke out tonight — a slight against Selvaria's name, a jab at her lineage — the answer wouldn't be a harsh word or a diplomatic letter.
It would be him, stepping forward.
They won't call her out. They'll call me. A dance of blades under chandeliers, a message carved into flesh.
He exhaled softly.
"Most of the time, it's a show of strength among the nobles," he murmured under his breath. "Family reputation enforced through the hands of servants."
Selene glanced at him sideways, brow raised. "And for the Rosenthals?"
He looked forward, eyes fixed on the Mistress's back as she climbed the last step into the hall.
"…Me."
Anwir's gaze lingered on the lavish archway ahead, where laughter already echoed like a siren's hum. The gilded walls shimmered, but beneath the gold… lay something sharp.
Victory earns applause. Defeat earns scorn.
That was the unspoken rule in noble society.
The ones who lost these little showcases — who stumbled, faltered, or were simply outmatched — rarely walked away with just bruises. Reputation was everything. And a servant who lost didn't just shame themselves.
They stained the crest they served.
Losers don't get pity here.
"They get mocked," Anwir murmured, almost to himself. "Whispers. Cold stares. And if the embarrassment's great enough—"
He didn't finish it. Didn't need to.
As if knowing his inner struggle.
Selvaria helped him. Voice lower, sober now. "They get replaced."
Or buried, Anwir thought.
Then with a soft smile she continued towards the gathering.
Because a servant who couldn't defend their master's honor was no servant at all — just a liability in a world that treated weakness like rot.
His jaw clenched faintly.
If I lose… I don't just die. I take her name down with me.
And that was a fate far worse.
The great doors to the hall swung open with ceremonial weight, spilling warmth and perfume and polished grandeur into the night.
Inside, the gathering was a battlefield of velvet smiles and silent calculations — lords and ladies draped in wealth and layered meanings, their conversations more blade than banter.
A herald at the top of the staircase struck his staff once against big bell gathering attention from the peopled gathered.
"Now entering — Lady Selvaria Rosenthal, youngest daughter of House Rosenthal."
The hum of voices dipped — not to silence, but to something sharper. Attention. Scrutiny.
Anwir felt it immediately. Like stepping into a forge.
Eyes turned. Some in respect, others in subtle revulsion. Many in cold curiosity. All watching.
So this is what political pressure feels like in this world, he thought, following behind his mistress as they descended the stairs. A room full of sharks pretending they're here for dinner.
Selvaria moved with the precision of royalty — not a stumble, not a hair out of place. But Anwir had served her long enough to feel the tension beneath that gliding exterior.
Here, power wasn't declared. It was performed.
And the audience?
Savored every misstep.
Anwir's steps matched hers perfectly, eyes sharp, posture flawless.
He couldn't afford to blink wrong.