The ballroom stretched vast and imperial, white marble gleaming beneath a latticework of gold-leaf arches. Chandeliers, heavy with crystal, scattered warm starlight across a sea of velvet and silk. Music drifted—a waltz, delicate as spun sugar—but when Selvaria Rosenthal entered, the hush that followed was sharper than any fanfare.
A herald's voice cut through the silence:
"The Youngest Daughter of House Rosenthal—Lady Selvaria."
Not a murmur. Not a breath. Only the subtle choreography of the court: gloves tightened, spines straightened, eyes flicked with calculation.
She's here. Anwir felt the tension coil through the hall—not fear, but anticipation, honed and dangerous, masked by etiquette.
The nobility divided, not by walls but by presence. On one side: the Holy Families, swathed in satin robes adorned with wings, suns, and scripture—three of the seven great Dukedoms, their power braided with the Church and the Empire's divine façade. Opposite, the Dark Families: serpent motifs, black lilies, obsidian rings. Their whispers carried tales of old pacts, border wars, and forbidden magics. Their strength was equal, their challenge constant.
Selvaria moved among them like an eclipsed moon—cold, luminous, untouchable. A star burning in shadow.
Between these factions, the Neutral Family's envoys watched, clad in silver and blue, eyes marked with the Imperial sigil. The Seventh Duke's line: neither ally nor foe, guardians of balance, or its undoing at the Emperor's whim.
This was no mere gathering. It was a battlefield veiled in chandeliers.
Anwir stood half a step behind his mistress, posture perfect, presence minimal.
And I… am part of the arsenal.
The Web of Words
The silence ebbed, replaced by murmurs—first tentative, then swelling into the practiced tide of courtly chatter. Selvaria glided forward, unslowed, unbowed. The crowd parted before her, some in awe, others in wary deference.
Not all did so quietly.
"—they say the Saintess healed an entire village last moon," a nobleman in holy white whispered behind a fan. "And yet here we parade the Rosenthal girl—ice in her veins, blood steeped in betrayal."
"Blood doesn't wash clean," another replied, voice a blade. "Not after fratricide. The Church will never anoint a kin-slayer's heir."
They spoke softly, but Anwir heard. And by the subtle set of Selvaria's shoulders, so did she.
Across the hall, darker silks rustled with a different music.
"Truly exquisite," murmured a lady of House Veyran, her fan a lattice of raven feathers and glass daggers. "Even under pressure, she does not bend. That's grace."
"She walks as a Rosenthal should," a mage-knight from House Durmont observed. "Let the holy ones have their miracle maidens. We have a blade."
Laughter, low and edged. Nods of respect, veiled as politeness. Every word, a thread in the web. Selvaria moved through it with the poise of a spider who knew which strands would snap.
Tension and Loyalty
"Ugh. Did you hear that?" Selene muttered beside Anwir, her voice a venomous undertone. "The way they praise that stitched-smile Saintess like she pisses ambrosia?"
Anwir's brow didn't flicker. "You're not subtle."
"Don't need to be. They're too busy pretending to pray while knifing each other under the altar."
She fluffed her curls, then leaned in, conspiratorial. "House Viridiel—pious as priests, but their heir's alchemy 'miracles' blew up half a chapel last year. Called it 'divine will.'"
"And House Malrec?" she went on, lip curled. "Sir 'I Have Visions' is on his third mistress. Last one ran off with a stableboy. He called it a test of spiritual devotion."
"And you know all this why?" Anwir asked, mostly rhetorical.
Selene sniffed. "Because if one of those white-robed hypocrites looks down on our Mistress again, I'll make sure they're tripping over incense and choking on sanctimony."
Anwir blinked. "That's oddly specific."
"She's a Rosenthal," Selene said, gaze fixed on Selvaria. "The world can hate her. She's still mine."
She turned, eyes narrowing as if Anwir himself had sworn fealty to the Holy Families.
"And you," she said, jabbing his chest, "touch our Mistress with anything but reverence and duty—just try—and I'll beat you up too."
She flexed her arm, revealing a bicep that was more spirited than imposing.
Anwir stared. Then at her.
A pause.
"…I'm trembling," he said.
"You should be," Selene huffed, snapping her sleeve down. "I once broke a wooden spoon in half. With one hand."
"Was it already cracked?"
"That's not the point."
A New Rivalry
A ripple passed through the crowd, swift as flame. Nobles turned, parting like silk before a blade. The announcer's voice rang out:
"Lady Aurianne Elodie Kallenhart, Third Daughter of House Kallenhart."
Anwir felt it before he saw it—a shift, like storm-pressure before lightning.
Golden hair caught the chandelier's fire. Aurianne entered—not gliding, but prowling, shoulders squared, chin high, boots striking marble with militant certainty.
Applause, polite but measured. Respectful. Watchful.
House Kallenhart: the most aggressive of the Holy Houses, its faith edged with steel. Aurianne was its blade.
She stopped only when her gaze found Selvaria.
Two stars, dusk and dawn, orbiting the same sky.
A pause.
Aurianne's smile was thin, precise. Not warm, not cruel. Calculated.
"So," she said, head tilting. "You still cling to that perspective."
Selvaria's eyes, cold as moonlight, did not waver.
"And you," she replied, voice soft as falling snow, "still mistake conviction for clarity."