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The glorious carriage of His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Valerian Noctis, thundered down with a crash of hooves on the cobblestones, the proud beasts drawing it in regal procession. It was a spectacle most fearsome, for the Emperor himself was a man both feared and worshiped throughout the land. His hair, as dark as the darkest dusk, cascaded in a river of silk to his shoulders, though it was the color of it that filled many hearts with wonder. His eyes, those piercing orbs of sapphire blue, glowed with the intensity of an eagle's gaze. But most curiosity was stirred by the silk eye patch over his left eye, a perpetual reminder of the Emperor's power and mystery, as it was said that no one had ever laid eyes on the full stretch of his face. It was a symbol of his reign, won at the price of blood and the inexorable sweep of victory in the many wars he had fought and won.
The court was silent, the air heavy with expectation as the Emperor's carriage drew near. The silence, interrupted only by the cracking of horsehooves, was oppressive, the tension of it bearing down on every noble in the hall. With a single gesture of His Majesty's arm, the massive entrance doors swung open, and the Emperor strode in, a figure of frozen authority and royalty.
As was the tradition, all those in His Imperial Majesty's presence were compelled to bow in reverence. The nobles, courtiers, and servants all knelt on the ground, their eyes lowered in a show of obeisance and deference. The Emperor's eyes, however, swept over them like a winter gale—a bitter, calculating, unyielding gust. They swept over them with no touch of warmth.
"Welcome, Your Majesty," they said in unison, their voices trembling barely as they uttered the greeting.
The Emperor's reply was but a calm, detached order, "Rise." His voice was soft, but beneath it lay the burden of an empire, his words buried in the unobtrusive power of one brought to manhood amidst war and triumph.
"I have arrived to fulfill my obligation, as promised," replied Emperor Valerian, his tone casual, as if the matter at hand was not one of paramount significance. "The matter of the bride price shall be settled now. Let us continue."
Seraphina, duchess of the friendly house to the Emperor for so long, rose with deliberate beauty, though there was a questioning reluctance in her tone. "Of course, Your Majesty," she answered in a voice that was half respect and half fear, bowing her head as she indicated the proceedings to start.
Turning to her daughter, she presented Lady Ilyana proudly and, dare one say, with a hint of nervous hope. "Your Majesty," Seraphina started, her voice ringing softly through the silence of the hall, "I present to thee my daughter, fairest of them all, Lady Ilyana."
Here, Seraphina pushed Ilyana forward, though there was something just detectable in the way she did it—a push of expectation, a touch of direction. The young woman drew a deeper breath, her heart racing as her feet carried her toward the Emperor. She could feel the weight of the moment hanging over her as if the air itself had congealed into a tangible feeling of the seriousness of the moment.
Lady Ilyana approached the Emperor, looking down in respect, though her heart beat stronger than her legs. She sank into a low curtsy, her silken robes flowing around her like water. She would not look up at the face of the Emperor, lest she be trapped in his cold regard. She addressed him, her voice trembling, though she fought to keep it firm. "Good day, Your Majesty. I am Lady Ilyana," she answered, each word hefted between them.
The Emperor's response was swift and indifferent. "Good day, Lady Ilyana," he answered, the sound of his voice low and cold, without looking at her as if sparing himself the work of seeing her well. The left eye hid behind its patch of silk glistened distantly in light, but he was not really thinking about this. The heaviness of his indifference hung over Ilyana like a shroud, and she found herself wishing in the moment she could fade into the periphery of the room.
She stood there, unmoving, her fists clenched at her sides waiting for something else to happen with the Emperor, but His Majesty said nothing. His eyes scanned the room as though he searched for something, but never really settled on her. She was like a tiny footnote in a giant plan, a piece in a game where the prize was something she didn't know.
Air around them was that silent vow, that both still could not conceive. Lady Ilyana stood there, mind a maelstrom of thoughts, body braced at standing close to the Emperor's person, with Seraphina and Cedric behind them, stoically regarding this space that stretched tight like some coiled beast held captive within frozen moments.