"Let us retire within, Your Highness," Duke Cedric said, his voice tempered to politeness as he stepped forward with calculated elegance, proffering an arm in gentlemanly deference. His hand, encased in a glove, gestured toward the tall, vaulted doors of the manor, made of dark, burnished oak, where the golden sigil of House Viremont glowed beneath torches.
The Emperor, His Imperial Majesty Valerian Noctis, said nothing but advanced, his presence a tall, imposing form clad in a dark, long cloak bordered with silver thread. The back of his cloak whispered quietly along the marble as he walked, and the air around him grew cold, as if the heat of the fire itself did not venture close. The gathered household—family, guards, and servants—bowed as a single unit as he entered, heads bowed and eyes lowered, respectful silence enveloping the corridor.
Within the great dining hall, a vaulted chamber of grandeur and tradition, the household sat under a canopy of crystalline light. The chandeliers above twinkled with a thousand cut gemstones, their flickering candles casting dancing shadows on walls adorned with ancient tapestries—each strand telling a tale of conquests and aristocratic triumphs long past. Garnet-colored velvet drapes shrouded the tall arched windows, and in the center stood a long and lavish table, laid out with silver and bone china, the dinner served in muted opulence.
The Emperor took his seat at the head of the table with the effortless confidence of a person used to command. His eye—cold, icy, analytical—swept the hall with the unspoken intensity of a hawk. One eye was always hidden, always covered by a silken eye-patch of deepest midnight, subtly embroidered with a royal crest. Not once since his coronation had it been raised in public.
Duke Cedric, ever concerned with propriety and wishing to banish the frozen atmosphere that lay over the room like a shroud, cleared his throat and attempted, "So, Your Highness… was thy journey good? I hope the roads were fair and the winds not bitter?"
It was adequate," said Emperor Valerian, his voice terse and unenthusiastic, as he took up the finely-crafted knife beside his plate and cut into the venison with slow intent. The steel glinted in the candlelight, each movement calculated, as though even dining was a matter of military campaign.
There was silence again. Knife against porcelain cut through the vacuum created by stilled tongues. No one dared to speak. Even the servants had moved to the extreme corners of the hall, eyes cast down, hands folded, waiting for an order that would never come.
Then, as if by caprice or by design, the Emperor spoke to her once more—his voice calm, yet unsettling in its suddenness. "Lady Ilyana… tell me—what age dost thou wear?"
Lady Ilyana, seated between her mother, Duchess Seraphina, and her younger half-brother, did not respond immediately. A cloud of uncertainty darkened her delicate face. Her hands, folded together in her lap within her red skirts, paled slightly—fingers tightening into the silk. In spite of her aristocratic bearing and erect carriage learned from so many lessons, the question stirred up a fear in her heart she could not explain.
"I am seventeen years old, Your Majesty," she replied at last, her voice low but clear, steady despite the shiver that ran down her spine.
The Emperor's single eye met hers. It locked with hers for the briefest moment, unblinking and unreadable. Then, without a word, he looked away, resuming his meal with a silence that seemed carved from granite.
No one said anything. The Duchess, seated beside her daughter, had a calm expression, yet her fingers quietly rearranged the folds of Ilyana's sleeve, a silent reassurance. Duke Cedric drank from his goblet, the wine therein untasted.
As the final course was taken away by silent maids and the fire in the hearth died low, the Emperor set his silver goblet down upon the table. He leaned back with implicit consideration, clapsing his hands lightly together before him.
"Lady Ilyana," he said at last, his voice echoing beneath the lofty vaults, "wouldst thou do me the honor of a tour? I should very much like to acquaint myself with thy family's lands.".
Lady Ilyana's breath caught. Her eyes went automatically to her mother. Duchess Seraphina nodded subtly, her expression peaceful but expectant. Rising with practised grace, Ilyana dropped into a flowing curtsy, her red dress unfolding beautifully around her.
"With pleasure, Your Majesty. I would be most honoured.".