The golden doors to House Lichtenfeld's banquet hall parted with a low groan, ushering in the faint fragrance of wine, flowers, and polished power. Inside, nobles dressed in velvet and fur, silk and steel, moved like stars in a careful constellation—perfect smiles, delicate laughter, and sharpened eyes.
Lan stood at the threshold, the fabric of her deep sapphire hanfu trailing behind her like water spilled across a foreign floor. Its brocade shimmered faintly beneath the overhead chandeliers, the high collar pressing softly against her throat. Unlike the stiff corsets and form-fitted bodices of Stromwalde's nobility, Lan's attire swayed freely, foreign and strange among the starched silhouettes.
She could feel the weight of a hundred stares as Mina adjusted the trailing sleeve that kept slipping. "You look radiant," Mina whispered, smiling nervously.
Radiant. Maybe. Or maybe a curiosity.
Whispers had already started."Is that her?""She's smaller than I expected.""So very... exotic.""I heard she can't even read our language.""She's lucky to have been taken in, honestly."
Mina guided her in with a gentle hand to the back. The party roared around them—laughs, glasses clinking, and musicians weaving strings into the air. But no one approached. No one welcomed her.
Lady Mireille arrived with a swirl of silver lace. Her beauty was sharp, like glass left in the sun too long. She approached Lan with a bright smile and eyes that did not match it.
"My, Princess Lan," Mireille said sweetly. "Your dress is... enchanting. A bit theatrical, perhaps. But what's diplomacy without a little theater?"
Lan bowed slightly, speaking softly, "Thank you, Lady Mireille. You are kind."
"I try," Mireille smiled thinly. "And how is your husband tonight? Oh—" She tilted her head. "He's not here, is he?"
Lan's lips parted but no words came. Mireille didn't wait. She drifted off like perfume—quick to fade but lingering where it hurt.
Not long after came Lady Hilda, Alaric's aunt—a woman whose presence seemed to freeze the air. Her hair was coiled in gold rings, her voice a blade wrapped in silk.
"So," Hilda said, eyeing Lan like a merchant might study flawed porcelain, "This is the girl Elara chose."
Lan straightened, bowing in greeting. "It's an honor, my lady."
"Is it?" Hilda smiled, but not warmly. "You're awfully young to be so honored. Tell me, child—are you prepared for what it means to marry into Stromwalde's bloodlines? Or are you merely here to survive?"
Lan froze. "I..."
"She can't even answer," Hilda muttered, sipping her wine. "Well, she is pretty. That's something. Elara always did have a soft heart for pitiful things."
Each word was another thread in the net tightening around Lan's breath.
As the night deepened, noblewomen came to her in small flocks. Some were polite. Most were not.
"I suppose that's how you wear your hair in Qinglong?"
"I wonder if she even knows how to dance."
"Did they teach you court etiquette in captivity, or was that not necessary?"
Mina tried, in small ways, to intervene—refilling Lan's drink, quietly directing conversations elsewhere, offering her a plate she wouldn't eat. But she was just a maid. What could she do when even the air seemed to turn against Lan?
Lan forced herself to stand tall, her spine straight even when her hands trembled under the sleeves. Her cheeks ached from smiling. Her chest hurt from breathing too carefully.
She looked for Elara, but the matron had been pulled into conversations across the hall. Alaric, of course, was nowhere.
Just before midnight, a loud cheer went up—wine spilled, a noble shouted something in jest, laughter rose, and Lan was brushed aside by a noblewoman's train like she wasn't even there.
Mina caught her before she stumbled.
"I'm sorry," Mina whispered. "Let's go. Please."
Lan said nothing. She only nodded.
...
The sounds of laughter and crystal clinks faded behind her as Lan stepped out into the night.
Cool wind kissed her cheeks, yet her skin burned.
The garden behind House Lichtenfeld was quiet, silvered under moonlight. Fireflies blinked lazily near the bushes, and beyond the stone path, the large, marble-bordered pool shimmered like a sheet of glass. A reflection of stars, disturbed only by the breeze.
Lan exhaled.
The air was easier to breathe here—without Mireille's smirks or Hilda's dissecting gaze. Her steps were slow, the long hanfu gown dragging behind her. The embroidered shrug over her shoulders was thick, ornate, and stifling.
She sat down beside the pool, just close enough to feel the mist off its surface. Her back curved forward, her hands pressing into the cold marble.
And then she slid the shrug off her shoulders.
The soft fabric slipped down her arms, revealing the thin inner straps of her hanfu. The silk clung to her damp skin, her bare shoulders and collarbone catching the moonlight. The night air wrapped around her flushed body, and she closed her eyes.
Her feet dipped into the water, the coolness kissing her ankles.
She didn't hear the footsteps at first.
Not until the sound of boots against gravel stopped behind her.
Her eyes opened slowly.
Alaric stood a few feet away, frozen.
He had been walking back toward the estate, annoyed and distant, until a shadow by the water had caught his attention. Now, here he was—watching the delicate figure of his wife, perched on the edge of the pool, bare skin exposed beneath the stars.
She turned toward him, strands of her hair catching the wind. Her lips parted into a soft, sleepy smile.
"Oh… you came."
Her voice was airy. Dreamlike. Her eyes shimmered—there was exhaustion, yes, but also a gentle relief in seeing him.
Alaric's jaw tensed. "What are you doing out here? You disappeared from the party."
"I needed air," Lan murmured, drawing her knees up. "It was... crowded."
He stepped closer, gaze flickering between her exposed shoulder and the pool behind her. "You shouldn't be out here dressed like that. It's improper."
She gave a breathy laugh, her chin lifting in defiance. "You weren't even there. So what does it matter?"
His brows furrowed. "That's not the point—"
"Isn't it?" she interrupted softly. "You left me alone. I was mocked like an animal behind a cage. And you—" her gaze narrowed, "you couldn't even pretend to stand beside me."
Alaric took a sharp breath, closing the distance between them. His shadow loomed taller now.
"I didn't think you needed me," he said tightly. "You never said a word to me about anything. You act like a doll in a palace, silent, expressionless, but then expect protection like—"
"I never expected anything," Lan snapped, standing suddenly.
The hem of her dress slipped, catching on the marble. Her balance faltered just as Alaric instinctively reached out to grab her wrist.
Their bodies collided—
—and in that moment, a shift, a misstep—
With a splash, Lan fell backward into the pool.
"Lan!"
Cold water enveloped her in an instant, pulling her silk down, twisting around her body like a serpent. Her hair floated in dark strands as bubbles burst around her lips.
She didn't scream—but the water stole her breath.
Alaric moved without thinking. He threw off his jacket, dove in, and reached her in seconds.
His arms wrapped around her slender waist and pulled her to the surface. She coughed, clinging to him, shivering violently.
He dragged them both to the edge and lifted her out, his muscles taut beneath his soaked shirt. Water dripped from his hair, clinging to his eyelashes as he looked down at her.
Her dress was soaked—clinging. The silk had gone nearly transparent. Every delicate curve of her body beneath it was visible—the lace edge of her underwraps, the delicate rise of her chest, the hollow of her stomach. The straps of the inner layer had slipped down her shoulders again.
Lan gasped, blinking, trembling.
He looked away sharply, jaw clenched. His voice came low, strained.
"You should be more careful."
Lan coughed, pushing the wet strands from her face. "Maybe next time don't push your wife into the pool."
"It was an accident," he growled.
"Is everything with you always an accident?" she snapped back, breathless, angry, cold.
A long pause. Water trickled down both their bodies, pooling around them.
And then—quietly, almost imperceptibly—Lan laughed.
It was a strange sound. Unstable. Too tired to be mocking. She laughed again, curling her knees up against her chest as the wet fabric clung to her.
"You're ridiculous," she whispered, her voice thick. "We're both ridiculous."
Alaric stared at her—dripping, furious, beautiful.
He exhaled, slow and deep, before standing up. He reached down and offered her his hand. "Come on. You'll catch a fever."
She took it.