'WHY DID I EVER AGREE TO THIS MARRIAGE AGAIN?'
Arne cast a sharp and unrelenting gaze at the man standing before her, her eyes filled with quiet frustration. Her wedding, a grand affair that had been plagued by endless gossip and countless complications, still loomed over her. The groom at the centre of all the whispers, the one who had been chosen for her, the man with whom she was bound by this arrangement—was none other than the one before her now.
"It has been a long time," he said, his voice smooth and effortless, his smile sly and filled with a knowing mischief.
Cassian's smile, so brazen and effortlessly charming, stirred a fierce irritation within her. How could he smile so freely, as if he had no care for the storm he had created? Yet, despite her indignation, she could not entirely suppress the unsettling truth that he was, undeniably, handsome. His looks, striking and impossible to ignore, caused her anger to waver, if only for a fleeting moment.
Memories long buried, ones she had carefully locked away, began to resurface, hazy and full of emotions she had tried to forget. The sight of him, so familiar and yet so distant, pulled at something deep within her. A dull ache settled in her chest, and she found herself momentarily lost in the weight of it.
"It seems fate has led us to meet again,"
Cassian remarked, his smile deepening, as though he was privy to some secret she was not.
Unable to hold his gaze any longer, Arne turned away, the gravity of their past pulling at her, too much to bear in this moment.
Thus began the tangled thread of their fate—their connection, so stubborn and enduring, had begun on that fateful day long ago.
***
Three months ago, at the party hall of the Western Empire, the light from the chandeliers flickered and swayed erratically. Having successfully infiltrated the party hall, avoiding the Imperial Guard's watch, Arne had finished scaling the second-floor terrace and now leaned against the railing.
'Ugh. My stomach hurts…'
The lingering effects of the alcohol she had consumed the night before with her fellow knights from the Order were beginning to make themselves known. She had only recently woken up, still groggy from the all-night drinking session.
Normally, a party at the Imperial Palace wouldn't have fazed her in the least but today was different.
"If you skip this party, don't even think about coming back! You'll be dead for sure!"
The voice of her mother, the mere thought of which could send a chill through Arne's veins, echoed relentlessly in her mind. Only her mother, with her unmatched prowess as the greatest Sword Master in the Western Empire, could issue such a chilling threat. Arne glanced at the time. The party had already been started for quite some time. Though she was a little late…
"Anyway, I've made it, so it's fine."
Arne tried to reassure herself as she focused on the fact that the party was still ongoing. Her alcohol-soaked stomach ached for something to calm it. She would quickly make her appearance, ensure she was seen at the party, and then find a way to ease her hangover. Her thoughts were simple and straightforward, but as she moved forward, her body suddenly stilled. Her finely-tuned senses, the hallmark of a Sword Master, picked up the distant voices of young ladies chatting near the terrace.
"Has Lady Arne not arrived again today?"
"The Duchess was asking for her, and I heard she was very angry."
"She said she would come, but I guess she hasn't after all."
"Oh no, if Lady Arne doesn't show up this time, she'll be in serious trouble."
The mention of her mother's anger made Arne's head throb even more. She pressed her fingers to her temples, feeling the tension rise. Facing her furious mother was not a decision anyone would make lightly—it would be like stepping onto a speeding train headed straight for hell. With that thought in mind, Arne quickly decided.
'I need to meet the emperor, do it as discreetly as possible, and then make my escape.'
Arne's plan was simple, she would find someone who could confirm her presence at the party and then vanish before her mother could track her down. With this plan in mind, she swiftly scaled the third-floor terrace. From the vantage point of the third-floor corridor, she could get a clear view of the entire party hall and locate the emperor.
Landing lightly on the terrace railing, Arne almost lost her balance, but with the agility of a seasoned swordswoman, she managed to steady herself just in time.
'Who's there?'
Despite her expectation that no one would be nearby, the silence of the terrace was broken by the distinct presence of another figure.
'How could I have made such a simple mistake?'
Before she could fully gather her thoughts, the man, sensing her presence, turned to face her. In that split second, their gazes locked—his eyes, an intense shade of blue, reminiscent of the cold, stark winter sky. Arne, momentarily caught in the depths of those eyes, quickly pulled herself together.
'This is not the time to be distracted.'
As Arne's expression shifted, so did the masked man's demeanour. His blue eyes, already sharp and piercing, seemed to darken with a flicker of interest. The instant he reached out, Arne reacted with practiced speed. In one fluid motion, she bolted, her feet barely making a sound as she vanished from his grasp.
Thud!
The man's hand closed around nothing but empty air, and slowly, he lowered his arm, staring at his own empty palm as if in disbelief.
'I missed?'
Before he could fully process what had just happened, an unfamiliar presence stirred behind him. He turned, a slight surprise flashing across his features, only to find something more amusing than he had expected.
"What is it, Your Grace?"
A knight, who had only just appeared on the terrace, spoke to the man. The masked figure, his interest piqued, let out a languid smile and casually pointed to the spot where Arne had disappeared. The moment, which had been tinged with a dullness, now held a trace of amusement.
"I just saw the cutest little thief-cat."
His blue eyes darkened slightly, the hint of intrigue now unmistakable in his gaze.
Meanwhile, Arne, having made her escape, landed swiftly on a different terrace. She paused for a brief moment, her sharp gaze scanning the area to ensure no one was around. Satisfied, she exhaled a relieved breath, her body finally relaxing. However, the image of those striking blue eyes, hidden behind the black mask, remained firmly etched in her memory.
"Who was that man?"
she thought, a lingering curiosity mixing with the unease she felt from the encounter.
It was a gaze unlike any Arne had ever encountered. As she tried to think of anyone she knew who had eyes like those, her thoughts became momentarily distracted. She lowered her head, trying to shake off the unfamiliar feeling.
'Ugh, my stomach…'
She regretted allowing herself to be side tracked. This wasn't the time for distractions; the Emperor was her priority. With a quick shake of her head, Arne refocused and took a steadying breath, pushing the lingering unease aside. She had to find the Emperor—quickly.
"Ah, today's party is a masquerade."
she murmured to herself, recalling the black mask worn by the man.
With fluid movements, Arne made her way out of the corridor, swiftly and quietly. Her keen eye spotted an abandoned mask near a noble's room, and in a single motion, she snatched it up and placed it over her face. She was careful not to draw attention, blending in with the other masked guests. Now, all that was left was to locate the Emperor.
'There he is…'
Thankfully, the Emperor wasn't far. As the highest authority in the Western Empire, his presence would be limited to a few key areas, making him relatively easy to spot. Arne felt a small surge of relief as her eyes landed on him. Her plan was simple: greet him, ensure her attendance was known, secure a witness, and then slip away before her mother could track her down.
Her pace quickened as she made her way down the stairs, but just as she was about to continue her descent, her steps froze.
"Oh, my, it's been so long, Millian Have you by any chance seen my daughter?"
The voice was unmistakable—Arne's mother, the Duchess of Brillcht, which she would recognize it even in her sleep. Arne's heart skipped a beat, and she immediately turned her head in alarm. Her mother was moving through the party, stopping to ask everyone she encountered about Arne's whereabouts.
"Hoho, have you seen our Arne?"
Her mother's voice was laced with a hint of amusement, but it was a dangerous kind of amusement.
"She said she would come. But if she doesn't, I told her she'll be in big trouble…"
Arne's blood ran cold at the thought of her mother's threat. She had heard those words before, and she knew how serious they were. The Duchess's anger could be terrifying, and Arne had no intention of letting it reach that point.
"Oh my, Duchess. Perhaps Arne did come to the party, but with the masquerade theme, it's not easy for you to find her?"
"Oh, dear, don't be upset. That child probably doesn't even realize today's party is a masquerade. Hohoho."
The voice rang out, light and melodic, but beneath it lay a chilling edge—her mother's unmistakable voice. Arne's heart skipped a beat, and she immediately felt a wave of dread wash over her. She spun on her heels and swiftly ascended back to the third floor, her pace quickening.
"I'm doomed."
At that thought, A strong sense of foreboding settled deep within her. Though she had only overheard a few words, the anger in her mother's voice was undeniable. It was the kind of anger that could be felt in the air, thick and volatile—like a volcano ready to erupt. Her mother's fury was as swift and destructive as a storm. Arne had no doubt that if she continued her path to the Emperor, she would walk straight into her mother's wrath. A change of plans was now an urgent necessity.
'I need to hide and wait. Once the Emperor leaves, I'll greet him quietly and slip away, as if nothing happened…'
Her stomach was still aching from the alcohol she had yet to clear, but that discomfort was now secondary. Her mother's wrath was the real threat. Even a Sword Master could be crushed under her mother's forceful presence, and Arne knew it would be foolish to confront such an overwhelming power head-on. The only way out was to avoid it.
With renewed focus, she climbed up the stairs and made her way toward a less obvious hiding spot. Her mind raced, calculating her next move.
Just as she was about to take refuge, the sound of her mother's voice grew louder. It was unmistakable—she was heading up to the third floor. Arne cursed under her breath. Of all the times for this to happen!
'Why now of all time?!'
Arne's anxiety spiked as she quickly scanned the area for a place to hide. She moved with a sense of urgency, her steps nearly silent as she tried to remain out of sight, hoping her mother's sharp eyes wouldn't catch her.
"What in the world is that girl thinking...huh?"
Her mother's voice continued, laced with exasperation and frustration. The familiar sound made Arne's blood run cold. She had no doubt that her mother's anger was reaching a boiling point, and if she didn't hide immediately, she would be the one to feel its full force.
With her heart racing, Arne found a small alcove to squeeze into, trying to stay as quiet as possible. She pressed her back against the wall, holding her breath, hoping that her mother wouldn't catch sight of her.
'I can't afford to be caught now. Not like this.'
The silence felt heavy as Arne waited, the footsteps of the noblewomen growing closer. Her pulse raced in her ears as she braced herself for the inevitable confrontation, knowing full well that her mother would stop at nothing to find her and drag her into whatever trouble she had set for her.
Though Arne had been confident she'd concealed herself well, it was clear now—it seemed her presence had been noticed. A chill threaded through the air, sharp and foreboding, as if the very atmosphere had turned against her.
'Please… just walk past. Don't look this way. Just keep walking.'
"What is it, madam?"
"I thought I saw something… Hm. No, I'd best check over there, just in case."
At her mother's words, Arne bit down hard on her lower lip. Her heart sank. She was doomed.
'If this keeps up, I'm definitely going to be caught.'
With a silent breath, she slipped down a side corridor, moving as lightly as a shadow. This hallway was quieter than the rest of the grand estate, its walls lined with private lounges—elegant rooms meant to offer nobles a moment of reprieve during the long, glittering night of festivities. Gilded sconces lit the path in a warm, flickering glow, but it felt too bright, too exposed.
She pressed herself into the narrow recess of a corner, tucking herself as far back as the space allowed. Her breaths came shallow, barely audible. But no matter how still she stood, she couldn't shake the growing unease coiling in her chest.
Even without the honed senses of a Sword Master as she has, her mother had something far more terrifying: an intuition as sharp as a blade, tempered by decades of navigating the treacherous waters of imperial society. The Duchess of Brillcht had always known where to look—especially when Arne was trying not to be found.
And now, the sound of her mother's footsteps began to echo through the corridor. Unhurried. Precise. Unrelenting. One step. Then another.
Each footfall rang louder in Arne's ears, tightening the knot of tension in her chest. Her body stilled, her senses straining. The air felt heavier with every second. She held her breath, praying the darkness would be kind.
"Shh."
A dark cloak swept in front of her like a curtain falling over a stage, cutting off her view in an instant.
Only then did Arne feel it—that unmistakable presence behind her. It pressed in like a shadow made flesh, cool and commanding, impossible to ignore.
She turned her head slowly, breath caught in her throat.
And there they were.
A pair of striking blue eyes met hers—aloof and piercing, cold as ice, yet glittering with a trace of amusement that made her skin prickle. They were the only feature visible beneath the black mask that concealed the rest of his face, making those eyes all the more vivid in the dim light.
They curved ever so slightly, as if the man found her predicament... entertaining.
"So, this is where my little stray cat has been hiding."
Arne was taken aback by his voice—it held the subtle confidence of someone who had been searching and had, at last, found what he was looking for.
"How…?"
So, brief a question, yet it held a multitude of unspoken thoughts: How did you come to be here? How did you find me? And above all, how did you recognize me… even with this mask?
But rather than offer her an answer, the man simply gestured forward with a gloved hand. Arne instinctively fell silent. The situation had not yet passed. The footsteps she had heard earlier… had stopped.
"Perhaps in here—!"
A voice rang out, far too familiar.
The Duchess of Brillcht turned the corner with confident grace—only to stop short at the unexpected sight before her. The stranger standing in the corridor was not her daughter. Her brows lifted slightly in surprise.
"Oh dear, my apologies. I hadn't realized someone was here."
"It's quite alright, Madam."
The man replied, bowing slightly with effortless charm. His voice was calm, smooth—like velvet over steel.
The Duchess returned his civility with poise, though her sharp gaze, honed by years of suspicion and strategy, shifted toward the shadows at his back.
"By any chance…" Her tone was pleasant, but probing. "Is that someone standing just behind you…?"
"My partner is rather shy," the masked man said smoothly, stepping forward just enough to obscure her completely with the sweep of his cloak.
There was a brief pause, followed by a polite response.
"Ah, I see."
The Duchess gave a graceful nod, as if she understood the situation entirely—though she clearly did not—and stepped back with composed elegance.
"Hoho, do enjoy your time."
At those oblivious words—completely unaware that her own daughter was concealed behind a stranger's cloak—Arne's expression shifted into one of subtle conflict. It was, undeniably, a fortunate outcome… and yet, it didn't feel like a true victory.
In fact, it felt rather strange.
'Partner? Shy?'
Those were certainly not words anyone had ever used to describe Arne Brillcht. The very idea was laughable. Still, the absurdity of the excuse wasn't what lingered in her mind.
'Why did he help me in the first place?'
Her thoughts were interrupted by the man's low, silken voice.
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
"…What do you mean?"
"You had the look," he said, eyes glinting beneath his mask, "of a guest who hadn't received an invitation."
Arne's expression darkened immediately. That may have been technically true, she hadn't entered through any official channel—but that hardly made her an uninvited guest.
She was Arne Brillcht, daughter of the Brillcht house, a direct descendant of the imperial line, and one of the most celebrated Sword Masters in the Western Empire. Her presence, whether announced or not, carried the weight of her blood and blade.
If anything, it was the palace that ought to have prepared for her arrival—not the other way around.
'Still, explaining all of that felt needlessly troublesome.'
And Arne Brillcht had little patience for unnecessary effort.
"Even knowing I was an uninvited guest… why did you not intervene?"
Arne's voice was calm yet edged with suspicion. The man tilted his head ever so slightly, as though amused by the question.
"Because I found you intriguing."
His answer was simple, yet the weight behind it was not. His blue eyes, cold and striking like shards of winter ice, glimmered with a dangerous curiosity. In that brief moment, something unfathomable passed through them—a fleeting shadow that made Arne feel as though invisible chains had quietly fastened around her. She had been caught—not physically, but by something far more elusive. And in that instant, she understood.
'This man…I've never seen this man before.'
A presence unfamiliar, foreign—like a wind that had drifted in from a distant land. Yet instead of fear, Arne felt a growing curiosity stirring within her. Who was he, truly? What mask did he wear beneath the one she could see?
"And you are?"
Her question was direct, though her eyes searched him for answers he had no intention of offering freely.
"For now… let us say I am merely a man who has taken an interest in a stray cat."
"A stray cat…?"
She echoed his words with a frown, her displeasure unmistakable. So, all that talk of a cat earlier—it had been about her.
'Was it because he saw me vaulted over the railing a moment ago?'
The realization irked her, and her expression made no effort to hide it. Yet the man only smiled, the corners of his lips curling with deeper amusement, as though her indignation entertained him all the more. What he had initially considered a mere distraction from his boredom was rapidly evolving into something far more delightful—a spark of unpredictability in a world too often ruled by predictability.
As he observed her with quiet fascination, Arne, too, watched him intently. Her eyes, sharp and unyielding, sought to unravel the mystery behind the mask. She was no longer merely fleeing her mother, nor simply hiding among masked nobility. Now, she was entirely focused on figuring out who this man really was.
'A foreign noble, perhaps?'
His every movement exuded an effortless nobility—refined, precise, and unmistakably born of high breeding. Yet he wore his arrogance openly, without the slightest inclination to temper it. That brand of poised, unhurried confidence was rarely found outside those who had lived their entire lives atop the world's hierarchy.
He spoke the Western Empire's tongue with fluency, yes—but beneath the polish, Arne detected something faintly amiss. Certain inflections, the subtle cadence of a vowel here, a softened consonant there… They hinted at foreign blood.
'But I haven't heard of any foreign dignitaries visiting. Who in the world is he?'
As silence settled between them, their eyes locked in the charged space between breath and stillness, an unspoken duel of willpower. His gaze, cold and glacial, sharpened with sudden intensity. Staring into his eyes felt like peering into the bottomless depths of a winter sea—beautiful, merciless, and inescapable. For one precarious heartbeat, Arne had the distinct and dreadful sense that if she faltered, she might drown. Almost without thinking, she took a cautious step back, but he stepped forward.
A subtle, foreign scent, clean, unfamiliar, and slightly intoxicating—drifted in the narrow space between them. The air around her felt heavier, thick with his presence. She tried to avert her gaze, to reclaim even the illusion of distance, but he didn't allow it. As though determined to press his advantage, he closed the space further still. He would not let her flee.
She could feel the warmth of his breath brushing her skin, the edges of the ballroom blurring until nothing remained but the two of them, suspended in the quiet intensity of that moment. And then—
"Ugh…"
A sudden wave of nausea surged from the pit of her stomach. Arne stiffened, her shoulders jerking involuntarily.
'I'm going to vomit.'
The thought was sharp, immediate, and horrifying. She managed, just barely, to swallow it back down—but the queasiness lingered like an unwelcome guest.
'No. Survival first. Dignity… later.'
She had to get out of there—quickly.
Despite the pounding in her head, Arne's instincts took over, her body moving before her thoughts could catch up. But even in her haze, she paused—just long enough to offer a shred of gratitude to the man who had, in his own strange way, aided her.
"Anyway… thank you for earlier. Ugh—if we happen to meet again, I'll return the favour. Here, take this. And now, I really must go."
With that, she tore a small badge from the folds of her garment and pressed it into his hand. Then, without another word, she turned and slipped away into the crowd. Her steps wavered, betraying the effects of her hangover, yet she moved with a determination that kept her upright.
The man remained where she had left him, watching her retreating figure with an expression caught somewhere between curiosity and quiet amusement.
Once she disappeared from sight, he finally looked down at the object in his palm. It was a delicate badge, gleaming faintly beneath the ballroom light. A gift—hastily given, but not without meaning. His lips curved, faint but unmistakable.
"Lord Cassian."
A man voice called out hurried toward him, finally catching up after a lengthy search. He'd gone first to the terrace, expecting Cassian to be where he had left him, but found only empty air. Now, seeing the unfamiliar badge in Cassian's hand, Allen paused, his brows lifting in surprise.
"That… Are you certain you should be keeping that?"
Cassian's gaze lingered on the badge for a moment longer before a low hum escaped his throat, thoughtful yet undeniably pleased.
"Let's call it a stray cat's gesture of gratitude."
"A… cat's gratitude?"
Allen echoed the words, utterly perplexed. He tilted his head, clearly trying to decipher some hidden meaning. But Cassian only gave a quiet chuckle, deep and amused, offering no further clarification. A soft glow touched his features—something light, unguarded.
A smile. One so genuine, so rare, that it rendered Allen speechless. In all the years he had served him, he had never seen Cassian smile like that before.
'What in the world could have happened to make him smile like that?'
Allen was still reeling from the sight when Cassian's smile gradually faded, like the last warmth of sunlight retreating behind winter clouds. Composure returned to his features, sharp and unreadable once more—the Cassian Allen knew best. Cassian turned to him with quiet authority, his voice smooth, measured.
"So, what is it?"
Allen straightened instinctively. "Ah—His Majesty, the Emperor of the Western Empire, has summoned you."
At the mention of the Western Emperor, a fleeting shadow passed through Cassian's eyes. Just for a heartbeat, barely enough to catch—regret. Were it left to him, he might have followed the stray cat who had vanished into the crowd, leaving behind only a badge and a curious impression. There was something about her… something that tugged faintly at the edge of his thoughts, elusive but persistent. But duty had a way of catching even the most unpredictable spirits.
Cassian closed his fingers around the badge, the metal cool in his palm, its shape pressing into his skin as though to remind him it was real.
"…Very well. Let us go."
His words were quiet, resolute.
And yet, as he turned away, the faintest trace of that earlier smile still lingered at the corners of his mouth.
***
Compared to the austere lands of the Northern Empire from which Cassian hailed, the Western Empire was a realm of excess—rich in gold, in splendour, in resources so abundant it was almost vulgar. Grand feasts, glittering jewels, silken garments… the capital seemed to overflow with indulgence, blind to the smoke that curled from its distant borders.
Conflicts flared with relentless frequency along the frontier shared between the two nations, but here, at the heart of the Western Empire, not a single stone was out of place. The city thrived in blissful ignorance, untouched by war, as though the bloodshed at its edges were no more than a whispered rumour.
Cassian's gaze swept across the opulent avenues and richly dressed nobles who strolled without care, their laughter echoing in marble halls bought with the sweat and suffering of countless commoners. A faint sneer curled at his lips.
These people are soft. Complacent. Hollow.
And yet, for all their decadence, the Western Empire remained powerful. That contradiction its strength in spite of its rot—could be explained by only one force. With a single blade that stood between the Empire and collapse.
'The Sword master.'
The shield and spear of the Western Emperor. The silent sentinel whose very presence bent the tides of war. A swordmaster who had transcended the very limits of human capability. Yet, throughout the annals of history, no more than a hundred individuals had ever attained the exalted rank of Swordmaster, and among them, the overwhelming majority hailed from the Western Empire.
'The blood-red-eyed harbinger of death. The enforcer of Lewelgosa.'
The Swordmasters of Lewelgosa always appeared at the most critical junctures, rescuing the Western Empire from the brink of annihilation. Even in this generation, it was due to the intervention of a Swordmaster that the Empire emerged victorious over the Eastern Kingdoms' Alliance, securing its place in history.
'Fortune indeed.'
Cassian found it somewhat ironic that a nation, teetering on the edge of collapse, owed its very survival to the presence of a single individual. Since his arrival in the Western Empire, he had hoped to encounter this legendary Swordmaster in person.
Yet, alas, fate had denied him such a meeting.
"Haha! The Swordmaster, you say? That fellow doesn't even show his face, not even when I summon him."
Emperor Cyclion IV of the Western Empire laughed heartily, his words carrying an air of casual irreverence. Cassian was intrigued by how effortlessly the emperor spoke of one who dared to defy an imperial summons—a feat that bordered on treason. And yet, the emperor merely clicked his tongue, as if resigned to the situation. The ease with which he dismissed the matter spoke volumes about the Swordmaster's formidable stature.
The emperor continued, "How could I not boast? He is the Empire's treasure. But that fellow... well, it is what it is."
With a wry smile, Emperor Cyclion IV shook his head, as though helpless in the face of such defiance, a thought crossing his mind.
'If this were to reach the ears of the Duchess of Brillcht, she would no doubt have a fit, proclaiming that her daughter's marriage prospects would be irreparably tarnished.'
Those acquainted with Arne were well aware of her status as a Swordmaster, though it was publicly assumed that only men could attain such a title. The notion that a woman, particularly one as powerful as Arne, could be a Swordmaster was deemed inconceivable. And so, it was of little use to attempt to correct the widespread misconception. Cassian, who had hoped to meet this renowned Swordmaster in person and, perhaps, whisk her away to the Northern Empire, masked his disappointment with a courteous nod, concealing his thoughts behind a composed expression.
Emperor Cyclion IV had arranged their meeting on a grand balcony on the second floor, offering a commanding view of the hall below. From this vantage point, Cassian had an unobstructed view of the scene unfolding beneath him. Distracted, his gaze lingered on the spectacle below, and a faint smile curled at the corners of his lips.
'Caught, after all.'
From his vantage point, he could easily spot the "stary cat" the Duchess of Brillcht's daughter—pressing her hands against her ears, a clear expression of distress on her face as the Duchess ensnared her. The sight of the young lady struggling to free herself from the Duchess's relentless reprimands, her efforts to escape thwarted, brought an amused chuckle to Cassian's lips.
'I had thought she'd managed to escape with ease, but it seems she was caught almost immediately. How unexpected.'
"Anyway, regarding our national marriage... Hmm, Duke?"
Cassian, momentarily startled by the emperor's voice, returned his attention to the ruler. Though Emperor Cyclion IV was, perhaps, slightly taken aback by Cassian's distracted demeanour, he chose not to show it. His usual calm and dignified manner remained, though there was a subtle loosening of his otherwise impeccable composure.
"You seem particularly in high spirits today."
"I saw a cute cat," Cassian replied with a faint grin.
"A cat...? Ah, yes, cats do possess a certain charm."
The emperor's smile softened, as though he, too, had been briefly swept away by the lightness of the moment.
Emperor Cyclion IV gave a thoughtful nod, amused by the idea that a mere cat had managed to bring a smile to a man as inscrutable as Cassian. It must have been quite the creature, he mused silently. But the moment of levity passed, and it was time to speak in earnest.
"So," he began, his tone now laced with purpose, "have you found anyone you fancy?"
Their gazes shifted, understanding the true weight behind the question. The recent string of lavish gatherings balls and soirées held under the emperor's name, in truth, been orchestrated with a singular aim, to find Cassian a bride. Though few were privy to the deeper motive, these events had not merely been matters of social pleasure but part of a longstanding effort to secure a political union between the Western and Northern Empires.
Cyclion IV, ever the steadfast ruler, was determined to see the alliance forged through this marriage. His gaze lingered on Cassian, quietly pressing for an answer.
"Any lady will do," the emperor said, his voice light but his eyes sharp. "Speak freely."
"Well…"
Cassian's reply was deliberately vague, his lips curved into a knowing smile. It was not only Emperor Cyclion who desired the marriage to proceed—Cassian too had his own reasons. He could not refuse, nor did he intend to. The union was inevitable.
'So long as the conditions are acceptable, anyone will do… but....'
He preferred someone with a bit of intrigue. A spark of unpredictability. As if by fate, there was indeed one person who had managed to stir his interest. His fingers brushed over the edge of the badge in his hand, eyes narrowing slightly with amusement.
"Anyway… thank you for earlier. Ugh—if we happen to meet again, I'll return the favour....."
'Return the favour, huh...'
His thumb idly traced the edge of the badge, a trace of anticipation gleaming in his gaze.
As the decision settled firmly in his mind, a sly, almost mischievous smile tugged at the corners of Cassian's lips.
Click!
With practiced grace, he set the badge down upon the table. The metallic sound rang softly in the quiet air, drawing attention to the insignia now resting between them—a golden sun, crossed by twin swords, finely engraved upon the surface. A symbol not easily mistaken.
"This one," he said, his voice low but clear. "I choose her."
"......."
For a long moment, silence reigned.
Emperor Cyclion IV's expression froze. His gaze dropped to the badge, and in the next breath, his countenance hardened, eyes narrowing with stunned recognition.
'That crest… Surely not. That belongs to Arne… doesn't it?'
Disbelief flickered across his face. His brows drew together, and his lips parted slightly, as though caught between shock and speechlessness.
'Did I hear it correctly? Had the duke truly spoken those words? Or had he gone utterly mad?'
He turned slowly to face the Northern Duke, incredulity written plainly across his normally unreadable features.
"You mean to say—?"
"I will marry her."
Cassian met the emperor's gaze with quiet finality. His voice did not waver, nor did he offer further explanation. It was a declaration, firm, unyielding, and absolute. And then, as if sealing the moment, a smile unfolded across his face. It was not the usual curve of amusement or polite diplomacy, but something far more brilliant—an expression of unguarded certainty, of unexpected delight. A dazzling smile, brighter than any that had graced his features before.