The Grand Ballroom, 12 Years Earlier
The chandelier overhead dripped with candlelight, casting a honeyed, flickering glow across the opulent ballroom. Gilded pillars reflected the soft light like gold, and the polished floors gleamed under silken slippers. Nobles flocked beneath the vaulted ceiling in their finest attire—layers of imported velvet, brocade, and silk, decked in glittering jewels that caught the light with every movement.
At the far end, on the marble dais, stood a boy—eight years old, freshly adopted, and drowning in royal velvet. The princely outfit had been tailored in haste, the collar too stiff, the sleeves a touch too long. The boy's small hands clutched the embroidered edge of the long robe beside him. The robe belonged to the young man standing just to his right—Emperor Elliott Lancaster.
Seventeen, newly crowned, and already carrying the weight of an empire on his shoulders, Elliott's face hadn't yet acquired the weary lines that would etch themselves around his eyes in the years to come. He still looked like a prince himself—sharp-jawed, bright-eyed, poised. But the power in his bearing was unmistakable.
The moment Elliott stepped forward to address the crowd, the hum of curious whispers dulled. The sudden appearance of a child beside the emperor had stirred confusion, and now all eyes were locked on the dais.
His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. He was the emperor.
"This," he said, resting a hand lightly on the boy's small shoulder, "is Aiden Rosethorne."
A hush fell like a dropped veil.
Rosethorne.
Behind gilded fans and crystal goblets, the murmurs resumed—this time quieter, sharper. Rustling like dry leaves in wind.
"Rosethorne? As in the late general?"
"He's the child—the one who survived..."
"Does he even know how his parents died?"
Does he?
Aiden's grip on Elliott's robes tightened, knuckles white.
The whispers died as Elliott tapped the rim of his goblet once. A singular chime echoed in the ballroom's breathless silence.
"I have, after careful consideration," Elliott said, voice smooth but steady, "decided to adopt Aiden Rosethorne as my son."
A few gasps escaped. One or two nobles shifted uncomfortably.
"From this point onwards, he shall be known as Aiden Lancaster," Elliott continued, "and a member of the royal family."
Aiden looked up at him then. Wide-eyed. Stunned. Even then, even young and overwhelmed, he could feel the weight of that sentence land like thunder.
The nobles had no time to recover from that shock before Elliott added, coolly and with finality—
"—and today, I, Elliott Lancaster, name him the Crown Prince, and the one who shall succeed the throne after me."
This time, the silence was stunned.
Slack jaws. Stifled gasps. Eyes darting across the room.
The nobles who had dressed their daughters in their finest silks and pearls in the hopes of catching Elliott's eye were suddenly pale with fury. Debutantes who had spent weeks perfecting their smiles stared in open disbelief.
Heir. Not ward. Not adopted noble. Heir.
It was a clear, irreversible move.
The adoption, perhaps, they could've brushed off as sentiment. Everyone knew Elliott was soft-hearted. Perhaps he'd taken the boy out of pity—his father had served the empire, after all. Had died for it. There was speculation. Sympathy. Even guilt.
But this?
This was unprecedented.
A matron in the front, Lady Marcelline Hawthorne—draped in layers of opalescent green, her fan snapping open with agitation—stepped forward.
"Your Majesty," she said, her tone dipped in honey and concern. "I implore you to rethink, lest you make a hasty decision. You are quite young now, but please... think of the future. What of when you have children of your own? Heirs bearing true Lancaster blood?"
Elliott's gaze shifted.
Sharpened.
He knew what she meant. What all of them meant. She didn't care for the empire's future. She cared for her daughter's prospects. The same daughter she had been shoving into his path at every state event for the past six months. She cared about power. About bloodlines. Not legacy.
"I appreciate your concern," Elliott said coolly, "but I assure you, I've made this decision after considerable thought."
He let the silence stretch just long enough before adding, "And you may save your concern, Lady Hawthorne. As I have stated in this court multiple times, though for some reason it never seems to register—I have no intention of ever marrying."
Gasps now. Scandalized murmurs.
"I repeat," he said, louder, "I do not intend to marry. Aiden is my heir. My son. This matter is not up for further discussion—or as you like to call it, concern."
The ball resumed, in some awkward, disjointed way. Music played. Conversations resumed. But the tension lingered.
Aiden remained by Elliott's side.
Though the decree had been spoken aloud, it didn't stop the whispers from crawling under the surface.
"Pity. It's got to be guilt," a count muttered to the lord beside him.
"Of course," came the reply from lady hawthorne. "The boy doesn't even know the truth. Doesn't know the Lancasters were the ones responsible for making him an orphan. How... kind of the emperor."
Aiden's breath hitched.
Lancasters.
He looked down, confusion clouding his young eyes. He didn't understand much of what they meant. But he felt it—felt the bite in the words. The venom. The truths wrapped in whispers.
He might've started crying then—if Elliott hadn't stepped forward.
"Lady Hawthorne," he said suddenly, his voice sharp, clear, cutting across the music like a blade.
Everyone froze.
He was addressing one woman—but his voice was meant for them all.
"Would you like to repeat that?" he asked, deceptively calm. "In front of everyone?"
Lady Hawthorne paled. She sputtered, cheeks blooming red from humiliation. Her fan snapped shut. She shook her head quickly, stepping back into the crowd.
Elliott wasn't finished.
He rarely clung to conflict. But this—this needed a firm message.
He stepped forward, robes rustling across the marble. At seventeen, he was still slender, still boyish. His voice cracked slightly—but no one laughed.
Because the weight of the crown was in every word.
"Let me remind you all," Elliott said, eyes sweeping the grand hall. "Prince Aiden is my heir. My son. Any insult to him is an insult to me. An insult to the crown."
He paused.
His next words were soft, but no less lethal.
"And the crown does not tolerate insults."
Silence.
Elliott Lancaster might have been kind. But never weak.
And he was the emperor.