"Do you know how expensive this is?" a man bellowed at the page.
"I'm sorry, sir... I didn't mean to," the page stammered, eyes wide with fear.
"Not intentional? You've ruined my dress!" the man snapped, his face twisting with fury.
But his anger faltered as a chill ran down his spine— a tall, imposing figure had appeared silently behind him.
He turned, immediately aware who was behind him, sweat prickling at his temples. "Miss Grace..." he said, voice faltering.
"Mr. Corvin" she replied, tone flat, eyes sharp and expression neutral.
"You have... uh... grown very tall," he added, forcing the words out with a nervous smile.
"Well, I'm 5'11, so unless the ceiling shunk, yes." Grace said her face still unreadable as if his nerves didn't even register.
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{ Corvin Vorn, king of Dorneth, was the kind of ruler a kingdom prayed never to have. His throne meant nothing to him beyond the luxury and power it gave. The people were an afterthought, the land a backdrop; only Corvin himself mattered in Corvin's world.
He carried himself with an air of grandness when surrounded by those of lesser rank, puffing his chest speaking as though every word he uttered carried divine weight. Yet before the Elenharts, the most powerful of all houses, his swagger withered. In their presence he shrank into something small and pitiful, like a rat cowering beneath a hawk's shadow.
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Three scars marked the right side of his cheek, jagged lines as if clawed there by some wild beast. The middle scar ran so deep it nearly touched the side of his nose. He flaunted those scars as though they were badges of honor, spinning the same tale at every banquet: how he had faced a massive wolf alone and triumphed. Whether the story held any truth was doubtful, but he repeated it often enough that some had begun to wonder if he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else.
For reasons he never admitted aloud, Corvin seemed particularly unsettled by Grace. Even a glance from her was enough to make his voice falter and his forced composure waver, though he tried to mask it with his usual theatrics. Something about her presence unnerved him, in ways no other enemy or noble had. }
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Without sparing Corvin another glance, she addressed the page standing nearby. "Tell me— what happened?"
Grace directed her question straight to the page, as though Corvin's presence didn't matter in the slightest. It was as if she had already decided his opinion held no weight— or perhaps she simply knew he was the one at fault, and that he would never admit it.
Either way, she made no effort to include him, her attention fixed on the trembling servant before her.
The boy had short, reddish-brown hair that carried a warm, earthly tone, deepening under the light. His skin was fair and smooth, with a natural flush on his cheeks that gave him a lively glow.
For his age, his features were strikingly sharp— his face slim and well formed, with high cheekbones and a pointed chin that hinted at refinement beyond childhood softness. His eyes were a light shade of brown.
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When Grace instructed to give him his side of the story, the boy's eyes flicked nervously to her. For a heartbeat he hesitated, than cast a quick glance at Corvin. The mans's glare was sharp as daggers, a silent warning meant to silence him. Fear tightened in the boy's chest. Finally, with his voice trembling, he stammered, "It... it was my fault. I wasn't watching where I was going."
"See? I'm not at fault here," Corvin said, his voice pitched as though he were trying to convince Grace.
He opened his mouth to go on, but a sharp voice cut through the murmurs of the crowd. "That's not true!"
Grace's eyes shifted toward the voice. A young servant stood there, older than the boy Corvin had scolded before. Though fear clung to him, his gaze was steady, unflinching. Whatever the risk, he was prepared to tell the truth.
He shared almost the same features as the other boy, but his hair was dark— nearly black, though not entirely.
Grace motioned for him to come closer. "Don't be afraid— just tell me what you know," she said.
The young page move ahead, stopping at the other boy's side. The frightened one tugged at his sleeve and whispered frantically, "Arno, please... don't do this. We'll only get ourselves in trouble."
Arno's reply came calm and sure, his voice low but resolute. "It's fine. Leave it to me."
Though fear lingered in the boy's eyes, his shoulders loosened. Perhaps it was the comfort of Arno's presence, or perhaps he simply trusted him enough to face what he could not.
Arno lifted his gaze to Corvin, who glared back at him with the same menacing look he had given the other boy moments before. The silent warning was unmistakable, but Arno refused to be cowed. He straightened his back, turned from Corvin, and fixed his eyes firmly on Grace.
"It was not his fault, my lady," Arno said. "The boy was only carrying a tray, minding his way. It was Lord Corvin who wasn't watching where he was going. He walked straight into him— and then scolded him as though the blame were his."
The words struck like iron, quiet but unyielding. Though his hands trembled at his sides, his voice carried the courage to lay the blame where it belonged.
The crowd froze, collectively caught off guard by the boy's boldness. All eyes turned to him in awe, except Corvin's, which blazed with anger. His teeth were clenched so tight they could have shattered stone, every fiber of his body tense with indignation. He had been challenged, and it stung.
In contrast, Grace's face softened. A gentle, approving smile played on her lips, her eyes warm with quiet pride. She clearly appreciated the boy's bravery, recognizing the courage it took to speak the truth so fearlessly.
The boy noticed her expression immediately. Relief and a sense of affirmation flooded him, easing the tension coiled in his shoulders. Encouraged by her approval, he gave a small, respectful bow of his head, a gesture of both gratitude and acknowledgement of her recognition.
Grace's eyes narrowed as looked up, her patience fraying. She turned to Corvin, her gaze icy. A forced smile crossed her face as she addressed him, sharp and commanding.
"You do not blame others for your own carelessness," she said, her words deliberate and pointed. After a short, measured lecture, she concluded, "Apologize to the boy."
Corvin opened his mouth to respond, still simmering with annoyance, when a sudden voice rang out, cutting through the tension.
"So Grace," it said, playful and teasing, "now you're using your title to bully other nobles?"
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A man stood behind Grace, appearing to be in his early fifties, just little taller than her.
His chestnut-brown hair, streaked with silver at the temples, was styled with a deliberate tousle. A neatly groomed moustache framed a face of sharp lines— a strong jaw and high cheekbones that gave him a refined, distinguished air.
He wore the attire of the imperial elite: a dark navy coat trimmed in gold, its polished brass buttons gleaming faintly. Golden— fringed epaulettes rested on his shoulders, singling noble rank. Yet it was not the uniform alone that marked him— it was the way he carried himself. His posture was exact, his gaze steady, every detail of his presence calculated to command attention, impressive and just faintly intimidating.
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The familiar voice made her expression brighten at once. She turned swiftly, a smile already tugging at her lips, and the words slipped out with both relief and fondness.
"Uncle Dasmon."