The following morning at the Thomas' Manor, the family gathered for breakfast.
"The dress will be delivered today, won't it?" Lady Elizabeth said, taking a sip of her tea. "I was so worried you wouldn't like the design. Are you pleased with it, darling?"
"I love it, Mother. It's more beautiful than I could have imagined."
As they talked, a footman entered the room, carrying a silver platter with a sealed envelope on it.
"An invitation from the Imperial Palace, My Lord," he announced, his voice formal.
Lord Thomas took the envelope, his brow furrowing slightly at the Imperial seal. He broke the wax and unfolded the parchment. His eyes scanned the contents, and his smile slowly faded, replaced by a look of surprise and concern.
"What is it, Father?" Aidan asked, leaning forward in his seat.
Lord Thomas looked up, his gaze sweeping over his family. "It's an invitation to the victory ball," he said, his voice grave. "It seems the Emperor has commanded every noble family to attend."
He passed the invitation card to his wife.
Lady Elizabeth's hands flew to her mouth. "But… that's in four days! On the very night of Daphne's coming-of-age ceremony!"
The air in the room grew still. The carefully planned ceremony, a pivotal event in Daphne's young life, was now in direct conflict with an Imperial command.
Lord and Lady Thomas exchanged worried glances, their attention now fully on their daughter.
They had seen the subtle change in Daphne's demeanor, the way her shoulders had tensed.
"Daphne, my dear," Lady Elizabeth said, her voice soft and full of concern.
She reached across the table and placed a comforting hand over her daughter's.
"Don't fret. It's a simple matter to postpone the ceremony. We can hold it a few days later, after the ball. It's not a disaster, just a slight change of plans."
Daphne was worried. This was not how it was supposed to happen. In her last life, the victory ball was held a week after her birthday.
The two had never intersected.
The threads of fate were now tangling, and her memories were becoming useless.
"Mother," Daphne said, her voice barely a whisper. "We can't postpone it. The coming-of-age ceremony must be held on my birthday. It's tradition."
Aidan, ever the pragmatic one, spoke up. "Daphne's right, Mother. We can't postpone it. And we can't look like we were forced into it. We'll have to simply embrace it. We can still have a celebration for Daphne, a small, intimate one for the family before we leave for the palace."
The unspoken truth hung in the air: to postpone it would be to defy a sacred rite, to risk scandal and gossip.
It was a choice between two impossible options.
They could not defy the Emperor's command, but they also couldn't ignore the tradition of the ceremony.
"It seems we have no choice," Lord Thomas said, "We must attend the ball. To refuse would be to risk the Emperor's displeasure, and that is a danger we cannot afford."
A sudden realization hit Daphne. She thought of her hat, of the delicate lace veil that had shielded her face on her journey home.
The answer was so simple, so perfect, she almost laughed.
In her past life, the Emperor had seen her face, and that had been her undoing.
But this time, he wouldn't.
The veil would protect her from his prying eyes, making her just another anonymous guest.
"Then it's settled," she said, her voice filled with a newfound resolve. "We will do what the Emperor commands. We will attend the ball."
But in her mind, a different thought was taking shape. She would attend the ball, but she would not be the same naive girl the Emperor had seen before. She would not be a prize to be won.
She would be a force to be reckoned with.
...
In the Emperor's study
The Emperor, a man whose every public action was a calculated performance, sat with unguarded ease.
Across from him, Alaric stood by a large window, his armored breastplate replaced by a simple tunic, a goblet of wine in his hand.
"They say you've grown more formidable, Alaric," the Emperor began, his tone now that of a confidante.
"The battlefield has not only hardened your body but sharpened your mind. You've returned a Prince, a man with the love of the people. And you're still not married."
Alaric took a slow sip of his wine, a faint smile on his lips. "You know as well as I do, my friend, that the battlefield is a more honest place than the court. There, a man's worth is measured by his sword arm, not by the woman at his side."
"A valid point," the Emperor conceded.
"But a man of your position needs an heir. The people want to see a family dynasty for their hero. Besides," he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low whisper, "I am growing tired of the constant proposals from ministers and lords. They all want to marry their daughters to the Prince."
Alaric sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "I know. It's endless. I am grateful for your attempts to find me a suitable match, but I am not ready for a wife."
"Not ready?" the Emperor scoffed good-naturedly. "You're twenty-three! Your old mate, Lord Cedric, has three children already. And yet, you have rejected every woman I've introduced to you, no matter how lovely or well-bred she is. Is there no woman in this world who catches your eye?"
Alaric's gaze drifted out the window, his mind replaying the gentle, timid face of the young lady from three years back.
He had developed a fierce loyalty to her years ago, a devotion he had kept secret because she was too young.
He had been so worried about her when she left for her grandparents' estate, a place known for its harsh discipline.
He had tasked his most trusted spies to stay with her and report her every move, even as he was away at war. They had told him she was back in the capital, and he had been eagerly awaiting the victory ball, a chance to see what the young girl he admired had grown into.
Then, a flicker of an image, the veiled woman from yesterday, flashed in his mind.
The way she had stood so still amidst the rowdy crowd, her composure a stark contrast to everyone else.
He remembered the wisp of golden hair that had escaped from under her hat.
Could it have been her?
The hair was the same striking shade of gold as Daphne's.
He shook his head. No, it was impossible.
A lady of her standing would never be strolling on the common streets of the city.
He had simply been thinking of her, and his mind was playing tricks on him.
"I will not marry for duty or political gain," Alaric said, his voice now firm. "My father taught me to find a woman worthy of my love and loyalty. And until I do, I will continue to decline."
The Emperor had noticed how his friend had left his question unanswered.
He smiled knowingly.
"A sentiment I can respect," the Emperor said, raising his own goblet in a toast. "But remember, old friend. Time is a weapon you cannot defeat. The court will not wait forever."
"But listen to me. If you ever find a woman you like, a woman who is worthy of your love and loyalty, you bring her to me."
He fixed Alaric with a sincere gaze. "And I will grant you an imperial edict declaring your marriage. I will bypass the court, the dowries, and the political alliances. You will be married by my direct command, and no one will dare question it. No one will dare stand in your way."
Alaric's eyes widened a little. This was an unbelievable promise, a supreme show of trust and friendship.
Alaric simply nodded, a new sense of purpose in his stride.
He had a kingdom to protect, a new position to navigate.
Maybe it was time to pursue her, she's
already old enough, ripe for marriage.