In the fine morning, Cassian stood beside his ever-loyal friend in the grand ballroom, a cathedral of crystal chandeliers and polished marble, where every reflection seemed to shimmer with anticipation. Across the room, there he was—Sylas—standing rigid and impeccable, dressed in a black military-style uniform adorned with silver epaulettes, a high collar, and delicate silver trimmings. A vivid red sash cinched his waist, while black trousers and lace-up boots completed the formidable ensemble. His silver hair was meticulously styled, a single rebellious strand brushing his forehead, and his piercing silver eyes scanned the crowd with practiced detachment.
Cassian, meanwhile, cradled a wine glass, observing the throng with calm precision. He was dressed in a formal black royal-style outfit, resplendent with gold epaulettes and glimmering chains, a sweeping black cape draping over his shoulders. His mid-length blond hair, parted neatly down the centre, fell in gentle waves that framed his aristocratic features. His blue eyes, deep and commanding, betrayed the weight of his royal lineage, the blood of Higthorne unmistakable in their gleam.
The two had been reluctantly dragged to this debutante party, a coming-of-age ceremony for the daughter of none other than Duke Theren Morlaz Valcourt, the chief advisor of the royal empire. The Duke, ever eager to flaunt his taste and influence, had invited the Emperor and Empress herself. But fate, with its usual sense of mischief, intervened: the Empress had fallen ill, leaving Cassian to attend in her stead—much to his dismay, as he secretly wished he were the one struck down by sudden sickness rather than trapped in this glittering parade of polite smiles and polite boredom. Sylas, on the other hand, had not been invited in the first place, being merely the empire's frontline captain. Yet the ever-stubborn prince, with all the charm and subtle menace at his disposal, had persuaded him—some might call it coercion, others imperial blackmail—to come along. Resistance, as always, was utterly pointless; Sylas had no choice but to follow, tethered to Cassian as if bound by invisible, very heavy chains.
As they lingered patiently among the crowd, the two stood slightly apart, avoiding the ceaseless chatter. Cassian, ever the disinclined socializer, found little joy in mingling, particularly when the attendees were younger and far less seasoned than himself.
"Do you have to drag me all the way here, Cassian?" Sylas grumbled, raising his wine glass as if to fend off the very air. He closed his eyes, a faint scowl pulling at his features.
"Come on, my dear fellow," Cassian said, looping an arm around the increasingly irritable Sylas. "I can't possibly be the only one bored to tears, can I? I insist we suffer together—misery loves company, and I like mine well-accompanied, ahahaha!" He teased, grinning, clearly enjoying every twitch of Sylas's growing vein. 'Thank heavens he's a crown prince,' Sylas thought, his irritation simmering. 'Otherwise, I would've decked him by now.' Despite himself, he was dragged into Cassian's enthusiasm for sheer boredom.
"If you want me to accompany you in your… exquisite boredom, at least next time wear something lighter." Sylas muttered, his voice tight. "One might think we were attending a funeral rather than a debutante ball." As he glanced down at their matching dark attire. While every other guest donned airy, colorful clothing befitting the occasion, they stood out like storm clouds in the midst of a sunny garden and the oppressive darkness only seemed to mirror their mood.
Cassian let out a sly giggle and winked. "Ehehe… I did this on purpose, to embarrass you further," he said, like a mischievous cat teasing a sulking dog. He had anticipated Sylas's choice of outfit—a somber black—and had decided to mirror it exactly. The result: the two of them, dressed identically in inky black ensembles, looked like a pair of brooding shadows, amplifying the gloom that clung to their mood.
As the host announced the arrival of Duke Valcourt, the crowd shifted their attention towards the grand staircase. The Duke appeared first, dressed in a formal black tailcoat with crisp white lining, an ornate white vest, a neat bow tie, and pinstriped trousers. A fresh boutonniere rested on his lapel. His brown hair was styled with precise formality, his green eyes sharp and dignified, against his pale, polished complexion. He escorted his wife with equal grace, offering his arm like a perfect gentleman from an illustration book.
The Duchess wore a long, elegant gown with a high collar and puffed sleeves. The dress was predominantly blue with gold trimmings and tiny star-like accents that shimmered beneath the daylight pouring through the ballroom windows. A white panel decorated with golden geometric patterns flowed down the centre. Her peach-coloured hair was tied into a graceful bun with a delicate hairpiece, her beige eyes soft and warm. They looked every bit like a couple in their fifties—poised, elegant, and immaculately regal.
Once the Duke and Duchess reached the first floor, the next figure elegantly descended the grand staircase—their beloved daughter, the true highlight of this coming-of-age celebration.
Cassian and Sylas, half-hidden beside the crowd, already looked bored. No one seemed to notice their suffering.
The Duke's daughter descended slowly, step after gentle step, her gown flowing like starlight. The dress was multi-layered, off-the-shoulder, shimmering in red and pink hues with golden floral accents that caught the sunbeam from above. The skirt floated as though she were stepping through a fairytale dream. Her long, wavy peach hair was styled in a braided crown adorned with pearls, her fringe soft, her green eyes framed with makeup that perfectly matched her dress.
"To all Ladies and Gentlemen…" Duke Valcourt announced proudly. "My daughter, Anastacia Amara Valcourt."
The elegant young lady bowed gracefully, now eighteen and standing as a fine woman. The nobles applauded, the sound echoing across the hall.
When the music began, nobles immediately stepped onto the dance floor. Anastacia herself was already being escorted by a young man who would serve as her partner for the opening dance.
The Duke of Valcourt then approached Cassian's table, a wine glass in hand, his wife looping her arm through his with affectionate pride.
"Greetings, my Crown Prince," the Duke said warmly. The Duchess bowed her head with a gentle smile, and Cassian bowed back with perfect courtesy.
"Where are the Emperor and Empress?" the Duke asked, confusion softening his features.
Cassian offered a polite smile and placed a hand over his chest. "My sincerest apologies. My mother suddenly fell ill, and my father grew worried. That is why they couldn't come. But my mother sent a small gift for your daughter."
Sylas stepped forward and handed over a medium-sized blue box tied with a white ribbon. The Duke's butler quickly received it and set it aside with utmost care.
"Goodness… Her Majesty does not need to apologies. We understand completely," the Duchess replied kindly.
"Thank you for your understanding. I hope my mother may repay your kindness another time," Cassian said, smiling sweetly.
"You've grown so much, my prince," the Duke added with a chuckle. "You truly carry your grandfather's blood."
Cassian simply smiled politely, though inwardly he prayed the topic of his grandfather wouldn't go any further.
"Will you excuse us, my prince? We must speak with the other guests, so please enjoy.." the Duke said. Cassian nodded respectfully, and the couple moved on. The moment they were gone, Cassian began massaging the back of his neck, already drained from boredom.
The two enjoyed a short, peaceful moment—until Cassian spotted something terribly familiar. As he scanned the approaching figures, his eyes widened.
The Duke's daughter was walking straight toward them.
Sylas hadn't noticed yet, but Cassian reacted instantly—bolting from the table like a startled cat. He almost tripped over his own cloak as he fled.
"Hey! Where are you going?" Sylas shouted, staring at him as if Cassian had suddenly lost his mind.
"I'm going to the comfort room! I'll be back!" Cassian called over his shoulder, disappearing into the crowd.
"You'd better!" Sylas yelled after him, still clueless.
When Sylas turned back to the front, he froze.
The Duke's daughter was standing right in front of his table.
She looked… disappointed. Utterly, heartbreakingly disappointed—like someone who had chased a butterfly only for it to fly straight into another galaxy.
Sylas blinked rapidly. "Ahm… May I help you?"
"Hmph!" She huffed sharply, spun on her heel, and walked away with exaggerated elegance.
Sylas sat there, baffled. He stared at her retreating figure, wondering what on earth he had done to offend the daughter of Duke Valcourt—especially since he had absolutely no idea what just happened.
Cassian walked briskly along the corridor, sunlight spilling from the tall windows as he finally escaped the approaching daughter of Duke Valcourt. He had absolutely no intention of dancing with her. The very idea of being dragged into the centre of the ballroom, under the full gaze of nobles, made him physically cringe. She was six years younger than him, and worse, he simply didn't want to dance with any other girl.
There was only one person he wished to dance with.
Elira.
He hadn't seen her in almost a month, yet the memory of their first dance at the Heart of the Plaza warmed him more than the daylight itself. No nobles watching, no rumors' buzzing around them — just a simple, sweet moment shared between the two of them.
"Where is she now, I wonder?" Cassian murmured, rubbing the back of his neck as if the motion could summon her to him.
He continued down the hallway, silent and preoccupied, intending to slip discreetly to the comfort room. Ahead of him, in the opposite direction, approached a petite woman, barely five-foot-two, clad in a white lace blouse with puffy sleeves, a green corset-style bodice, and a long tiered skirt adorned with gold floral patterns. Her beige hair, styled with cascading braids and delicate face-framing layers, swayed with each step, and a wispy fringe softened her violet-eyed gaze, which remained fixed firmly on the floor.
Cassian, eyes downcast and lost in thoughts of Elira, barely noticed her until—
Bump!
He collided with her.
"Sorry—are—" Cassian's eyes shot wide, not from the woman's beauty, though she was striking, but from sheer panic. The wine glass she held teetered precariously in her hand, and, as if time slowed, the liquid tipped—not toward him, thankfully—but in the exact wrong direction: down the front of her dress.
Her violet eyes widened in shock as she bent slightly, inspecting the spreading stain. Cassian froze, guilt tightening his chest. The woman barely reached his chest in height, yet her composure made him feel like a lumbering oaf.
"I—I didn't mean to…" Cassian stammered, though he couldn't tell whether he was apologizing for himself, the wine, or the general disaster that had unfolded.
The woman's hands hovered over the damp fabric, her face a calm mask, betraying none of the panic Cassian expected. She wasn't angry. She wasn't scolding. She was quietly considering how to preserve her composure and her dress—without making a scene.
Cassian, increasingly flustered and determined to make amends, fumbled for his handkerchief and offered it to her.
"Here… wipe it with this. I'm so sorry," he said, tilting his head to avoid seeing her reaction.
The woman hesitated for a heartbeat before accepting it, her fingers brushing his. The touch was delicate, precise, and gentle in a way that made Cassian's chest tighten. Even Elira hadn't handled his handkerchief so… carefully. Is she not angry? he thought, baffled.
Curiosity overcame him. He dared a glance at her, expecting perhaps a frown or glare. Instead, she smiled. Not a wide, sparkling smile, just a simple, serene expression, but it sent an odd flutter through him—as if her calm acceptance highlighted every ounce of guilt in his towering frame.
"Thank you, Mister," she said softly. Her tone wasn't effusive, yet the simplicity of it left Cassian feeling absurdly exposed, as though a tiny pinprick of shame had pierced his pride. He forced a polite smile in return, hiding the turmoil his own heart stirred.
"Thank you for accepting my apologies. I shall take my leave now," he said with a bow, bidding her a hasty farewell. In truth, he had intended to slip to the comfort room, but embarrassment overpowered practicality. Instead, he retraced his steps to the ballroom, asking Sylas to excuse him—he could not bear to linger near the girl he had clumsily ruined.
Meanwhile, the beige-haired woman watched him disappear. Her gaze fell to the handkerchief, where she noticed the delicate embroidery: Crown Prince.
"So… he is the Crown Prince?" she murmured, her voice low and unassuming. She did not smile or frown, only paused in quiet curiosity before straightening her posture and turning toward her friends.