The Aldery carriage rolled through the cobbled streets, its black and silver crest gleaming under torchlight. Crowds parted as it passed, bowing low, for House Aldery was no mere noble line. It was one of the pillars of the kingdom, its reach long, its name heavy.
Inside, Ernest sat across from his parents. Seven years old, dressed in fine dark velvet, a silver chain resting across his small shoulders. He sat with perfect posture, pale hands folded neatly in his lap.
"This is your first gathering," Duke Reinhardt said, voice stern as steel. "Tonight, you will stand before the kingdom's high houses. You will bow when required, speak when addressed, and observe more than you speak. Remember: your silence is often stronger than words."
Lady Isolde leaned forward, smoothing the collar of Ernest's attire. "And you must smile. Even if you do not feel it. Nobles are charmed by what they think they see."
"Yes, Father. Yes, Mother." Ernest's voice was calm, steady, unshaken.
The carriage rattled to a halt. The doors swung open. A servant bowed low. "We have arrived, my lord."
The hall was ablaze with light. Crystal chandeliers poured golden brilliance across marble floors. Nobles in silks and jewels filled the room, laughter and music echoing under painted ceilings. Servants moved silently, offering goblets of wine and platters of delicacies.
The arrival of House Aldery drew immediate attention. Whispers rippled through the crowd.
"The Duke himself…""That must be the boy. Ernest Aldery, the heir.""Too small, too pale… Look at those eyes. Like glass."
Ernest walked beside his father, his mother's hand resting lightly on his shoulder. He bowed where expected, answered politely when addressed.
"My son, Ernest," Reinhardt introduced, his voice heavy with pride and warning alike.
Ernest bowed, his words practiced. "It is an honor."
Nobles smiled, some too widely, others with thinly veiled suspicion. A few children clustered nearby, peering curiously at him.
"Why is he so quiet?" one boy whispered too loudly. He was about Ernest's age, plump and overdressed in gold embroidery. His lips curled into a sneer. "Are you afraid of us?"
Ernest turned his gaze on him. Calm. Cold. Unblinking.
The boy faltered, his smirk freezing. His cheeks flushed as he looked away, mumbling excuses. The other children laughed awkwardly and shifted, as if his silence had been the sharpest blade in the room.
Ernest looked away, uninterested. Noise without bite. Pretenders.
Then the herald announced, voice booming:
"Presenting House Gold!"
The room shifted. A wave of murmurs swept the crowd. Ernest's eyes turned, and he saw her.
Celina Gold.
Seven years old, dressed in silver-white silk that shimmered in the candlelight. Her hair gleamed like spun gold, her eyes bright as polished emeralds. Even as a child, her beauty was arresting, unnatural, the kind that silenced conversations.
But it was not beauty alone that drew whispers.
"The cursed girl…""The gods marked her. Too much magic. Too much allure.""A pity. She could have been a jewel of the kingdom."
Celina walked with her parents, her chin lifted slightly, her small hands clasped before her. She moved with composure far beyond her years, ignoring the murmurs that clung to her like smoke.
Ernest's eyes narrowed faintly. He did not see beauty. He saw anomaly.
The gods feared her enough to curse her. Why?
For the first time in years, his curiosity stirred.
Their paths crossed only briefly. A line of introductions brought them near. Ernest bowed as instructed, his expression calm.
Celina's eyes flicked toward him. For a heartbeat, emerald met obsidian.
There was no smile, no word exchanged. Only silence, then the faintest tilt of her head in acknowledgment before she was swept onward.
Ernest's gaze lingered. Composed. Silent before their whispers. She does not break. Interesting.
But nothing more. Not yet.
The banquet continued. Nobles mingled, dancing under chandeliers, their smiles sharp as daggers. Ernest moved among them as his father had ordered, answering when addressed, bowing when needed. He listened. Always listening.
"…the priests grow bolder. They demand more coin, more land…""…another dungeon has appeared in the north. Entire villages abandoned…""…House Drennel sharpens its blades. War, sooner or later."
Ernest's lips did not move, but his thoughts were sharp. The forest had fangs. But here, the predators wear silk.
He understood then that this hall was no less dangerous than the goblin nests or the Direwolf's den. It was merely a different battlefield, where words and smiles replaced claws.
At the edge of the dance floor, Celina stood beside her mother. Nobles glanced at her, some with envy, some with fear. None dared approach. The curse was a shadow draped across her shoulders, a mark of the gods themselves.
Ernest studied her from afar. Marked. Watched. Yet still she stands unbroken.
He felt no warmth, no tenderness. Only calculation. Only recognition of a piece the gods had already touched.
She will matter. Later.