The banquet hall shifted the moment House Gold was announced.
The air thickened, whispers rushing like a tide as nobles turned toward the entrance. Chandeliers bathed the marble floor in golden light, and through the archway came a girl dressed in silver-white silk that shimmered faintly with every step.
Celina Gold.
Her hair shone like spun gold, catching the light as if it were flame. Her eyes were emerald green, luminous and steady, cutting sharper than gemstones. She walked between her parents, her chin lifted, her hands folded before her. Though only seven, her presence filled the room.
The nobles stared. And then they whispered.
"The cursed child…""The gods themselves laid it upon her.""Too much magic. Too much beauty. That's why she was shackled."
Celina heard them—how could she not?—yet she did not flinch. Her steps were measured, her face serene. She did not bow her head in shame, nor raise it in arrogance. She simply moved forward, untouchable.
Ernest watched from across the hall, his black eyes fixed on her. His lips did not move, but his thoughts sharpened.
So this is the one they fear. The one they bound. A child like me… marked by the gods.
Children were pushed forward by ambitious parents, urged to greet her. One boy, trembling, stepped closer before her gaze met his. Emerald sharpness pierced his resolve, and he scurried back, cheeks burning. Another girl curtsied stiffly, eyes darting toward the ground, then fled at her mother's hissed disapproval.
The adults' whispers grew louder, crueler, half in awe and half in scorn.
"If she casts beyond her limits, the curse strikes her down.""Her magic is shackled, her power wasted.""Her beauty is too perfect—it invites envy, calamity."
Ernest listened, every word etched into his mind.
A curse that binds her mana. A punishment of pain and backlash. Not symbolic. Not a threat. A leash.
He studied her calmly. The gods feared her strength. So they chained her. Yet she endures, smiling not, weeping not. Interesting.
The line of introductions brought him near. His parents stood tall before Lord and Lady Gold, exchanging formal words of power and courtesy.
"And this is our son, Ernest Aldery," Lady Isolde said, guiding him forward.
Ernest bowed with flawless form, his voice soft but steady. "It is an honor."
Celina curtsied, her expression unreadable. Her emerald eyes lifted to meet his obsidian ones.
For a moment, silence hung. No words, no gestures. Only two masks touching in stillness.
Her gaze did not waver. His did not either.
Then she dipped her head faintly, the barest acknowledgment, and stepped back beside her mother.
The moment ended, but it lingered in Ernest's mind like a shard of glass.
She did not tremble. She did not look away. Even under my gaze.
Later, near the banquet tables, Ernest drifted in the wake of his parents, quiet as always. Nobles spoke carelessly when children lingered nearby, their words loose with wine and arrogance.
"…the priests confirmed it. The curse lashes her whenever she reaches too deep into her mana. Spells twist, magic backfires. Pain enough to bring her to her knees.""…a blessing turned to ruin. The gods cut her down before she could rise.""…and that face… I pity her parents. Every man who looks upon her sees a prize, and every woman sees a rival. Beauty that destroys."
Ernest lifted a goblet of watered wine, his small fingers steady as he sipped. His eyes were calm, his mind cold.
The gods crippled her. Feared her. Cursed her beauty and her strength alike. Yet she lives, composed. Not broken. That makes her dangerous.
Not far away, the plump noble boy from earlier sneered, his voice pitched just loud enough to be heard. "Cursed doll," he muttered, smirking. "Even the gods didn't want her."
A few children tittered nervously.
Celina turned her emerald gaze on him. Calm. Silent. Sharp as a knife.
The boy faltered, his smirk freezing. His cheeks flushed crimson, and he turned away quickly, muttering excuses as the other children laughed behind their hands.
Celina returned her gaze forward, unbothered.
Ernest's lips curved faintly. Even cursed, she bends them without a word. She too commands, though without knowing it.
Music rose, violins and lutes filling the air as nobles took to the floor in dance. Dresses spun, jewels glittered, laughter rang. But Ernest stood apart, as he always did, watching.
His gaze found her again. Celina stood alone at the edge of the floor, her parents engaged in quiet talk with other lords. She bore the whispers with the same quiet strength, her posture dignified, her face composed.
She was beauty made into burden. Strength wrapped in chains.
Ernest's thoughts were sharp, merciless. The gods marked her. Shackled her. Proof that even their hands tremble when faced with potential too great. Shackles can be broken. And if they break… what will she be? A pawn to bend? Or a piece to stand beside me?
His lips curved in the faintest smile.
Either way, she belongs to me. Not yet. But soon.
When the banquet finally drew to a close, Ernest returned with his family to their carriage. The road stretched before them, silver under the moonlight. His father spoke of alliances, of lessons learned, of the need for composure in the academy to come.
Ernest listened politely, but his eyes lingered on the glass. His reflection stared back: pale, sharp, unblinking.
The image of Celina lingered in his mind. Emerald eyes, unshaken by whispers or by him. A cursed beauty, untouched by scorn.
He pressed his small palm to the cold window, his whisper lost in the clatter of wheels.
"The gods marked her. Then she is proof their power is not absolute. That curse will break. And when it does… she will belong to me."
The carriage rattled on into the night, and Ernest's lips curved faintly in the dark.