The hour struck midnight.
A bell tolled across the Celestia Grand Pavilion—twelve deep chimes from a starlit bell of astral steel. Chandeliers above shimmered into living constellations, casting silver starlight across the ballroom.
And then came the opening notes of the Midnight Waltz.
Like moonlight on black silk, Charles stepped onto the illusion-shifted dance floor. Now it was a mirrored lake, glowing with aurora hues. He moved as though the music was written for his gait alone.
His midnight-black formalwear draped like shadow, lined with crimson sigils. The Umbra Nocturne Mask, tailored with darkness-aspect qi, muted his aura, making him feel present yet unreachable.
Women turned their heads, eyes following Charles as he crossed the ballroom.
Some guests caught their breath, momentarily stunned by his presence.
He extended a gloved hand to a lady in starlight blue. A widow duchess, whispered about in every salon. Once they called her the Ice Rose of Valenne—said she froze her heart the day her husband died at the northern front. Cold. Shrewd. Untouchable.
Until now.
"May I have this dance?" Charles asked, his voice somewhere between a challenge and an invitation.
Her eyes shot up in surprise, not because of the words, but because of the young man. The crowd faded away, and the music turned softer, as if the ballroom was holding its breath. Then she smiled slowly and carefully, like she was tasting sunlight after years of winter.
"Only if you promise not to ruin me," she said in a low voice that sounded like she was teasing him.
"Way too late," Charles said, a smirk on his face. "I've already started."
Their hands touched.
The touch didn't last long. Wearing gloves. Kind. But the air between them crackled like silk over a fire. The orchestra grew louder. They moved with grace and fluidity. Perfectly in tune. She easily matched his rhythm. She let go of a layer of control that had protected her for years with every turn.
He leaned in so close that his breath brushed against her ear. "You dance like you know how to lead a battle."
"And you lead like someone who wants to win," she said, the corners of her lips turning up.
He laughed softly, low, and on purpose. It was the kind of sound that got past defenses.
As the waltz slowed, she dared to look up—really look—and found herself caught in the storm-blue gleam of his eyes. For the first time in years, the widowed duchess felt the ache of being seen.
"You could undo empires if you wished," she whispered as the final note lingered in the air.
Charles bowed, still holding her gaze. "Empires are tedious," he said. "Hearts are far more rewarding to conquer."
Their hands parted, but she didn't let go at once. Her fingers lingered, hesitant, unwilling. The music faded, but not her pulse.
Somewhere behind her composed smile, the Ice Rose of Valenne bloomed again.
Next came Lady Miranell—textile heiress, sharp as her silks, known for weaving profit and manipulation. She blocked his path, fanning golden lace like a net of sunlight.
"Lord Ziglar," she purred, tilting her head just enough for a curl of amber hair to brush her collarbone. "I came to study business… but now I think I'd rather learn something far more dangerous."
Charles's lips curved. "I'm a generous teacher," he said. "But be warned—I teach through touch… and riddles."
Her fan fluttered once—a small betrayal of composure. "Then I'm a willing student."
They moved to the floor. The orchestra softened as they danced. Miranell's posture was poised, commanding—until each turn and graze drew her out of control. His movements were precise, leading without taking.
His calmness melted her defenses. Her laughter eclipsed her thoughts. Rose and silk lingered as her fingers stayed on his shoulder longer than they should have.
"You confuse me," she finally said, her voice barely above the music.
He whispered "Good" in her ear, and his breath brushed against her skin. "Confusion makes people want to know more...and curiosity is the key to winning hearts."
By the time their final step ended, her fan hung forgotten at her side, and her pulse betrayed every secret she thought she'd hidden.
Then came the phoenix herself—Lady Virelle of House Damaris. Draped in crimson silk and confidence, she moved like flame personified. Her arrival alone drew eyes.
"You owe me a duel," she said, her smirk daring him.
Charles took her hand anyway, bowing with a hint of challenge. "Let's begin with a waltz. Swords can wait until I'm done learning your rhythm."
She led with fire. He countered with wind. Their steps collided—dangerous, electric. The dance floor crackled. Their wills clashed.
"You're too smooth," she growled softly, trying to mask the heat behind her words.
He smiled without looking away. "You're too curious," he replied, his tone like velvet wrapped around steel. "Which is why you'll come back."
When the final note struck, she pressed a scarlet-edged card into his palm. He caught her hand and kissed it—not flirtatiously, but with slow, deliberate reverence.
Her breath hitched; her fire dimmed—not gone, but stunned. She gripped the edge of the table, staring at him, realizing she'd lost a battle she never meant to fight… and already longed for a rematch.
And then came the flood.
One by one, women approached.
Not all came for business or status.
Some were nobodies, masked and nameless.
And yet each of them left breathless.
Lady Amia, a foreign diplomat's daughter, whispered mid-dance, "Why are you doing this? Making every woman feel like she's the only one?"
His smile was devastating. "Because for the length of a waltz… she is."
Even those who didn't speak his language blushed at his glances. A woman from the Southern Isles, while spinning with him, placed her hand firmly on his chest and leaned in, whispering something in her native tongue.
He didn't understand the words.
But he knew the meaning.
Wendy peered over the edge of the bar, seeing the procession of hopefuls.
"I don't see him dancing. He is conquering."
Rob chuckled. "By the beat of a single heartbeat."
Even Diana, who was usually quite serious, cracked a small smile. "Poor Velmora. Tonight, he will be in the dreams of half of the noble ladies."
Charles turned as the orchestra shifted to a slower rhythm. A young girl—no more than sixteen—stood near the edge of the ballroom, eyes wide, hands trembling around the edge of her fan. She looked like she wished the marble floor would swallow her whole.
He approached without flourish, his movements unhurried, gentle. The crowd parted instinctively.
"May I?" he asked softly.
She blinked, startled that he—the man everyone whispered about—was speaking to her. "I… I don't know how," she stammered, cheeks flushed.
Charles smiled, and for a moment, the storm in him quieted. He knelt just enough to meet her gaze, voice warm as candlelight.
"Would you like your first dance to be one you never forget?"
She hesitated, then nodded, breath caught somewhere between fear and wonder.
He guided her hand carefully into his gloved palm. "Then don't think," he said. "Just follow."
They moved. His steps were measured, protective—never too sharp, never letting her falter. Her gown brushed his boots as the waltz carried them like drifting petals. She laughed once—soft, disbelieving—when she found the rhythm.
The room faded. For a minute, she wasn't a wallflower or timid youngest daughter. She was a star learning to shine.
When the final note lingered in the air, he released her hand with a graceful bow.
But she moved first.
Arms trembling, she threw them around him and whispered, her voice breaking, "Thank you."
He blinked, surprised, a rare softness flickering in his eyes. "For what?"
"For not making me feel small," she said, looking up with tears threatening to fall.
Charles smiled faintly, his tone gentle, steady, and kind. "Then remember this," he murmured. "No one who stands tall in their own heart is ever small."
She stepped back, the crowd watching in awe. The girl who once hid by the wall now stood straighter—her first dance immortalized in grace, not splendor.
Behind the scenes, SIGMA's surveillance ran at full throttle.
[Lord Charlemagne, twelve infatuation spikes recorded. Four minor nobles abandoned their suitors to approach you. One cloaked operative from House Gayle flagged—recording amulet disabled.]
"Loop their recordings to that tune the orchestra's playing," Charles murmured.
[Already done. Added harp harmony. Also—House Duke Henry's spies are scanning for emotional signatures. Sending them raw data from the wine.]
He smirked. "Let them drink it in."
Each centerpiece fed enchanted data to SIGMA. Conversations, enchantments, attempted recorders, and enchanted lipstick spells—all were logged.
Charles twirled another noble daughter who'd come to discuss textile routes. By the end, she clung to his sleeve.
"Dance with me again. Please."
"You only get one wish per mask," he teased.
She kissed his glove and backed away, dazed.
Marquis Damaris leaned toward Victor Sorelle.
"I'm starting to think your daughter chose wisely."
A pause.
Lucien grinned. "She chose the storm."
Victor's eyes narrowed, amused. "And storms tend to take what they want."
Lady Micah watched Charlemagne on the dance floor, heart skipping while trying to read him.
Micah watched him from across the ballroom, her wine forgotten, her pulse unsteady.
She knew this wasn't mere flirtation. Charles wasn't one of those silver-tongued nobles who danced for applause or collected admiration like trophies. Every glance, every turn of his wrist, every word he murmured to the women in his arms—each was deliberate, orchestrated with surgical precision. His charm wasn't whimsy. It was a strategy.
He was reading the room the way others read ledgers. Mapping alliances with rhythm and diplomacy, bending affection into opportunity, and disarming potential threats with a smile. Every partner he took was chosen, not for beauty, but for influence—each dance a negotiation draped in elegance.
And yet… even knowing that, Micah couldn't look away.
Her mind told her to scoff—to dismiss the performance for what it was: power disguised as grace. But her heart betrayed her. Each time he leaned in, each time he smiled with that quiet confidence that made even predators hesitate, she felt something inside her stir.
Admiration. Respect. Fascination. Perhaps something more dangerous.
Watching him command the floor as though born to rule it made her chest tighten. It wasn't the dances that captivated her. It was the discipline behind them. The way he moved was like a man carrying both memory and mission.
Somewhere between the flicker of chandeliers and the echo of violins, she realized she was studying him not as a business partner, but as a woman.
This was art. Theater. Strategy.
Charles was weaving spells—no, alliances—with every touch and turn.
He wasn't just winning the room.
He was branding it.
Burning his name into the hearts of those who mattered.
But still… she smiled softly.
Because only she knew the truth behind that mask.
He was already taken…by dreams too big for one kingdom.
By ambition carved in midnight fire.
He felt her gaze before he saw it.
Every turn and every measured step he took, Micah's eyes followed him. He didn't have to look; he could feel her gaze on him, like silk stretched tight across his skin. He could almost hear her heart beating in time with the music.
He didn't waver. Did not slow down. But a faint curve pulled at his lips.
Okay. She's watching.
He led Lady Grainor through a graceful spin, fixed her wrist, and caught her laughter like a song meant for someone else. His tone stayed light and teasing, but his mind was elsewhere—figuring out angles, reading reactions, and noticing how Micah's face changed with each new dance partner.
There was admiration and something else, something raw.
She was getting to know him, just like he was getting to know her during negotiations. But she didn't know that he was doing the same thing.
Every subtle glance she gave, he cataloged. Every moment her breath caught, he noted. Her mask of professionalism had cracks now—fine, invisible ones, but he saw them. He always did.
When he brushed his fingers across Lady Grainor's hand, he caught the faintest flare of emotion from Micah's direction. Not jealousy, exactly. Something quieter. Possessive curiosity. The kind that burns slower, deeper, far more dangerous than envy.
He turned slightly, just enough to let his gaze meet hers across the room—brief, unspoken, deliberate. The air between them shifted.
For a second, the music, the crowd, the glittering chandeliers—all of it blurred into the background.
Her emerald eyes met his sapphire ones, and in that suspended instant, everything became perfectly clear. She knew what he was doing. He knew she knew. And still, neither looked away.
Then, as if nothing had passed between them, he turned back to his partner, voice smooth as glass. "Careful, my lady. One misstep and the night changes its course."
But his thoughts lingered on Micah—the way her gaze had trembled for just a heartbeat, the way control and desire warred behind her poised composure.
He smirked faintly, unseen.
Let her watch. Let her wonder.
And as the orchestra swelled, and Charles danced his final waltz with a foreign countess who had come to seduce, but left seduced, Velmora understood one truth:
Charlemagne Ziglar didn't enter a room to join it.
He entered to become the center.
And tonight, beneath the shimmer of enchantments, love songs, and starlight…
He had everyone exactly where he wanted them.