The chandeliers in the Grand Hall of Valtheron Castle glittered like captured starlight, reflecting in the polished marble floors and bouncing off the elegant gowns and tailored uniforms of the gathered nobility. The scent of perfumed nobles mixed with the faint tang of wine, creating an intoxicating atmosphere that made the Count of Duvant feel… slightly bolder than usual. Or perhaps that was simply the wine talking. Likely the wine.
Alaric Duvant stumbled across the dance floor, his tailored coat slightly askew, cuffs streaked with traces of spilled champagne. He raised a hand in a haphazard bow to the noblewoman he had been chasing for months—the infamous Lady Seraphine Moreau. She, as always, was immaculate. Her golden hair coiled perfectly at the nape of her neck, her gown shimmering silver under the light, eyes alight with amusement—or was it contempt? Alaric wasn't entirely sure anymore.
"Ah, Lady Seraphine!" he declared, waving as though he were on some grand stage. His voice pitched just slightly too high after three glasses of red, but he ignored it. "You look… radiant. Absolutely radiant. As always."
Seraphine's eyes flicked up from her cup of punch, arching a perfectly shaped brow. "Duvant," she said coolly, emphasizing his name as if it were a word she had grown tired of hearing, "I do believe you've had… enough."
Alaric grinned sheepishly, the grin that had won over some hearts but tended to backfire in these halls. "Enough? Nonsense! I have barely begun to enjoy myself. Besides, one can never truly have enough of your company, milady."
The laughter began quietly at first—a whispering ripple that spread from one gilded corner of the hall to another. Alaric froze mid-step, catching the sound, unsure whether he had misheard. Then he realized: everyone was watching him. And they weren't impressed.
Seraphine's eyes, a perfect ice blue, sharpened. "Count," she said, her voice dripping honey with a poison edge, "it's admirable that you persist in your… endeavors. Truly. But you are, as ever, utterly pathetic."
The words struck him like a dagger dipped in vinegar. The hall fell silent for a heartbeat—then the laughter swelled into a wave that crashed over him, warm and cruel. Alaric's cheeks burned, matching the spilled wine that had seeped into his shirt. He opened his mouth to retort, but no clever words came; only a hiccup and a nervous cough.
"Oh, don't look so surprised," Seraphine continued, circling him with the grace of a predator. "Everyone here knows your… reputation. The Count who falls from grace with every step. The man who cannot even maintain the simplest decorum without tripping over his own ego—or his own feet."
Alaric's hands twitched at his sides. He wanted to vanish. Or perhaps throw something. Or—he wasn't entirely sure. Panic and rage mingled inside him like two beasts fighting for dominance. For once, he could not charm his way out. The wine, the laughter, the burning heat of embarrassment—it all coalesced into a buzzing in his skull.
He took a step forward, waving his hands as if conducting some invisible orchestra. "I—I assure you! One day, Seraphine! One day you'll see! You'll see I am—"
"Just stop," she interrupted, voice cutting sharper than a sword. She leaned slightly closer, just enough to let her scent—a crisp, floral perfume, hints of something cold and sharp—tickle his senses. "If only you were even… one percent like the Archduke."
The words hung in the air like a guillotine poised over his head.
Alaric froze, every fiber of his being trembling. One percent like the Archduke. The Archduke Lucien Valtheron—the man everyone whispered about in hushed tones, the man whose presence alone could make Alphas cower, Omegas ache, and nobles straighten like marionettes. A man so perfectly controlled, so impossibly handsome, so utterly untouchable, that even a glance from him could feel like a challenge issued and won.
And she compared him—Alaric, chaotic, messy, drunk, fumbling—to that enigma of a man.
The laughter had died down now, but the hum of conversation persisted. Nobles murmured behind delicate fans and jeweled hands. Eyes that had once admired him now assessed him with thinly veiled amusement or outright disdain. His chest tightened, a mix of shame, frustration, and—admittedly—a prickling, undeniable spark of something else. Jealousy? Awe? A dangerous cocktail that made his heartbeat pound in his ears.
Alaric's mind whirled. One percent. One single percent. Could anyone even reach that level? Could anyone—truly—stand toe-to-toe with someone like Lucien? And more importantly… did he even want to? Or was it enough to simply survive in a world that demanded perfection, or else crushed you under its polished heels?
He opened his mouth again, perhaps to argue, perhaps to storm off, perhaps to plead for mercy, but no words came. Just a hiccup and a crooked grin he could not suppress—a grin that was more defiance than charm.
"Ah… the Archduke," Alaric muttered, mostly to himself, though the words barely carried over the murmuring crowd. "The man who makes gods out of mortals, eh? One day… one day I'll show them all."
Seraphine's lips curved in a sharp, knowing smile. "We shall see, Count. We shall see."
Alaric could feel heat creeping up his neck and into his ears. Embarrassment, rage, and a strange, molten determination roiling together like wildfire. He spun on his heel, nearly tripping over his own shoe, and strode—rather ungracefully—toward the exit. Every whisper, every pointed glance, every smirk felt like tiny daggers embedding themselves in his pride.
But amidst the humiliation, a spark ignited. That impossible, untouchable man—the Archduke—was out there somewhere. Watching. Or perhaps entirely unaware. But Alaric knew one thing with the clarity of the embers in his chest: he would not remain the Count who fell from grace.
No. He would rise. And if Lady Seraphine, the nobles, and perhaps even the gods themselves were watching… they would witness it.
The ballroom faded behind him, glittering like stars that mocked his chaos. But somewhere in the distance, a new game had begun. A game that promised danger, obsession, and—if he survived—the possibility of finally standing on equal footing with the man everyone feared.
He didn't yet know how—or if—he could reach that level. But he would try. And the moment he thought it, the words Seraphine had thrown at him rang sharper than ever:
"If only you were even one percent like the Archduke."
Alaric froze, vision narrowing, heartbeat spiking. The words burned into him like a brand. One percent. One. Percent. And for the first time in months, perhaps years, he felt… alive.