A carriage rocked gently as it made its slow ascent toward the imperial palace gates. Inside, Aveline Vellore sat in composed stillness, her hands folded neatly atop her lap. Her gaze was distant, her thoughts preoccupied with the letter she'd received earlier that morning.
["I trust your instincts, little frost. If this ceremony is what the stars demand and what you wish for, then face it head-on. But don't be too surprised if fate gives you something unexpected. I have a surprise for you."]
A soft breath escaped her lips, misting the windowpane beside her. Alaric always had a flair for riddles—but beneath those cryptic lines, she could feel the pride in his words. The rare tenderness he reserved only for her.
He hadn't questioned her decision to register under the Fate Rune. He'd simply supported it—just as he always had, shielding her from the world since they were children.
This was one of the shortest letters she'd ever received from him… and yet it left her with the distinct feeling that something was about to change.
Across from her, Luna glanced up.
"My lady," she said gently. "We'll arrive in a minute or two. I've already sent the scroll you handed me for registration." She hesitated. "Shouldn't you have submitted it in person?"
A faint smile touched Aveline's lips as she pulled herself from her thoughts.
"The scroll is enough," she replied. "No need to scare them before the ceremony even begins."
Luna chuckled softly, then leaned forward, lowering her voice. "There are whispers… nobles from other empires and kingdoms may be participating this time."
A spark of sharp awareness lit Aveline's eyes. "So that's why the emperor brought up the marriage pact. Something's definitely in motion." She straightened slightly. "Be cautious tonight. Speak less. Observe more."
She felt the itch of a missing piece—but whatever it was, it slipped from her grasp like snow through fingers. Eventually, she let it go as the driver called from outside.
"We've arrived, my lady."
After a brief check at the inner checkpoint, the carriage rolled toward the ceremonial entrance.
---
As the wheels slowed against the cobblestones, the distant swell of music and murmured voices spilled in through the open carriage window. Nobles in jewel-toned cloaks and silk layers flowed like a river toward the grand ceremonial hall.
The footman stepped forward and opened the door.
Luna descended first. Aveline adjusted the folds of her gown, then rose with deliberate grace—every movement refined, practiced, regal.
A hush fell near the gates as she stepped down.
The Lady of House Vellore had arrived.
She wore a gown of muted silver-blue silk, its high collar and long, flowing sleeves shimmering faintly under the lantern light. The bodice was adorned with frost-thread embroidery, forming an intricate lattice of snowflakes and flowers. Over it, she wore a floor-length velvet cloak in soft glacier grey, silver thread tracing its borders. A crescent moon brooch wrapped in ivy fastened the cloak at her throat.
Her hair was swept into a messy bun, crowned with a circle of glimmering crystal leaves.
As her boots touched the stone, the palace guards stiffened to attention. Whispers scattered like wind-tossed leaves through the marble courtyard—curious, cautious, disbelieving.
Her steps echoed softly as she made her way toward the ceremonial hall, Luna trailing a respectful pace behind.
The moment Aveline reached the great doors, they swung open soundlessly. The carved runes etched into the arch flickered—just for a heartbeat—before dimming once more, as if the hall itself had acknowledged her arrival.
Inside, the chamber buzzed with restrained tension.
Nobles cloaked in velvet, silk, and centuries of arrogance turned subtly to glance her way. Some with open curiosity. Others with veiled wariness. Her name had preceded her.
Lady Aveline Vellore.
She walked the length of the hall with unhurried elegance, her silver-blue gown rippling like still water disturbed only by light. The frost embroidery shimmered with each step.
She bowed to no one.Spoke to no one.
Her gaze remained calm, cool—not cold—but unreadable. The expression of someone who had seen too much to bother with theatrics.
The crowd parted around her like the sea around stone. Servants paused mid-step. A few younger nobles stepped aside instinctively.
The golden dais at the far end remained empty, awaiting the imperial family.
Aveline took her place near the platform designated for those entering by Fate Rune—an isolated, half-filled section where ambition met uncertainty.
Luna quietly moved to the reserved Vellore seating just behind.
---
Elsewhere in the palace, just as the emperor prepared to enter the ceremonial hall, hurried footsteps echoed behind him.
Empress Seraphina and the consorts approached, clad in ceremonial finery.
The emperor raised a hand and turned back to greet them.
"Let's enter together later," he said after a brief pause. "Let them settle first."
"As you wish, Your Majesty," the three replied in practiced unison.
Eldric regarded them, then spoke the matter on his mind.
"I received a letter from Floria—a few hours ago. Their emperor proposes a marriage alliance with Solandor."
"With whom?" Seraphina asked, brows arching slightly.
Eldric took a slow breath. "It wasn't stated. But I suspect it's meant for Leonhart... or the princesses. The emissary is already en route."
"They're arriving with the twins?" Sophia inquired.
"Perhaps. Or perhaps not." He glanced toward the window. "Be prepared. The ceremony may not unfold as expected."
---
At the very moment the Vellore carriage had passed through the northern gate, another entered the palace grounds through the southern entrance—a secluded path rarely used by courtiers.
No crest adorned the carriage. No fanfare. No heralds.
But the guards standing watch straightened instantly upon seeing it, their faces grim with recognition. Not a word was spoken as they stepped aside in silent synchronization.
The black carriage gleamed dully under the lanternlight, drawn by two obsidian mares with eyes like molten amber. They were not court-bred beasts—but wild creatures, summoned from the quiet woods beyond Aethelgard.
Inside, Kael Solandor sat in silence.
He watched the palace grow nearer through a faintly frosted pane, his eyes catching both firelight and shadow—betraying nothing of the storm within.
He wore a formal tunic of dark charcoal beneath a high-collared coat embroidered with runes in faded silver—protective spells, ancient and long-forgotten by most. His gloved hands rested on his lap, one clenching slightly as the familiar towers came into view.
For years, this place had turned its back on him. Even the last time he'd stepped through these gates—under cover of night—he had left as swiftly as he came.
And now, it summoned him.
Outside, whispers swirled as the carriage rolled past a row of junior attendants. None spoke his name aloud. They had been ordered not to.
Only a handful in the palace knew the truth of the Third Prince.
As the carriage slowed to a halt, Kael exhaled quietly.
His gloved hand reached for the door.
It was time.