After some time, the announcer's voice faded, and the final threads of magic settled over the last of the newly bonded couples. Applause rippled through the great hall—polite, warm, and punctuated by the gentle chime of crystal goblets.
At the Emperor's signal, palace stewards swept forward, guiding guests toward the refreshment galleries that flanked the ceremonial stage.
Tables gleamed beneath the glow of floating lanterns—laden with sugared fruits, candied almonds, jewel-like pastries, and crystal pitchers of spiced wine. A small ensemble, hidden behind a screen of flowering branches, played soft, lilting notes that loosened the stiffness in the air.
Aveline allowed herself a measured breath. She accepted a glass from a steward with a curt nod—the crystal cool against her fingers, the faint scent of winter berries curling upward, achingly familiar. Around her, nobles exchanged pleasantries, some glancing at her over the rims of their goblets as though half-expecting she might fling hers across the room.
---
Elsewhere, in a private resting chamber, Prince Morgan entered at his mother's summons, his expression edged with curiosity and mild apprehension.
"What happened, Mother? We just spoke this afternoon," he said, leaning toward Consort Ella.
She regarded him steadily. "What do you think of the lady from the Falin duchy?"
He blinked, caught off guard—this was hardly the conversation he expected in the middle of a ceremony. Yet despite his surprise, a flicker of warmth reached his eyes.
"She's… quite interesting," he admitted. "Not irritating in the slightest."
Ella's smile bloomed at his tone. "That's for the best, then. I'll have your name added to the arranged marriages list—the engaged pairings have just concluded."
Morgan straightened in shock. "Why the sudden rush? Has something happened?"
Ella leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "The Emperor of Floria is seeking a marriage alliance with Solandor. Their delegation will arrive shortly. I don't want you to regret anything later. Sometimes, Morgan, life is about choices made at the right moment."
He hesitated. "And how will you tell them?"
"I've sent for Duchess Falin. You needn't linger—go." She dismissed him with a graceful wave.
Morgan left with a lightness in his step. Shortly after, the Duchess entered. Their conversation was brief, and when she emerged, a figure was already striding toward the scribes to amend the records.
---
The attendees returned to their seats, the hall falling into a hush as the great double doors at the far end opened.
A herald's voice rang out:
"Announcing His Highness, Prince Darius of Floria; Her Highness, Princess Serena of Floria; and the noble delegation of the Empire of Floria."
The Floria royals entered in all their spring-like elegance. Prince Darius—broad-shouldered, sun-kissed—wore a tunic of forest green edged in gold leaf. Princess Serena, serene and poised, glided beside him in a gown of palest blush, its hem alive with embroidered blossoms that swayed like real petals. Their nobles followed, draped in airy silks, bringing with them the faint scent of blooming orchards and sweet wine.
As the delegation advanced to offer bows to the imperial dais, a ripple of movement stirred near the side entrance. Aveline's gaze, drawn more by instinct than curiosity, caught a familiar figure moving through the crowd with unhurried confidence.
Alaric Vellore.
His dark hair was neatly combed back, his piercing blue eyes unchanged—but there was a new, sharpened authority in his bearing, the kind forged far from home. A small cluster of courtiers trailed behind him, among them the twin imperial princesses, Elira and Althea, their white-and-gold gowns catching the lamplight like molten sunlight.
For a heartbeat, the noise and color of the ceremony dulled. She had not seen her brother in months, and the letter's promised "surprise" now stood before her.
He spotted her almost at once, the sternness in his face softening into a faint smile. Aveline took half a step forward before duty anchored her in place.
"Little V," he greeted warmly, offering a shallow nod before breaking formality entirely to draw her into a fierce, brief embrace.
"I see the capital hasn't dulled your presence one bit," he murmured.
"And you," she replied, a faint smile tugging at her lips, "have returned at last—with quite the entourage."
He cast a glance toward the Floria royals, then leaned close. "And with news. We'll speak after this."
"You should have warned me," she murmured.
"And miss your reaction?" His brow arched. "Never. Besides…" His eyes flicked toward the dais. "…you've been making choices Father would raise both eyebrows at."
Her smile deepened faintly. "He would have approved."
Before he could answer, the master of ceremonies called for attention, drawing them back into the intricate formalities of the court.
---
The floating glyphs above the dais shifted, silver light pulsing in a slow, deliberate rhythm.
"We now begin the trials of the Arranged Matches," the announcer proclaimed. "Unions decreed for the stability and strength of the noble houses and the Empire."
Chairs scraped softly as couples stepped forward beneath the Emperor and Empress's gaze. House banners flared in the air as a palace scribe read each pairing, and the rune master traced luminous glyphs in the space between the betrothed. Green shimmer signified prosperity; the court murmured its approval.
One pair after another took their places—some smiling shyly, others stiff with duty.
At last, a name was spoken that froze the air.
"Prince Morgan of the Royal House of Solandor… and Lady Sera of the Duchy of Falin."
A hush fell, sharp and sudden. Though many knew of Lady Sera's admiration for the prince, none had expected a marriage to be announced here, tonight.
...
Flashback
During the interval, as silver trays bearing spiced wine and delicate pastries floated gracefully between clusters of nobles, Consort Ella seized her opportunity. The Emperor stood near a column draped in imperial banners, conversing with the Empress and Consort Sophia, when Ella stepped forward after her meeting with Morgan and the Duchess, her smile serene yet purposeful.
Dipping her head slightly, she lowered her voice so that the nearby courtiers would hear nothing.
"Your Majesty," she began gently, "I wish to propose a match for Prince Morgan—with the second lady of House Falin. He seemed quite taken with her today, and I believe she would bring him both happiness and a steady partner's strength. Morgan deserves someone who will see him as more than his title."
The Emperor's gaze sharpened, the faintest flicker of calculation in his eyes, but Ella held his gaze with quiet resolve. In her voice, there was no trace of maneuver—only a mother's careful hope.
After a moment's silence, he inclined his head in a single, measured nod, granting his consent. A faint warmth touched Ella's expression before courtly composure returned, her mind already moving toward the steps that would secure her son's future.