The Bell Tolled Four Times Before Dawn.
Its sound, distant yet heavy, rolled over the duchy like thunder. Pale fog still clung to the gardens like a ghost-veil. Even the statues seemed to shiver beneath the weight of morning dew. It was a day the house itself seemed to hold its breath.
Elira was already awake.
She hadn't truly slept.
She stood near the tall windows in her robe, the silk thin enough to let the firelight glow through its folds. Shadows flickered across her skin like restless ghosts. Her gaze, however, was calm—eerily calm. Like the surface of a frozen lake just before it cracks.
Then came the knock.
Sharp. Three times.
"Come in," she said without turning.
The door creaked open, and in flooded Maren—and five more maids, all dressed in morning blues and trimmed aprons. Their energy sparkled like morning mist hit by sunlight.
"Lady Elira!" Maren beamed.
"The day has come!"
"Your debut, my lady!" another chimed in.
"And banquet!"
"Everyone's already saying you'll be the most radiant woman in the ballroom!"
"Even the Duchess of Estmere sent an early bouquet. Said it's a sin how lovely you've become."
'Duchess Estmere, she was genuine lady, staying out all dirt, neither supporting anyone nor evilaizing for any.'
Elira smiled faintly. "Is that so?"
Maren curtsied low, her eyes warm but focused. "Let us make sure they aren't wrong."
'I guess it'll be difficult for me to escape from these determined maids.'
sigh
She sighed with a smile.
Its been days maybe years she'll be having this kind of exaggerated bath.
The Bathroom was as she'd remembered
The chamber had been prepared like a shrine.
Rose-scented steam curled in the air, so thick it could probably strangle a grown man with its floral scent. Heated marble floors glowed from beneath, and at the center, an obsidian tub gleamed, already filled with milky water scattered with blood-red rose petals, crushed violet, lavender, and oils that shimmered with flecks of silver dust.
Elira stepped in slowly, her robe falling off with the careful grace of a woman who had been trained for such moments. The maids flanked her like loyal attendants at a royal coronation, holding her robe aside with the intensity of people dealing with sacred relics.
The warm water enveloped her like silk, and she sighed deeply.
"Kyyyaa… this is the closest I'll ever get to feeling like a marble statue."
Maren, ever the diligent servant, poured the Luinorian moon-oil—a floral concoction made from flowers that bloom under moonlight—into her hands. It was soft, melancholic, and haunting, much like the mood Elira was starting to feel, but also... utterly ridiculous.
One maid raised an eyebrow. "How do we know this oil really works? Does it actually do something, or is it just a fancy way to make her smell like a garden?"
Another maid whispered, "Did you not read the label? It says it makes you glow like the moon."
"Does it come with a warning for spontaneous glowing?" one added, before catching herself with a horrified glance. "Not that Lady Elira needs any extra attention."
'This all actually feels good hearing maids chitchats '
A Smirk curled her lips faintly.
Elira rolled her eyes. "Just scrub me, before I glow myself to death."
Maids chuckled little.
"Yes my lady. " with smile the offered.
As they gently scrubbed her skin with crushed pearls (which they claimed would make her as radiant as a goddess—if goddesses liked exfoliating), the bathwater slowly turned golden, shimmering with oils and whispers of compliments.
"You'll look divine, Lady Elira," one whispered, voice full of awe.
"She already does," said another, bit louder, as if the first statement wasn't sufficient.
Elira smirked. "It's called sleep deprivation. Very effective in giving a person that 'mysterious' look."
At this, a few of the maids exchanged glances. "We're supposed to be building her up, not lowering expectations!" one whispered urgently.
—.—>>>>●●●●<<<<—.—.
It was already the time of arrival for the Second Prince and the representative of the Orban Empire.
The sun had climbed high enough to cast its merciless light over the city, gilding every spire, banner, and polished spearpoint in a brilliance that almost felt too sharp—like a blade's edge catching fire.
The main road to the Astal Pavillion, swept and scrubbed until it gleamed, had transformed into a river of restless humanity. Citizens pressed shoulder to shoulder, leaning over railings and crowding at every corner, their eyes fixed on the distant archway from which the parade would emerge. Children perched on their fathers' shoulders, flags clutched tight in eager hands.
"Do you think he's taller than his portraits?" one girl whispered, craning her neck.
"He's the most handsome man in the Empire, they say," a matron replied with the conviction of someone who had never actually seen him.
"I heard he rides like the wind itself," an elderly man boasted, as though he'd trained the Prince personally.
"Wind? Hah! More like a peacock with a sword and magic," another scoffed, earning a sharp elbow from his wife.
Vendors shouted over the hum of anticipation, hawking sweetbread, roasted chestnuts, and ribbons dyed in the Prince's colors. The mingled scents of sugar, smoke, and sweat hung thick in the air.
Then—trumpets blared from somewhere beyond the gates. The bright, brassy sound rolled over the streets, swallowing chatter like the drawing of a curtain. Even the horses stilled. A thousand bodies seemed to lean forward at once, breaths caught, hearts straining toward the sound.
And then he appeared.
All crowd rose in voice.
Sylus, Second Prince of the Empire, Dark blur hairs even eyes similar, sat astride a stallion so white it almost hurt to look at in the midday sun. His armor—ceremonial, not built for battle—caught the light in molten flashes, each polished plate chasing the sun's glare into the eyes of those who dared look too long. His smile was the very image of princely charm—polished, generous, and utterly calculated.
Sir Lance, watching from his position along the escort line, fought the urge to roll his eyes. Saints preserve us, he thought, he's blinding half the city with that armor and wooing the other half with his teeth.
The crowd erupted in cheers, women tossing flower petals into the road, children shouting his name as though it were a prayer.
"Prince Sylus!"
"Long live His Highness!"
"Marry me!" someone bellowed from a balcony, earning a chorus of laughter.
Sir Lance's mouth twitched—not quite a smile. If charm alone could win a war, this man would be Emperor by nightfall. Unfortunately, wars are fought with steel and blood… and I've yet to see His Highness spill either.
The parade moved forward in a slow, deliberate rhythm—hooves striking the cobblestones like the ticking of a great, inevitable clock. Behind Sylus rode the representative of the Orban Empire, an austere figure draped in crimson and black, his sharp eyes sweeping over the crowd with the cool detachment of a hawk.
More cheers rose—though not all of them were for the Orban envoy. A few voices lowered to murmurs, a ripple of unease passing through the crowd at the sight of the foreign colors mingling with the Empire's own.
Sir Lance caught it. The slight stiffening of shoulders. The glances that darted toward the envoy and then away, as if watching a storm cloud take shape on the horizon.
He adjusted his grip on the reins, gaze flicking between Sylus's smiling façade and the foreigner's unreadable mask.
The Second Prince lifted a gauntleted hand and waved—slow, deliberate, as if each motion were weighed and measured for maximum effect. Women swooned. Men straightened their spines, pride swelling in their chests.
Sir Lance could almost hear the thoughts beneath the shouts.
"He's so regal."
"He's destined for the throne."
"He's the answer to our troubles."
Lance bit back a dry laugh.
'Answers are rarely so pretty,' he thought.
A gust of wind carried the scent of trampled flowers and hot iron from the ceremonial braziers lining the street. Overhead, banners snapped in the sunlight, their colors bleeding gold and scarlet into the air.
From his vantage, Lance could see the palace gates ahead—towering, open wide, and waiting. The moment Sylus crossed that threshold, the game would change.
He wondered—just for a moment—if the Prince knew how much blood was already being spilled in his name, far from these polished stones and cheering voices.
And then Sylus glanced toward the escort line. Their eyes met for the briefest heartbeat. His smile didn't falter, but there was a flicker there—sharp, knowing.
Lance's jaw tightened.
' So… he does know.'