Chapter 70: The Night’s First Impressions

The Roscaire carriage rocked from side to side as it made its way through the capital, its springs protesting every time the wheels hit another rut. Outside, the streets were becoming increasingly crowded with carriages, mounted attendants, and enough finely dressed nobles to suggest that practically everyone in the capital had received an invitation to the same party.

Lioren leaned closer to the window, trying to see past the reflections of passing lanterns and carriage lamps.

"Good grief," Lioren muttered. "Did Arvandel invite the entire nobility, or is there some sort of reward for showing up with a family crest? I’ve seen fewer carriages at the imperial celebrations!"

Evelia, seated opposite him, didn’t even bother looking up from her little silver hand mirror as she inspected her left earring. "It’s called popularity, brother. A rather foreign concept to you, I imagine, considering your usual method of making acquaintances is glaring at them until they decide to leave."

"I don’t glare," Lioren protested, his tone defensive. "I... assess."

"You look like you’re deciding whether to welcome someone or chase them off the premises," she replied. "Besides, House Arvandel is one of the very few noble families that people actually like. The Duke is practically a saint compared to those insufferable old lords like Gardner. Even my circle adores him."

Lioren narrowed his eyes at her. "Your circle? Don’t speak for half the aristocracy, Evelia. You might want to ask the landowners in the eastern districts how much they adore Arvandel’s latest decisions."

"I know they send him very expensive fruit baskets every harvest," she shot back with a grin. She paused, tilting her head. "Or do you harbor some deep, dark secret grievance against the Duke? Come on, do you secretly hate him too?"

Lioren leaned his head back against the velvet headrest, letting out a heavy sigh. "He’s fine. The man’s perfectly tolerable."

Evelia let out a short, barking laugh that was entirely unladylike. "Oh, high praise indeed! Coming from a man whose default setting for human interaction is active hostility, ’tolerable’ practically the highest compliment one could ever receive."

Xavion, who had been sitting quietly in the corner, hadn’t said a word throughout their exchange. His hands rested neatly in his lap, and his gaze remained fixed on the shadows moving across the carriage ceiling. His expression gave little away.

Before the conversation could circle back to Lioren’s social failings, the carriage lurched into a wide, cobblestone courtyard lined with towering wrought-iron braziers, their flames flickering in the evening air. The wheels crunched against the gravel before the carriage finally groaned to a halt.

Outside, the faint sound of a string quartet drifted through the heavy doors, mixed with the chatter of hundreds of nobles who were undoubtedly complimenting one another while silently judging everything in sight.

Therin was the first to dismount, stepping onto the gravel before opening the carriage door and lowering the small step for the passengers. Caldrin followed close behind, his sharp eyes sweeping across the courtyard as he took in their surroundings, ever alert to anything out of place.

Lioren stepped down first, offering Evelia a gloved hand to help her with her sweeping crimson train before turning to Xavion. The former general accepted his offered hand, even though he could easily have managed on his own. He hardly needed the assistance, but neither of them thought twice about such small gestures anymore.

As the five of them stepped away from the carriage, the noise in the courtyard seemed to quiet, if only for a moment.

Heads turned. Whispers followed, and more than a few guests openly stared.

Therin adjusted his spectacles, his eyes moving across the sea of silk and velvet gathered near the grand double doors. "It appears," Therin remarked, "we are drawing a certain... volume of local curiosity tonight."

"Hardly surprising," Caldrin murmured from his post near the left wheel, his hand resting casually near his doublet’s hidden seam. "The Grand Duke of Roscaire hasn’t been seen at an Arvandel gala since the winter before the Ostharian campaign. Half these people probably thought you’d retired to a cave in the northern mountains."

Lioren smoothed down the lapels of his black coat, throwing a dry glance around the courtyard. "Or perhaps, they’re simply surprised to see Evelia arrive with so many men in tow."

"Or," Evelia countered, "they are all staring directly at your remarkably handsome companion because they can’t quite process the fact that the most notorious general from Ostharia is standing in the middle of a Werestian courtyard wearing white."

That hit a little too close to the mark.

Xavion stiffened. The subtle, effortless grace that usually defined his posture suddenly hardened into something rigid and defensive. His eye dropped briefly to the gravel beneath his boots, and a heavy, suffocating shadow crossed his sharp features. He knew precisely what he looked like to this crowd, a living trophy, a political anomaly, a walking reminder of a bloody war that half the people here had sent their sons to fight.

The invisible weight of a hundred staring eyes seemed to settle all at once onto his shoulders. A sickening doubt flickered behind his gaze: Why did I let them drag me out here? This was a mistake.

Lioren caught the subtle change in Xavion’s expression. His breathing faltered, and his jaw tightened as the familiar guardedness settled over his features. Lioren didn’t hesitate. He stepped closer, placing himself at Xavion’s side until their shoulders touched.

"Should I... really be here?"

"Don’t," Lioren said quietly.

Xavion blinked, looking sideways.

"You have every right to be here, Prince Xavion. You weren’t dragged in through the kitchens, and you aren’t some strange creature on display for their amusement. Let them stare. Perhaps they’ll eventually remember their manners. Though I wouldn’t hold my breath."

Some of the tension finally left Xavion’s shoulders. His posture relaxed a little, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a faint, wry smile. It was a small change, but Lioren noticed it immediately. At least Xavion no longer looked quite so uncomfortable.

Before either of them could say anything more, the master of ceremonies standing near the grand entrance raised his silver staff and struck it against the marble floor three times. The man stood with his chest puffed out so proudly that Lioren briefly wondered whether he had swallowed a particularly arrogant pigeon.

The ringing chime cut cleanly through the murmurs of the hall.

"Presenting!" the herald bellowed, his voice bouncing off the high vaulted ceilings with theatrical precision, "His Grace, Grand Duke Lioren Roscaire! His Highness, Prince Xavion Astervan! And the Right Honorable Lady Evelia Roscaire!"

The ripple that went through the assembly was almost physical.

The conversations stopped almost at once. One by one, heads turned toward the grand entrance, followed by a flurry of silk sleeves, powdered wigs, and curious faces.

Lioren remained perfectly composed. He lifted his chin and wore the same cool, indifferent expression he had perfected over years of dealing with people he would rather avoid. The Roscaire name had commanded respect in the north for generations, and he had no intention of letting a room full of curious nobles make him forget it. He stepped into the ballroom with Xavion beside him, keeping close without making any fuss about it. If anyone had a problem with the prince’s presence, they could bring it up with Lioren.

Evelia slipped into place beside them, her crimson gown sweeping across the floor and her smile dazzling enough to blind a lesser critic. Behind them, Therin and Caldrin followed at a respectful distance, their watchful eyes taking in the ballroom without drawing attention to themselves.

As the five of them made their way along the carpet, heading farther into the ballroom, whispers began to ripple through the crowd. And judging by the number of heads leaning toward one another, nobody was making much effort to keep them private.

"Is that him? The Ostharian?"

"I heard he’s practically a prisoner under house arrest..."

"No, look at the way the Grand Duke is standing beside him. That’s not a prisoner, that’s a statement."

"Can you believe he brought the Ostrarian prince here?"

"I know."

Lioren heard every word. Every whispered, every scandalized little gasp, and every supposedly discreet comment from nobles who seemed to have forgotten that people standing three feet away could, in fact, hear them perfectly well. Honestly, if they were going to gossip, the least they could do was develop some talent for it. Half of them weren’t even covering their mouths.

He recognized a few faces among the crowd, particularly some of the older nobles who seemed especially scandalized by Xavion’s presence. Honestly, what was so shocking about it? Xavion was his betrothed. Naturally, Lioren would bring him along. Was he supposed to leave the man at home? The way some of these people were whispering, one might think he’d arrived with a dragon on a leash instead of his own fiancé.

Lioren had to resist the urge to turn around and ask whether they had all forgotten how to behave in public. Was keeping their opinions to themselves really such an impossible task?

But he kept his mouth shut anyway. Not because he was intimidated, certainly not. He simply had more important things to worry about than entertaining a room full of people whose greatest achievement tonight appeared to be whispering without choking on their own saliva.

They were halfway across the gleaming floor when a sudden, familiar rustle of heavy velvet and gold-embroidered brocade drew a fresh wave of murmurs from the gallery near the archway.

Another herald’s staff struck the floor.

"Presenting! His Imperial Highness, Crown Prince Riven Zalveris! And Her Royal Highness, Princess Riella Zalveris!"

The crowd parted almost immediately to make way for the royal siblings. Prince Riven strode into the ballroom with the sort of confidence that suggested he had never once questioned whether a room belonged to him. His hair caught the light of the chandeliers as he walked, looking every bit the Crown Prince. Lioren suspected that if Riven ever entered a room without making at least half the people in it nervous, the man would consider the evening a complete failure.

Beside him, Princess Riella moved with effortless grace, her expression composed as her gaze travelled across the ballroom. Unlike her brother, she didn’t seem particularly interested in making an entrance. She was far too busy observing everyone else, her sharp eyes missing very little.

As the royal siblings made their way through the ballroom, their path soon crossed with that of the northern delegation.

For three long, agonizing seconds, the two groups stood facing one another, the rest of the ballroom seeming to fade into the background.