The grand ballroom shimmered beneath the opulence of a crystal chandelier that hung like a jeweled crown from the center of the domed glass ceiling. Moonlight filtered through the towering arched windows, their panes framed with red silk ribbons that rippled gently in the evening breeze. The soft silver glow bathed the marbled floor in a cool, ethereal light, while golden sconces along the walls added a warm flicker that danced across the polished surface. Ornate golden trims lined the high ceiling, catching the candlelight and echoing the room's grandeur and the wealth of its hosts.
A symphony played near a glossy black grand piano, its gentle melodies weaving through the air as elegantly dressed nobles glided across the ballroom in perfect rhythm. Silk gowns swirled, tailcoats flared, and laughter mingled with the soft hum of conversation. The atmosphere was a delicate balance between celebration and decorum, one that could only belong to the world of high society.
Outside of the dance space was a series of lavishly upholstered sofas, strategically placed to divide the space into two social territories. On the left side of the ballroom, the women gathered with elegance and grace, their voices soft and melodic as they praised dresses, exchanged compliments, and giggled behind embroidered fans. But beneath the lace and laughter, their talk was edged with sharp wit. With just a smile or a casual remark, they could weigh marriage prospects, ruined reputations, and speculate on business ties. To the untrained eye, it might look like idle gossip. To those listening closely, it was war dressed in perfume.
On the right side, the gentlemen lounged with practiced nonchalance, nursing brandy in crystal glasses as they exchanged words about politics, estate affairs, and the latest fencing matches. With every raised brow and calculated chuckle, it was clear that many spoke more for appearance than insight, parroting phrases overheard from their butlers, newspapers or their wives, hoping to sound shrewd while masking shallow understanding behind smooth tones and well-fitted waistcoats. Each word was less about policy and more about posturing and looking dignified. Of course, not all fell into such pretenses, there were a few whose knowledge was genuine, their words carrying weight that silenced the room when they chose to speak.
This unspoken division was just as much a part of the evening as the dancing on the marble floor.
Among the various clusters of men loudly boasting about politics they scarcely understood and governance they had never totally managed, one particular group stood out, not for their brilliance, but for their remarkable lack of it.
Their conversation was riddled with absurdities: how the recent drought was caused by women learning too much arithmetic, or how dueling should be reinstated to settle estate disputes, "like the good old days." The stupidity was so brazen that even the noblewomen couldn't help but feel secondhand embarrassment.
At the heart of this idiocy sat a man who, by appearance alone, didn't quite belong. His posture was refined, his expression calm, and his chestnut-brown hair was combed immaculately back. He wore an opulent formal coat threaded with gold embroidery, tailored to perfection to enhance his proud figure. Despite being in his fifties, he held himself with youthful arrogance, his smooth mannerisms concealing the foolishness of his words.
He had the look of someone who had once commanded attention, not with wisdom but with presence. His lips curled in a faint, self-assured smile as he added his own thoughts to the nonsense being passed around.
"I've long said," he intoned, swirling his brandy with theatrical flair, "that overeducation in women leads to overly sour wine vintages. It's all connected."
The men around him nodded sagely, hanging onto every word as if it were gospel. He was the type of nobleman who only spoke with confidence when surrounded by fools, yet fell into uneasy silence in the presence of truly refined and intelligent gentlemen. He had a habit of dismissing women outright and spent most of his breath glorifying himself, puffed up on his own delusions of grandeur.
Amidst the gentlemen's conversation, a noblewoman who had just finished dancing walked toward the rest area reserved for noblemen. This act could easily be defined as unrefined and shameless. For a noblewoman to approach a space clearly meant for men was a breach of decorum that would no doubt become gossip by the end of the night. A woman entering that side of the ballroom stood out like a sore thumb. Even a wife would not dare intrude, even if she had business with her husband, she would have to pass a message to a servant, who in turn would quietly deliver it.
In short, any woman bold enough to stride into a men's gathering, where no lady had any business whatsoever, would be labeled as nothing more than a whore or a desperate pick-me girl.
The woman's action instantly caught the eyes of the nobles in the ballroom.
She wore a deep crimson gown that clung to her figure like silk poured over skin. A thigh-high slit revealed her long, pale leg with every slow, graceful step. The off-shoulder neckline bared her collarbones and shoulders in a way that invited stares, while a silver chain draped across her chest, drawing the eye further. Her updo was artfully undone, with loose strands framing her striking face, eyes half-lidded, and lips faintly curved. There was nothing innocent about her presence, it was the kind that didn't just attract attention, it demanded it.
The women across the room stared, already whispering behind their fans. Her actions, walking straight into the men's side of the ballroom without hesitation or escort, would not just be frowned upon, they'd be gossiped about for weeks.
And yet, without a hint of shame or restraint, she glided to a stop in front of the older gentleman with chestnut hair, the one whose voice often led the most ridiculous group of men. With a slow, knowing smile, she met his eyes and leaned ever so slightly closer, as though the rest of the room no longer existed.
"Count Velloren," the woman greeted with a sweet smile, her fingers tracing the backrest of the sofa near him with deliberate grace, her posture refined, yet unmistakably bold.
"Good evening. It's always a delight to find you in such fine form." Her voice, honeyed and composed, danced with just enough charm to make the surrounding gentlemen turn their heads.
"Baroness Harrow," Count Velloren replied with exaggerated warmth, rising slightly from his seat. "How may I be of service to such a radiant lady?" His grin widened as he reached out, clearly intending to graze her hand with the shallow charm of a practiced flirt.
But before his fingers could find her skin, the baroness gracefully withdrew, pretending instead to adjust the fall of her skirts with a slow, careful motion. Then, with a delicate flick of her wrist, she snapped open her fan and drew it across her collarbone, not from heat, but with deliberate intent.
It was a gesture meant to seduce their partner. In public, it might be tolerated between married couples or betrothed lovers. But for a man and woman who were neither, it skirted dangerously close to scandal, a brazen breach of noble etiquette.
"Surely you haven't forgotten," she said, her fan half-concealing her amused expression, "the business venture we discussed at Marquess Witherhall's garden soirée?"
The other men in the group stirred, some coughing discreetly, others suddenly pretending not to listen, though their eyes remained fixed on the baroness. They were particularly drawn to the graceful line of her neck and collarbone, and to the tantalizing glimpse of leg revealed through the daring slit of her gown. The allure in her tone, paired with her curving figure, sparked the kind of silent thrill.
And the scandalous detail?
Baroness Harrow and Count Velloren were neither engaged nor formally courting. In noble society, such familiarity without official ties was tantamount to a whispered affair or, at the very least, a dangerous game of reputation.
The Count let out a loud, hearty laugh, his chest puffing with pride.
"You've got quite the memory, Lady Harrow. Not many women take business as seriously as you do. Most noble ladies care more about jewels and parties than what we men handle for the empire," he said with a smug grin, offering his arm.
"Of course, we should speak about our business plans somewhere more private. This isn't exactly the business place, wouldn't you say?" His voice was loud, too loud, and carried across the ballroom, drawing attention from nearby guests.
Baroness Harrow let out a quiet chuckle.
"Well, when you've been left a widow with children to raise, you tend to learn quickly, my lord," she said, slipping her hand onto his arm with ease.
"Heh, I doubt my wife would change like you," the Count scoffed with a crooked grin. "She'd remain just as she is, widow or not."
She didn't respond. Just gave a small, polite smile as they walked.
*****
On the opposite side of the ballroom, where the soft murmur of feminine conversation blended with the clink of crystal glasses, sat a distinguished circle of noblewomen. They were women of rank and experience, well-versed in etiquette and the unspoken rules of noble society. Their words, though polite, carried far more weight than gossip.
"How vulgar," remarked an elegantly dressed woman in her fifties, delicately sampling the appetizer in front of her.
"She certainly knows how to drape herself in scandal," murmured the woman beside her, lifting a porcelain teacup to her lips.
"It's obvious this is an affair," said another, hiding her frown behind a lace fan. "This isn't even the first time she's set her sights on another woman's husband. At this point, it's practically a habit. Her name is always attached to some new affair."
A weary sigh escaped the lips of the Countess herself.
"Even though it's clearly an affair in the public eye, given her reputation, I still have no grounds to pursue a divorce," said Countess Velloren, clicking her tongue in frustration. "Unless I catch them in the act, or obtain letters or witnesses, any private meeting can be passed off as 'business.' According to noble marital law, 'indecency' alone isn't enough. The law allows divorce, yes. But it certainly doesn't favor a woman seeking it."
A hush fell over the table, sympathy and shared frustration weighing in the silence.
"Forgive me for asking, Lady Velloren," one of the ladies said gently, "but what made you choose him for a husband in the first place?"
The others nodded, their expressions puzzled but genuinely curious.
"That's true," another added. "To me, he's just a pitiful man chasing skirts half his age, trying to convince himself he's still in his prime."
Countess Velloren said nothing at first. Her expression tightened, and she held her teacup a little closer.
"Because once," she said at last, her tone clipped and laced with old resentment, "he was decent. Respectful and steady. I never imagined age would make him so desperate to prove he still mattered." Her fingers curled around the porcelain. "Now I'm left with a foolish old man pretending to be charming and a line of petty young women half his age eager to tempt him further."
A sharp snap echoed through the conversation, the sound of a fan being closed.
All eyes turned toward the source.
Katrina Velmire sat poised and graceful, tapping her closed fan against her chin as she looked over the group with calm authority.
"I think that's enough of this conversation," she said gently. "Let's not ruin a lovely gathering by discussing a cheating man, shall we? I'm sure Lady Velloren would rather enjoy this evening than be reminded of her husband's indiscretions. It's already a burden she carries outside the ballroom. Let's try, at the very least, to give her a little peace tonight."
Her smile was warm but firm.
The ladies around her nodded in agreement.
Countess Velloren let out a quiet chuckle and reached out, squeezing Katrina's arm with genuine affection.
"You're always so sweet and thoughtful, Lady Velmire," she said softly.
The mood shifted, the heaviness lifting as laughter returned to the group. Their expressions brightened, and soon they were chatting once more about gowns, dances, and light-hearted topics as if scandal had never crossed their minds. For a moment, at least, they allowed themselves joy.
**********
A few hours later...
A servant walked down the hallway, pushing a mobile tray full of dirty dishes and empty glasses. Her uniform was more fancy than that of the other servants, a sign that she was assigned to duties inside the ballroom, rather than outside it. Pinned to her chest was a name tag that read: Poppy.
With a trained expression and practiced composure, Poppy remained stiff and focused, even though the hallway beyond the ballroom was silent. As she passed a row of private balconies along the corridor, she stopped in front of one in particular. The door was shut, an obvious signal that the space was occupied and should not be disturbed.
Still, for certainty's sake, she reached for the handle. Slowly, steadily, and quietly, she tested it, careful not to make a sound that might alert the people inside. As expected, it was locked. Poppy then reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a key. She slid it into the lock and turned it with a soft click.
She opened the door only slightly, just an inch, enough to let sound from inside the room pass through. A certain noise met her ears, one she had expected. To confirm, she leaned forward and peeked through the narrow gap.
Poppy smiled.
Satisfied with what she saw, she gently closed the door again but left it unlocked. She hung a small sign on the handle: Occupied, to prevent others from entering.
Then, without a word, she handed off her tray of dirty dishes to another servant passing by. Her task complete, she made her way toward someone else, someone who had assigned her this discreet mission.
*****
"Lady Velmire, I heard from someone that Lord Quentin has achieved quite a feat. I just wished to ask, what is your view on this?" asked one of the women, gesturing for a nearby servant to refill her wine. She was dressed in a fancy yet modest peach gown, tinged with light pink and trimmed with white satin, elegant without being overly lavish.
"Oh? Are you referring to the third son of Lady Sareth?" one of the women asked, tilting her head with mild curiosity.
The woman nodded politely, giving Katrina a fleeting glance whether to gauge her reaction or anticipate her answer, it was unclear. Either way, the subject was already veering into uncomfortable subject.
"What achievement are you referring to, Lady Alvian?" asked another woman at the table.
Lady Alvian lifted her fan, half-covering her mouth as she answered. Her eyes curved upward in a smile.
"You've heard, haven't you? In one of the western territories, a trace of Abyssian activity was discovered."
"Oh yes! I was truly anxious when I heard that since it's near my land," said another woman.
"If that's what this is about, then... has the matter already been resolved?" someone else asked.
Lady Alvian closed her fan and crossed her arms, smiling sweetly at the ladies who were listening.
"Well, I received word from my husband that Lord Quentin, together with Lord Dorian, completely wiped out the Abyssian presence. They even managed to capture the commander behind it."
"What? The commander?!" exclaimed the women in shock.
"It is difficult enough to ascertain how many commanders the Abyssians truly have, let alone capture one, something only the elite members of the Union are capable of."
"I heard Lord Dorian isn't even part of the elite, yet they caught the commander?"
"And with Lord Quentin assisting, it means he surely contributed to the success."
While the ladies were abuzz with surprise and admiration, Lady Alvian turned her attention toward Katrina.
"Lady Velmire, how is your daughter, Lady Jenessa?" she asked, taking a sip of her wine.
Though the question seemed innocent, the true purpose was clear to everyone. She wasn't asking after Jenessa's health, she was fishing for information. The real reason she asked was to find out what Jenessa had been up to lately, basically, whether she had done anything impressive like Lord Quentin. It wasn't a friendly question; she was clearly trying to compare the two. Every woman present understood the implication. They were far too well-educated not to notice such a common tactic among nobles.
Countess Velloren, irritated by the veiled jab toward her friend, tried to interject.
"Lady Alvian, I must ask—"
But her words were cut short by a gentle pat on the back from Katrina. Calmly, Katrina placed her teacup down. Her posture was so refined that it made the rest of the ladies look like novices in comparison.
"Lady Alvian, I apologize for being direct, but I will speak frankly," Katrina said in a graceful yet firm tone. "You're worried that placing your support behind the third wife of House Velmire was a mistake, and now you're seeking reassurance that my daughter is still a worthwhile investment, perhaps more so than the fourth wife's son, Lord Quentin."
Lady Alvian wasn't offended. Instead, she smiled.
"So what is your answer, then? Let's not pretend, we all support you and your daughter, but you hold no authority in House Velmire, and your daughter has already fallen out of favor with the Marquess," said Lady Alvian as she opened her fan. "So tell us, why should we continue supporting you? We aren't looking to betray you, but we represent our households. We value your kindness and friendship, but at the end of the day, we are wives with a duty to maintain our reputation and form connections with reputable houses."
Katrina chuckled softly.
"I understand that responsibility perfectly well. So let me say this clearly, if any of you feel the need to withdraw your support, please do so. I won't be offended."
The ladies fell silent.
"You are right. My daughter has been keeping a low profile, and I'll say this in advance, she has no intention of taking over House Velmire."
Lady Alvian's eyes narrowed slightly. "So?"
Katrina's eyes met hers, unwavering.
"She will surpass it. She will earn the title of Marquess under Duke Moonvale with her own strength."
A ripple of murmurs passed among the ladies.
"Is that even possible?" one of them whispered.
"Of course it is. It's still a secret from Marquess Velmire, but Jenessa is more than capable of leading a house of her own. And don't believe that nonsense about Lord Dorian and Lord Quentin capturing an Abyssian commander. That's impossible, only the Union's elite are capable of such feats."
"And how would you know that?"
Katrina grinned.
"I was going to keep this to myself a bit longer... but my daughter is part of the elite."
The murmurs of the ladies grew louder, drawing the attention of nearby nobles.
"Silence," Lady Alvian commanded the group.
"If you were planning to announce this later, that must mean it's still a secret for now."
"That's why I like you," Katrina said with a short laugh.
Lady Alvian sighed, already reconsidering the thought of pulling her support.
"You're reckless, revealing something like this at a public gathering. So if your daughter is part of the elite, then she must know the commander wasn't truly a commander of the Abyssians."
Katrina nodded. "Yes. It was a lie from the Union meant to calm the public. There was activity, but not a true threat."
"Hah. So even Lord Quentin and Lord Dorian were lied to?"
"Naturally."
"Bold of the Union."
"Well, their authority is second only to the Emperor's."
"You're right."
"Madam," a voice called softly.
Suddenly, the conversation was disrupted by a maid. A maid named Poppy.