The First Dance

"I can't even remember how long it's been since the imperial palace last held a ball."

"Hehe, now that Her Highness the Princess has returned, you'll be drowning in invitations before long."

"You really think so?"

"Ah, you're too young to remember, my lady. Back when Her Majesty the Empress was still with us, the palace held balls and events every season—so many you could scarcely attend them all. This season should be well worth looking forward to."

The young-looking lady couldn't hide her delight at those words. Listening in on their chatter, I gave a discreet nod of my own. They weren't wrong. For nearly a decade, the imperial family had hosted only the functions it absolutely could not skip. There were plenty of reasons, but the greatest was surely the Empress's absence.

Simply put, there was no one left to do the work.

The Emperor was buried in state affairs, and his one and only Crown Prince carried far too many disqualifications for playing host. He'd been too young before, and by the time he was old enough, his conduct left rather a lot to be desired. As if a good-for-nothing layabout throwing a ball on top of everything else wouldn't have cost him the crown itself.

"You could pour mountains of gold into the decorations, but with that fool standing at the center of it all, it would never come off right."

And now he was standing right beside me, talking out of his ass.

"I hear His Majesty won't be attending this evening?"

"Ah, his chronic illness has flared up again. It's about time he took some rest, really. Ha! Escorting royalty in such a disgraceful manner. If my father had witnessed it, he'd have fallen over backward."

At the center of the hall stood Rihard and Sasha. Contrary to Damon's sneering, Rihard was performing his duties admirably—which is to say, he was doing an excellent job of keeping the gnats away from Sasha.

"Tsk tsk. Missing his one chance to make the Marquis Frost's acquaintance. If I were that boy, I'd have slapped the count silly."

"Ah. Yes."

Offering a noncommittal murmur of agreement, I turned my gaze toward Marquis Frost. Since being eclipsed by Count Kindel, the marquis had been scrambling as though the ground were burning beneath his feet. Just as he was now.

"I hadn't realized the marquis was interested in Her Highness."

"Ah, he's grasping at whatever straws he can find."

Damon smirked. He seemed to delight in watching a marquis who'd fallen from his favor thrash about. He kept his eyes fixed on Rihard and Sasha for a long while after that, and when the moment came, he rose to his feet.

"I'd rather not, but a duty's a duty. Now then. If you feel my foot coming down on yours, Bella, do me the favor of falling over instead."

I glared at the hand he extended along with this advice-that-wasn't-advice for a long moment before taking it. It was time for the ball's opening number.

From the moment he'd laid eyes on the carriage bearing the crest of a blue serpent, every nerve in Rihard's body had been trained on it. His racing heart had turned cold the moment he heard Damon's voice.

Some might ask: is it truly possible to pick out a single voice from several meters away while dozens of carriages are discharging their passengers? Reach the realm of Aura, and you'll understand whether you want to or not. You'll learn that not hearing is far harder than hearing.

"Rihard? Why the terrifying expression?"

Rihard, who had been imagining tearing Damon's mouth apart, snapped back to his senses. Sasha was tilting her head up at him.

Oh no.

He chided himself briefly. He was here as Sasha's partner. He hadn't wanted to come, but having made the choice, he had to see it through properly. He couldn't let Sasha—who'd done nothing wrong—have her society debut ruined over his mood.

"...My apologies. I was lost in thought for a moment."

"Aw, there you go again. I told you to speak casually with me."

"We're at the palace. I'll refrain."

What Rihard had politely conveyed was: you're the Princess—how exactly am I supposed to drop formal speech in front of the entire nobility? Sasha pouted, but she came around soon enough.

"Ugh, this is so boring. His Majesty still doubts I'm really the Princess, and Damon is..."

Rihard had no trouble managing her grumbling. For all her grown body, Sasha was still a child at heart. Less a Princess concerned with thrones and succession than a young girl with shining eyes, marveling at the human world after more than a decade away. He soothed her, entered the hall at her side, and did his best not to let his gaze drift toward the second-floor railing until the first dance began.

It didn't take him long to realize all of it was futile.

"Wow, doesn't Bella look absolutely stunning?"

The first dance. The signal shot announcing the ball's opening, and the moment every eye in the room would be upon the floor. By the ball's stated purpose, it should have gone to Sasha—but since when had Damon ever yielded anything? And Sasha wasn't the type to fight over it either. Damon claiming the first dance was the natural outcome.

"That dress really does suit Bella perfectly."

At Sasha's prompting, Rihard forced himself to turn his head. A couple he couldn't have looked away from if he tried filled his vision. At the center of the hall, spinning in slow circles, was Isabella—and at her side, Damon. Beneath the chandeliers, in a dress glittering with dozens of captured lights, she smiled radiantly.

"Beautiful, isn't she?"

"...Yes."

Rihard couldn't tear his eyes from Isabella as she moved gracefully in Damon's hold. He didn't want to admit it, but she looked happy. Wearing a royal treasure that couldn't be priced in gold, with the most powerful man in the Empire holding her hand.

"Those two will end up married, won't they?"

"...A waste of a dukedom."

"Really? I thought they suited each other well. Oh, looks like Bella's saying something to Damon. His expression just turned sour."

Rihard hadn't missed that fleeting instant either. A cold shadow flickered across Damon's pleasantly smiling face. It was a look he knew all too well. But it passed quickly—Damon narrowed his eyes into a smile and tilted his head toward Isabella.

"Hm? Now Bella's the one looking upset. Do you think they're fighting?"

Sasha wore the expression of someone who'd caught not a whisper of what Damon had said. For an ordinary person, that was only natural. And Rihard was not an ordinary person. The only problem was that he'd been distracted talking with Sasha and hadn't heard what passed between them. Their lip movements alone were enough to guess at the conversation's content—but Isabella's mouth had been hidden behind Damon's arm.

Damon's, however, he hadn't missed.

Stripping of title.

It was more than enough to grasp the situation. Damon was threatening Isabella. With her title, no less.

Out of nowhere?

Lovers quarreled all the time. But her title? Far too heavy a subject for a mere lovers' spat. And not just any title—the revocation of a dukedom.

On what grounds?

House Belois ranked among the foremost noble families in the Empire. Setting everything else aside, the mere fact that the duchy's lands bordered the capital spoke volumes about its standing. And the Imperial Hunting Festival, held every social season on Belois soil? That said it all.

Just then, a violin sang out in a long, sustained note, announcing the piece's final movement. Damon and Isabella stepped apart as if nothing had happened and bowed to each other—though in Damon's case, it was barely more than a dip of the chin. The instant the courtesies ended, Isabella turned on her heel and vanished into the crowd.

Far from looking flustered, Damon wore the expression of a man who'd expected exactly this as he accepted a wine glass from a servant.

"Sasha."

"Hm?"

"Would you excuse me for a moment?"

"Oh, of course. I'll go ask Damon for a dance, so hurry along."

Should I tell her that ladies don't typically extend the invitation? Rihard considered it for a moment, then gave up. Isabella was the more pressing matter. With a curt nod, he set off in the direction she'd gone. Nobles kept stepping into his path, eager to strike up conversation, and he brushed past every one of them.

The rumor mill would surely churn out tales of the arrogant Count Winston by morning. He couldn't have cared less. Thanks to his rudeness, he hadn't missed the hem of a dress—glittering even in the faintest light—disappearing beyond the terrace.

And so, when he pushed open the terrace door just before the latch could click shut, Rihard saw it.

"You. Why are you crying?"

Isabella's tears, caught in the cascade of light spilling from the hall.