The entrance of the Empire's royal family was thunder and gold. Tumultuous applause rose like a storm, filling the ballroom with sound.
But applause is a curious thing. Who would cheer for the very bloodline that had broken your ancestors, that had forced your rulers to kneel beneath their gilded boots? No one. Not truly. And yet — we clapped. We clapped and shouted until our palms stung. I clapped too, and shame burned under my skin, though I smiled like the rest.
The Algeria line always bore the same mark: hair of gold, bright as coins under the sun. No matter how much common blood was poured into their veins, that radiance never dimmed. They called it divine. I called it convenient.
The Emperor's voice carried with the practiced ease of someone long used to obedience. He spoke of duty, of unity, of a future shining brighter than ever before. We listened, we nodded, and we smiled as if his platitudes were pearls of wisdom instead of the hollow clatter of promises never meant to be kept.
"It is no secret that I grow old," he declared, spreading his arms with solemn majesty. "The time has come for the next generation to usher this Empire into its golden dawn. I present to you the Crown Prince, Actaeon Algeria!"
The hall erupted again, thunderous and blind.
Prince Actaeon stepped forward, radiant in white and crimson, a cape sweeping behind him. He was everything a prince ought to be — handsome, poised, eyes gleaming with the assurance of someone who has never known denial. They called him the Empire's jewel, its pride, its perfection. Perhaps they were not wrong. Wealth and power do polish a man to brilliance, after all.
The king's words set his claim in stone.
The prince spoke next — something about honor, duty, leading the noblest, guiding the people. Blah, blah, blah. His voice was smooth, trained, yet empty. All political speeches are. Flowery promises, counterfeit compassion, and smiles sharpened to hide the fangs beneath.
And then the words I had expected fell, ringing like a gilded chain dropped at our feet.
"After tonight, invitations shall be delivered to all ladies worthy of standing beside me — to become not only my consort, but the mother of our Empire. On this very night, the Empress Selection begins!"
Cheers roared again, shaking the chandeliers.
I only felt tired.
When the dancing began in earnest, I slipped away, wandering the mansion's silent corridors until even my restlessness grew weary. The man I had come for was gone, the night soured with missed chances. I had no reason to linger.
"Did you enjoy the party, Princess?"
The voice was warm, familiar. A tall, middle-aged man waited by the doors, monocle glinting, the crest of House Silveria pinned proudly to his chest. Simon — steward, advisor, and more often than not, my keeper. His brown hair was threaded with grey, but his smile never dimmed.
"Not much," I admitted with a shrug.
"Not even a dance with some handsome lad?" He opened the carriage door for me, his tone teasing. "I heard the Crown Prince himself was in attendance."
"He was," I said lightly, accepting his hand as I climbed inside.
Simon raised his brows. "And?"
"And he was handsome." I smiled, the kind of smile that meant nothing and everything. "But so are paintings. At least paintings don't talk."
Simon chuckled, shutting the door.
I leaned back against the seat as the carriage jolted forward, staring out into the dark streets. The ball had been all glitter and applause, but for me, the night felt hollow. The flower I sought had vanished, and all that remained was the echo of cheers for a prince I did not want.