The murmurs stilled slightly as a girl stepped forward, dressed in soft robes of indigo stitched with forest vines. Her presence was unassuming, yet somehow vibrant, like dusk blooming between trees. Dark brown curls framed her face, and her green eyes, clear and inquisitive, seemed to drink in every detail without judgment. She looked younger than Argan, maybe sixteen.
She offered a gentle smile, and when she reached Acacia, her hand extended not with stiffness, but with familiarity, like someone greeting a kindred spirit. "It's nice to finally meet the girl everyone's been whispering about" a pause "Begonia woods"
"Begonia," Acacia echoed, the name oddly floral for someone who carried herself like a spring thunderstorm. "Thank you for the kindness."
Begonia grinned. "Oh, I haven't decided if I'm kind yet. But I am intrigued."
Begonia tilted her head, studying her.
"You don't carry the Ashcroft sharpness," she mused, voice barely above a whisper. "There's something softer in your eyes."
Acacia wasn't sure how to respond to that but she didn't look away.
Before the silence could stretch, another voice cut through it, low, clipped, and perfectly measured.
"She's a guest of House Ashcroft," said a young man stepping forward. "It's hardly appropriate to pick her apart at first glance."
He stood a pace behind Begonia. He wore a fitted coat of black and silver, his brown hair was trimmed close, his brown eyes unreadable, as if they had already weighed and judged the moment before arriving in it. Even his posture carried precision, shoulders squared, boots aligned, expression calm to the edge of cold.
"Myron Walter," he said with a nod. "Judiciary House."
Acacia inclined her head in return. "Lady Acacia."
"So I heard," he said. "Strange circumstances."
"Unclear ones," she replied.
For a moment, his gaze sharpened, not with suspicion, but with interest. He seemed to assess her words, turning them over like legal parchment.
"Unclear doesn't always mean dangerous," Begonia added, stepping half in front of him. Her tone was light, but there was something pointed beneath it. "Besides, I like her."
"You like all mysteries," Myron said, not looking at her. "Until they bite."
Begonia's mouth lifted in a smirk. "Better bitten than bored."
Acacia observed them, noting the faint pull between them, not affection yet, but something like awareness. An invisible tether. She wasn't sure they even noticed it themselves.
Dominic stepped forward, his tone cordial but with a firm edge. "Lord Walter. Lady Woods. Good to see the next generation of the Pillars well-acquainted."
Myron extended a hand. "Dominic. Always formal. Astor still tripping over dance shoes?"
Astor groaned. "One time, Walter. One time."
Begonia laughed. "That wasn't tripping. That was an attempt at aerial acrobatics."
"Not my fault you all insisted on spinning me like a doll," Astor muttered, cheeks pinking.
Woods placed a friendly hand on his shoulder. "You'll make a charming mess of diplomacy one day."
Dominic gave a small smirk. "If he survives court politics."
Just then, another figure stepped into view, taller than the others, poised like the hush before a breaking wave. His dark cloak swept the floor, trailing behind him like a shadow that didn't follow anyone… except him. Midnight-black hair skimmed the line of his collar, soft against sharp features. But it was his eyes, golden, steady, that caught her.
At first glance, they seemed still. Unmoved. But the longer Acacia met them, the more they pulled her in, like the silent gravity of deep water. They weren't cold, nor overtly curious… they were listening, somehow. Watching the parts of her even she hadn't found yet.
He didn't bow. And yet, there was no arrogance in it, just a quiet refusal to perform. Still, his presence struck the room like a dropped stone in calm waters. Clean. Controlled. Calculated.
"Seren Veltorin," he said.
He looked at her like she was a puzzle he already understood in part, like her existence didn't surprise him… only confirmed something he had long suspected.
Acacia couldn't look away. Something in her chest tightened, a breath catching before she realized it had even risen. Her fingers curled at her sides, knuckles brushing fabric. "Acacia," she said, but her voice came out softer than she intended.
Dominic shifted beside her, the tension in his frame subtle but unmistakable. Astor leaned closer, whispering with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes, "Veltorin gives me the creeps. Always has."
Seren's mouth curved, not quite a smile. Not quite anything. But it lingered. As if he'd heard. As if her name and her hesitation had already told him everything he needed to know.
"My lady," he said, voice low and smooth, like silk caught between fingers. "It's not often one meets someone who wears two names."
Acacia blinked. "Two?"
He stepped just slightly closer, never impolite, but enough to press the space between them. His golden eyes didn't waver.
"You carry the name Acacia," he said, "but your silence carries something else. A name that lives in the breath between memory and truth."
Her pulse quickened. Her body stayed still, but something within her shifted, tilted, toward the unknown weight in his words. Like a string had been plucked somewhere inside her that only he could hear.
Before she could answer, Begonia rolled her eyes and shoved lightly at his shoulder.
"He talks like that all the time. Ignore him."
"It's endearing," Myron muttered. "If you like riddles and graveyards."
Dominic gave a stiff nod. "Lord Veltorin. I didn't expect you to grace a social gathering."
Seren gave him a glance. "I go where the empire listens. And right now, it listens here."
Dominic frowned. Astor, however, grinned. "Well, if we're throwing riddles around, I hope someone brought a translator."
Myron smirked at that, and turned slightly to Dominic. "You've grown taller, Ashcroft. Still swing a sword like it owes you money?"
Dominic allowed a hint of a smile. "Still lecture like a magistrate, Walter?"
They clasped hands briefly, a soldier's handshake, firm and wordless.
Astor looked toward Begonia. "And you? Still talking in riddles and dragging Myron into forest hunts?"
"He loves it," Begonia said, though her eyes flitted briefly toward Myron. "He just pretends to hate adventure. It's his way of flirting."
Myron coughed. "You confuse endurance with affection."
She laughed and nudged him playfully. "Denial noted."
Acacia, silent amidst the banter, watched the dynamic unfold like pieces in motion. These weren't just children of power, they were people, layered, wound tightly in threads of loyalty, rivalry, unspoken care.
Then she noticed Seren again. He hadn't moved, hadn't spoken further, but his gaze had returned to her. As if he saw her not as the foundling girl from the forest, but something else entirely.
She looked away first.
A ripple of laughter passed through the hall, too shrill to be genuine, and somewhere near the dais, a minor noble stumbled through a curtsy. Acacia turned slightly, allowing the moment to shift, but not dissolve.
Dominic was the first to speak again. "We should move. The crowd's thickening."
Astor made a noise of reluctant agreement, already scanning for a path less congested.
"Unless we want to be swallowed whole by perfume and powdered wigs," Begonia muttered, wrinkling her nose.
"That sounds like an honorable death," Myron added dryly, "though I'd prefer to die in battle. Or tripping down those velvet stairs with a flute of wine in hand, something heroic."
That earned a few stifled laughs, Begonia rolled her eyes, Seren's expression didn't shift, but his eyes flicked to Myron with the faintest smirk, and even Acacia felt the knot in her chest loosen.
"Well, I suppose that would get you remembered," Dominic murmured.
"Infamously," Astor added.
"I take what I can get," Myron said with mock solemnity, then leaned slightly toward Begonia. "Besides, who else here can make a fall look that graceful?"
She elbowed him lightly, green eyes bright. "You're impossible."
Just then, footsteps approached, quiet, steady.
"I see I've returned to a far livelier gathering than when I left," said a familiar voice, smooth as still water.
Argan Seymour had rejoined them, he didn't look flustered, he rarely did, but there was a keenness in his gaze, like he'd measured each of them before deciding to re-enter their orbit.
Seren's eyes narrowed, though not unkindly. "You never do just 'walk' anywhere, Seymour."
"I like to keep things interesting," Argan replied, his eyes briefly meeting Acacia's. "Though I may have missed the punchline."
"You didn't," Myron said. "I am the punchline."
"That, at least, is consistent," Astor remarked.
Argan smiled faintly, then looked at Dominic. "May I?"
Dominic's mouth thinned, but Acacia, standing quietly at his side, gave a small nod before he could answer.
"Of course," she said softly.
Argan's attention shifted fully to her, just for a moment, but it was enough. The others might not have noticed the pause in his breath, but Seren did. His unreadable gaze lingered on the exchange, expression carved from quiet calculation.
Argan's presence, as usual, quieted the air without commanding it. He stood beside Acacia now, not too close, not too far, but with the kind of ease that unsettled more than it soothed. Acacia felt her thoughts stir again, though she couldn't quite place why. There was something disarming in the way his voice seemed to hum beneath her ribs.
Before she could dwell on it, another voice rang out, brighter, teasing.
"Let me guess, you lot are forming a secret council of overly serious young men and brooding heirs. Should I be worried?"
A girl was weaving her way through the cluster, her greenish-blue gown swirling with each step. She looked no older than fifteen, with wide, mischievous eyes and a braid laced with silver ribbon. Lyra Seymour was unmistakably Argan's sister, though her smile was far warmer and her manner more impulsive.
"Lyra," Argan said with a half-laugh, shaking his head. "Did you escape Aunt Celestine again?"
"She cornered me by the dessert table," Lyra huffed. "I had no choice but to vanish. Honestly, if she tells me one more time to keep my chin up and my skirt longer..."
"Tragic," Myron said solemnly. "You must've suffered terribly."
"I did. You're the only one who understands me, Myron."
"She says that to everyone," Begonia said with a smirk.
"And everyone falls for it," added Astor, grinning.
Then came another presence, less vibrant, but impossible to miss.
"Have I missed the introductions?"
They turned to see a girl stepping into the light, moved with the poised grace of someone raised under high expectations. Her dark hair was tied in a low ribbon, cascading sleekly over her shoulder. She had sharp, almond-shaped brown eyes, too observant for her age, and wore a deep midnight-blue gown with gold accents that mirrored her house colors. She was a year older than Lyra, there was a composed elegance in her stance, a quiet confidence that did not demand attention but certainly held it.
"Irene," Seren said, a subtle nod acknowledging her presence.
"Brother." She returned his nod before glancing toward Acacia. "And you must be Lady Acacia."
Acacia offered a light smile, noting how Irene's gaze flicked across the group, assessing, calculating, but not unkind. "Yes. It's nice to meet you."
Irene inclined her head. "My mother asked me to greet you on behalf of House Veltorin. I hope you've been treated kindly." A beat passed. "Court can be... overwhelming."
There was something refreshingly honest in her tone, and Acacia appreciated the candor.
Before Acacia could reply, Myron leaned in with a grin. "Don't let her formal tone fool you. Irene is just as terrifying as her brother."
"Only when I need to be," Irene replied dryly, arching a single brow at him.
"Exactly," Myron said, lifting his hands in mock surrender. "See?"
That earned a quiet laugh from others.
"I knew you'd all start without me," came a clear, slightly indignant voice.
A girl with bright hazel eyes and untamed curls stood before them, Sienna Woods, younger sister to Begonia. At fifteen, she carried herself with youthful confidence that hadn't yet been worn down by the weight of noble expectations. Her dress, embroidered with delicate violets, was more spirited than formal, and the flower pins tangled in her loose hair made her look like she'd run through a spring meadow rather than a palace corridor.
"Sienna" Begonia said with a soft sigh, though her eyes sparkled. "You're late."
"I was making an entrance," Sienna replied, lifting her chin with faux elegance before throwing a glance toward Myron. "And before you say it, I didn't get lost this time."
"Progress," Myron mused. "We'll have you navigating the imperial archives in no time."
Sienna pulled a face at him, then turned her attention to Acacia, studying her curiously.
"So… you're the mysterious Lady Acacia," she said, with a tilt of her head, then added "Nice to meet you".
"Nice to meet you as well," said Acacia.
Before another playful jab could be exchanged, a sudden shift rippled through the hall like a change in wind.
The music slowed.
The chandeliers shimmered as the crystals caught new angles of light.
The grand double doors of the Winter Court opened.
Then came the shimmer of golden trumpets.
A royal guard in silver livery stepped forward and declared the entrance of the Imperial Family, the hall bowed in reverence.