{ Among royalty and the high nobility, presenting an ornately crafted weapon was considered a prestigious gesture for momentous occasions. Never intended for battle, such pieces symbolized honor, trust, and authority, and were displayed in palaces as works of craftsmanship rather than weapons of war.
When a new weapon was created, it was not uncommon for a finely crafted ceremonial replica to be made for presentation to the monarch. As the highest authority of the realm, the sovereign was often the first to be shown the weapon before it entered wider service. }
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Grace's gaze remained fixed on the weapon, quiet curiosity settling behind her eyes.
(So it uses sulfur... like cannons, muskets, and the old fire-lances. Yet this is something entirely different.)
Its form was strikingly compact, its craftsmanship refined to an almost unsettling degree.
(A weapon like this could change the course of a battlefield... or safeguard a throne with a single shot.)
Drawn by equal parts fascination and caution, she reached out to test its weight.
Before her fingertips could brush the polished metal, the lid snapped shut.
Dasmon had already returned the weapon to its velvet-lined box.
Grace blinked, caught off guard.
"My apologies, dear," Dasmon said smoothly—almost too smoothly. "A... complication has come up with it. I'll need to make a few final adjustments before I can give it to you."
He offered her an apologetic smile. "But since it was your birthday, I wanted you to see it, even if it isn't ready yet."
Grace's brows drew together, a hint of disappointment crossing her face.
"So I have to wait even longer?"
"Just one more day," Dasmon replied with a restrained smile. His voice remained calm, yet beneath its composure lingered something difficult to place—a strain that didn't belong. "Tomorrow... it will be yours."
For the briefest moment, his gaze lingered on the closed box.
"...No matter what."
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A moment later, Welfred returned with Rui and Ray. The instant they spotted Dasmon, both children brightened and hurried over to greet him.
"And how have my two little troublemakers been?" he asked with a warm smile.
"We've been great!" they answered almost at once, their voices overlapping.
Laughter soon filled the room as the three fell into easy conversation, happily catching up after their time apart.
Then Dasmon's attention drifted beyond the children to Welfred, who stood a short distance away, quietly observing the reunion with a gentle smile.
"Welfred," Dasmon called, beckoning him with a grin. "Why are you standing all the way over there? Come here."
Welfred hesitated only briefly before stepping forward.
Without another word, Dasmon drew him into a firm embrace. Welfred stiffened in surprise, then slowly returned the hug, his initial awkwardness giving way to quiet affection.
Dasmon straightened, resting a hand on Welfred's shoulder. The contrast between them was unmistakable—Dasmon's broad, muscular frame dwarfed Welfred, who stood noticeably slimmer and shorter beside him.
Dasmon carried himself with the effortless confidence of a man born into nobility. Beside him, Welfred seemed more reserved, almost self-conscious, his posture shaped by years of service rather than privilege. Though they bore the same title, the gulf between royal blood and a servant's upbringing remained quietly evident.
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After hours of greetings, speeches, and endless formalities, the imperial gala finally came to an end. At last came the part everyone had been anticipating—the grand feast reserved for royalty and the nobility.
"Finally," Rui groaned, clutching her stomach with exaggerated misery. "The rats in my stomach are starving."
Ray let out a snort. "Why would you keep rats in your stomach?"
Rui shot him a withering glare before turning to Grace, silently seeking an ally.
"Ray," Grace said, a faint smile touching her lips, "don't tease your sister."
"Okay," Ray said with a faint, sheepish smile. "Sorry."
As they made their way through the marble corridor toward the banquet hall, a palace servant approached and bowed deeply before Grace. There was a trace of hesitation in his expression, as though he weighed his words with care.
"Your Majesty," he said quietly, "I've come with a message from Lady Seraphine."
Grace came to a stop and gestured for Rui and Ray to continue ahead with Welfred and Dasmon.
"I shall join you shortly," Grace said. "Go on ahead without me."
Once they were out of earshot, she turned back to the servant.
"What is it?"
The servant lowered his head. "Lady Seraphine was called away on urgent business, Your Majesty."
Grace's brows furrowed. "She left... without telling me?"
"Heavens, no, Your Majesty," the servant replied apologetically. "She had every intention of speaking with you herself, but you were occupied preparing for the gala. I also tried to deliver the message earlier, but you were receiving guests, and I couldn't find a suitable moment to interrupt."
Grace folded her arms, a hint of displeasure crossing her face.
"Did she say what this urgent matter was?"
"I'm afraid not, Your Majesty," the servant replied. "She only instructed me to deliver the message to you."
Grace let out a quiet sigh.
(She didn't want Rui and Ray to worry... though they'll learn of it sooner or later.)
After a brief silence, she gave a small nod.
"Very well. You may go."
The servant bowed once more before quietly taking his leave down the corridor.
Grace remained where she was for a moment, her thoughts lingering.
(I didn't think much of her absence during the gala. Crowded halls were never to her liking. But leaving the palace altogether...? That's unlike her.)
A faint crease formed between her brows.
(The next time I see her... she's going to tell me exactly what's going on.)
By the time Grace reached the banquet hall, its towering arched doors stood open, spilling warm golden light into the corridor. Just outside, Rui, Ray, Welfred, and Dasmon were waiting for her, their formal attire gleaming beneath the glow of the chandeliers.
"There you are!" Dasmon called with a grin. "Come on—the food won't stay hot forever!"
The sternness faded from Grace's expression, replaced by a gentle smile.
"Alright," she said as she joined them. "Let's go."
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A royal vine carriage rolled away from the palace, its wheels rumbling steadily over the stone road. Twelve mounted guards rode in close formation around it.
Inside, Corvin sat rigid, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
"That insolent servant..." he muttered through gritted teeth. "He dared to speak back to me... to King Corvin."
His eyes darkened with resentment.
"It's because of Grace," he spat. "Had she not been the Imperial Queen, I would never have suffered such humiliation."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper.
"You'll pay, Grace Elenhart..."
"You'll pay."