She stepped into the grand hallway, and the sound of conversation thinned.
Luna noticed it only because the air seemed to change, voices dipping, bodies straightening, and eyes turning before they could stop themselves. She slowed, unsure if she had done something wrong, then continued.
Luna was delicately built, her presence gentle but unmistakable. Her silver hair was simply drawn back, framing her youthful face with soft symmetry: a small, refined nose, lips curved naturally into a quiet smile, and eyes the colour of unnatural, clear silver. The smile wasn't practised. It never was. It came when she looked at people, and it stayed even when they didn't return it.
She was almost sixteen by the Empire's calendar, and though she did not think of herself as anything more than the daughter and heir-apparent of House Whiterock, that couldn't possibly warrant the reaction she received from the gathering crowd.
Luna walked the long white hall towards the throne-room gates, polished stone reflecting the light so cleanly it felt unreal. The path split the gathered nobility in two, but here, in her home, they were simply people.
She smiled.
Some returned it quickly, almost desperately. Others bowed too deeply. A few turned away.
She had been taught that a smile could disarm people, could make them feel seen. She didn't need to be imposing or cruel. That was the role of her shadow, a wizened old man in polished black armour, olive skin weathered by the years, hair and beard white as ash.
Avraham Darkflame.
Once an Inquisitor. Now, her mentor, protector, and the most constant companion she had since birth.
She never had to look for him. He was simply always there, whether her senses could identify him or not, and sometimes, although Luna would never acknowledge it, it slightly creeped her out.
Her dress set her apart from the other nobles. Pure silver-white, high-necked and long-sleeved, richly embroidered but modest to the point of severity. No exposed skin. No indulgence. It had been her choice, encouraged gently by her mother and Avraham alike.
As she passed through the throne-room gates, the room beyond revealed itself: packed, heavy with power. If those outside shaped the empire, the families here decided whether they were allowed to do so.
The Fifteen Great Houses.
The reactions she got from this room were more familiar.
She moved among them, greeting with quiet respect, her smile unfaltering. Some nobles responded warmly. Others acknowledged her presence with expressions that did not quite reach their eyes. Whisperings were abundant, creating almost a buzzing mess for her ears.
The children were worse.
Many of those her age had once spoken to her freely. They had laughed with her, shared meals, whispered secrets. One by one, they had drifted away, some abruptly, others with rehearsed politeness.
She wasn't hurt. Only confused.
The Whiterocks occupied the most space in the hall. Her family. Too many faces. Too many shared features twisted into disciplined compliance. She was the most different; her Lunarian heritage overshadowed its Whiterock counterparts by quite a considerable margin.
She had many half-siblings. Most did not carry the Whiterock name.
She did.
That distinction had been granted at her birth, through Lady Luciana Lunaris Whiterock, the legitimate wife of the House's patriarch. Only two of her elder brothers shared that honour, and they had earned it through years of service and suffering.
She felt their eyes on her as she approached.
Avraham had tried explaining why they hated her. She was meant to understand it and use it. They had been raised under constant pressure, starved of affection, forced to prove their worth endlessly. She had not.
Ever since she had been old enough to understand, she had tried to make herself smaller around them. Kinder. Useful.
She liked to see herself as more like a shield for her siblings. Her actions seemed to infuriate her older siblings.
Avraham had taught her what it meant to be a sister, what it meant to be family.
She used to wonder why her father had never taught her that, or why none of the other kids were taught that. Looking at her family and that of other children she knew, what Avraham described was more like a mythical concept.
She greeted her younger siblings first, crouching, touching hands, offering quiet words. Their fear melted quickly, giving way to relief. They glanced nervously toward the empty throne and their attendants, then back to her as if checking whether it was safe.
She decided for them. Someone had to break down the barriers so earnestly held in place by her dear father.
She lifted her youngest sister, barely three, into her arms. The child clutched at her dress and hid her face, but her small fingers relaxed after a moment.
Luna carried her through the rest of the family.
The younger ones smiled. The older ones did not.
When she reached her eldest brother, Casius, he acknowledged her with the bare minimum, a nod that held no warmth.
She did not comment.
Her gaze drifted instead to her mother, seated beside the throne.
Lady Luciana watched her with a gentle smile that needed no performance. It was the same look she had worn since Luna's earliest memories; to a trained eye, it would be pride edged with something closer to concern.
Luna felt warmth bloom in her chest at the sight of her mother.
She crossed the remaining distance without a second thought.
"Welcome, daughter," her mother said softly. "And who have you brought with you?"
"Greetings, Mother. This... is Aria. She is my youngest sister." Luna adjusted the child slightly. "Can you say hello, Aria?"
Luna had once felt that her newfound attachment to her half-siblings would greatly upset her mother, because they were the clear signs of her father's infidelity. But much to Luna's joy, her mother encouraged her even in this regard, and she would even at times show a fraction of emotion when meeting Luna's half-sibling, which was the most she could really expect from her mother, because apparently, she did not have a welcoming reputation.
But what would people know? She was the person closest to her, and for her, she was a shining beacon of warmth and comfort.
"Duna," Aria murmured, then buried her face in Luna's chest.
Luna sighed lightly, stroking the child's back. "Apparently, I am now Duna."
Her mother's smile softened. "Endearing... But you should return her to her caretaker. Your father will arrive soon."
"If it is improper," Luna said gently, "perhaps it will encourage Father to finally notice me."
Her mother's expression tightened, just for a heartbeat.
"He might even scold me," Luna continued. "I would prefer that to his silence."
"Shush," her mother murmured, putting one finger on her lips. "Why? Am I no longer enough for you, child?"
"No! You are, of course, you are," Luna said quickly. Then quieter, "But he's my father... isn't he? If he despises me… why keep me where everyone can see?"
Her mother did not answer immediately.
"I would give the title to my brothers," Luna went on, her voice barely above a whisper. "At least then they would not hate me for it."
"Has anyone said anything to you?" her mother asked.
"No. I would almost prefer it if they had."
A sigh. "You care too deeply for such things, Luna. Sometimes I wonder if it would have been easier if you were more like your father."
Luna stiffened. "Have I angered you?"
"Not really, my dear. I don't think you ever could... " Her mother gestured gently. "That was not a challenge, Luna." Lady Whiterock smiled warmly at her once more.
"Now go. Return your sister to her attendants and take your rightful place by my side before your father arrives."
Luna resisted the urge to kiss her mother's cheek, thought better of it, and silently obeyed her command.
She had just handed Aria back to her caretaker when the room shifted.
Attendants straightened. Conversations ceased. Luna found it slightly comical how everyone's faces turned towards the far entrance of the throne room.
Luna did not need to turn and look; only her father could have attracted such attention from a room this privileged. The honourable host of this gathering had finally arrived.