The banquet hosted by Marchioness Diana Montrose was held within one of the grand ceremonial halls of the palace a chamber vast enough to swallow whispers and return them softened in gold.
From above, crystal chandeliers scattered warm light across polished marble floors, their glow catching upon gilt moldings and towering ivory columns trimmed in gold leaf. The walls rose high and regal,long banquet tables stretched in perfect symmetry, draped in white linen so pristine it seemed untouched by mortal hands. Upon them gleamed silver platters, crystal goblets, tiered trays of sugared delicacies, roasted meats glazed in honey and herbs, polished fruits arranged like still life paintings, and candelabras whose flames trembled gently in the circulating air. Round tables were arranged nearer the center, each surrounded by red velvet chairs with gilded frames.
Nobles drifted through the hall like moving silhouettes cast by candlelight silks whispering, jewels glinting, fans fluttering discreetly. Conversations hummed low and refined, laughter carefully measured, glances sharper than daggers hidden beneath lace gloves.
In the center of this power play sat the Empress Dowager, the undisputed sun around which this dangerous system orbited. To her immediate right was Empress Isabella, and beside her sat Marchioness Ophelia Calvane. Completing that side of the table were Duchess Ruhina Sidereon and Duchess Grace Tacitus, their presence adding the heavy weight of the Empire's founding bloodlines.
On the Dowager's left, the arrangement became far more interesting. Marchioness Diana Montrose took the seat of honor next to the Dowager, followed immediately by Lethia Calvane. To Lethia's other side sat Valencia Montrose, Diana's daughter, acting as a buffer of sorts.
Lethia had been dragged into this inner circle by the Empress Dowager, despite her desire to be anywhere else.
Ophelia and Lethia were seated directly across from one another. She periodically leveled a lethal glance at Lethia, her eyes sharp enough to draw blood. She loathed that this "stain" on the nobility was breathing the same air as them, let alone sitting at the high table. But Ophelia remained frozen; the Dowager's obvious fondness for Lethia was an invisible shield that no one dared to pierce.
Lethia, for her part, remained utterly indifferent. She leaned back slightly, her expression one of bored elegance. She didn't care for the prestige of the seat, nor the poisonous stares from others.
Meanwhile, at a separate cluster of tables in the opposite corner, the younger generation of high nobility gathered. Catherine Calvane, Ophelia's daughter, and Seraphine Sidereon, Ruhina's daughter, sat surrounded by a flock of other noble ladies. Their gazes frequently drifted toward the high table, whispering behind lace fans about the unprecedented sight of Lethia sitting amongst the "Goddesses" of the Empire.
"You look terribly bored, Lethia," the Dowager remarked, her voice cutting through the clink of silverware.
"Is the company of two Empresses and a Marchioness not enough to stir your spirits? Or is it the soup? It is a bit bland today, isn't it, Diana?"
Marchioness Diana Montrose, ever the poised host, didn't miss a beat as she sipped her wine. "My apologies, Your Majesty. I shall have the chef's head on a silver platter for the second course if it pleases you." She glanced at Lethia with a dry, knowing smirk. "Though I suspect Lady Lethia's mind is still wandering through the palace gardens."
Lethia finally looked up. She took a slow sip of her water, her expression as calm as a frozen lake.
"The garden was indeed... enlightening, Marchioness," Lethia replied smoothly. "Though I found myself quite occupied with the book her majesty left in the garden... It was really interesting. I never realized our ancestors were so... flexible in their diplomatic relations."
The Dowager froze for a split second, her spoon halfway to her mouth.
Diana, who clearly knew exactly which book Lethia was talking about, nearly choked on her wine, covering her mouth with a lace handkerchief just in time.
The Dowager slowly lowered her spoon, a flush of genuine, wicked amusement coloring her cheeks. She shot Lethia a look that was half impressed and half warning. "You little brat," she murmured under her breath, her lips twitching into a wide, unrepentant grin. "I suppose I should be more careful about where I leave my studies.'"
"Oh, please don't," Lethia countered with a meticulous, innocent smile. "I haven't finished the chapter on 'International Positions' yet. I'd hate for my education to be cut short."
The Dowager burst into a fit of laughter a sound so unexpected and hearty that the entire hall went silent. Ophelia Calvane gripped her fan so hard it creaked, looking absolutely baffled.
As the final course was cleared and the heavy silver platters were whisked away, the formal atmosphere of the banquet shifted into something more fluid. The Empress Dowager rose from her seat, signaling the end of the meal. In accordance with the tradition of the Imperial Court, the high ranking authorities separated from the younger crowd.
The Empress Dowager, Empress Isabella, and the senior ladies withdrew to the private drawing rooms. There, amidst the scent of imported tea, they would spend the evening dissecting the day's politics and the upcoming hunt.
The younger generation, however, was left to their own devices. With the "Goddesses" of the court gone, the tension in the main hall evaporated, replaced by the upbeat tempo of a string orchestra tuning their instruments in the gallery above. The massive doors to the ballroom were thrown open, inviting the young lords and ladies to enjoy the night's ball. It was a time for dancing, reckless gambling at the card tables, and the kind of whispered romances that the elders would only hear about as gossip the following morning.
Lethia stood near one of the fluted marble pillars at the edge of the ballroom, the lively music of the orchestra feeling a world away from her current mood. Serena leaned in close, fanning herself vigorously as she let out a long, dramatic sigh of relief.
"I swear, Lethia," Serena whispered, "just watching you sit at that table with them, gave me indigestion. I don't know how you managed to swallow a single bite while sitting with a Marchioness and the Empress Dowager."
Lethia adjusted her gloves, her expression unreadable.
"I didn't eat much," she replied dryly. "Certain faces have a way of killing one's appetite more effectively than poison."
Her gaze drifted toward the empty seats at the high table. For a fleeting second, a thought pierced through her cold exterior.
If Mother were alive today, she would be sitting there, right at the center...
But she caught the thought and crushed it before it could take root.
The moment of quiet was shattered as a rustle of silk approached. Catherine Calvane led the way, the spitting image of her mother, Ophelia, with her fiery red hair and sharp hazel eyes. Following close behind was Seraphine Sidereon. Unlike the Calvane girl, Seraphine possessed the striking blonde hair and amber eyes of the Sidereon bloodline the exact same shade as Serik's. Seeing those eyes for a moment brought back the memory of his smile in the garden, a warmth she quickly suppressed.
Catherine stopped a few feet away, her lip curling in a practiced sneer. "Lady Lethia Lorvil... or should I say, Lady Calvane?"
She let out a sharp, disgusting laugh that drew the attention of nearby guests. "Forgive me, sister, I simply don't know how to address you anymore. The lineage is so... muddled, isn't it?"
Seraphine stepped forward, her amber eyes cold as she looked at Lethia as if she were a blemish on the ivory floor. "It isn't your fault, Cathy, if you don't know how to address them," Seraphine added, her voice dripping with fake pity. "Some lineages are like weeds they manage to grow even in the most refined gardens, choking the life out of the true flowers. You cannot expect a weed to have a proper name."
Lethia didn't flinch. Instead, she leaned back against the marble pillar, slowly crossing her arms. She took her time, her "dead" eyes traveling from the top of Catherine's head down to her hemline and back up, as if she were inspecting a particularly dull piece of furniture.
A cruel, razor thin smile finally touched her lips.
"Instead of wasting your breath on me, Catherine," Lethia said, her lips curling into a cold, pitying smirk, "I suggest you focus on yourself and find a suitable partner quickly. It would be a tragedy if you found yourself with so few options that you had to resort to stealing someone else's husband... just like a certain woman we both know."
Catherine's face turned a violent shade of crimson, her hazel eyes bulging with a mixture of shock and pure, hatred. The air around the pillar felt like it was ionizing, charged with the electricity of a scandal about to break
The silence that followed was absolute.
The jab at Ophelia's history how she had crawled between Lethia's parents was a strike to the jugular. Catherine looked as if she had been physically slapped, her jaw tightened, and her hand trembled at her side. Even Seraphine stepped back, the "weed" metaphor forgotten as the raw, ugly truth of the Calvane family's was dragged into the golden light of the ballroom.
Lethia turned her gaze to Seraphine, her eyes narrowing.
"A weed?" Lethia's voice was low, carrying a terrifying stillness. "If I am a weed, Lady Catherine, then I suppose I am a proof to your aunt's failure. She spent years trying to garden me out of existence, yet here I am sitting at a table you weren't even invited to touch."
She continued, "If you truly wish to discuss 'refined gardens,' perhaps you should check your own roots. I hear the soil in the Sidereon estate is getting quite thin these days. It would be a shame if the 'true flowers' withered away while the weeds... well, we weeds are famously difficult to kill."
Lethia stepped closer, her shadow falling over them both. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I find that standing near you two is even more taxing for my digestion than the banquet was. The stench of desperation is quite overwhelming."
The ballroom, which had been a sea of melodic chatter and swaying silk, suddenly felt as cold as the night outside. Catherine stood there, her head bowed, her entire frame vibrating with a rage so intense it looked painful. Seraphine's grip on Catherine's arm tightened, her knuckles turning white, sensing that she was about to cross a line from which there was no return.
Catherine searched her mind, scrambling for a weapon, any word, any memory that could pierce Lethia's icy armor. Then, a jagged, cruel realization lit up her hazel eyes.
She spun around, a wicked smile tearing across her face.
"You deserved it!" Catherine screamed, her voice cutting through the orchestra's violins like a serrated blade.
The sound was so loud, so violent, that the music faltered and then died away entirely. Lethia stopped in her tracks. She didn't flinch, but she slowly turned her head to look back at Catherine.
Catherine saw the flicker of stillness in Lethia and felt a surge of triumph. She believed she had finally found the nerve, the one aching vein that would make the stoic Lethia bleed.
"You truly believe you belong among us?" Catherine asked with a shrill, hysterical laugh. "Just because her majesty keeps you like a mangy pet? No, Lethia."
"You deserved to be ruined, and you deserved to be left in the dirt like the trash you are! To any pure man, you are nothing but used refuse that doesn't even deserve to cross a threshold. You should have died that day, Lethia. At least then, your family would have had a grave to weep over, instead of a living, breathing embarrassment like you!"
The words hung in the air, heavy and poisonous. A silence followed so heavy it felt physical descended upon the ballroom. Nobles covered their mouths in horror; even in the cutthroat world of the Imperial Court, this was a sub human level of cruelty.
Lethia's eyes remained hollow utterly void of the tears Catherine so desperately wanted to see. She noticed even Seraphine flinch away.
Catherine stood panting, her face twisted with a sick sense of victory, waiting for Lethia to break or to flee in shame.
But Lethia didn't move.
A slow, chilling smirk spread across Lethia's lips a look of pure, detached pity. She looked at Catherine as if she were a child throwing a tantrum in the mud.
How remarkably stupid, Lethia Thought.
To pull a trigger you don't realize is pointed at your own head.
At that moment, Serena's voice tore through the ballroom like a thunderclap, vibrating with a protective fury that silenced even the murmurs in the back of the hall.
"How dare you!" Serena stepped forward, her silk skirts swishing aggressively against the marble.
Lethia's eyebrows arched in genuine surprise. She had always known Serena was loyal, but she hadn't expected her to roar at the daughter of a Maquess in front of the entire Empire.
"You speak of Lady Lethia's honor being ruined," Serena hissed, her eyes blazing as she stared Catherine down. "But tell me, what does that say about your honor, Catherine Calvane? What kind of noble lady uses other's suffering as a social weapon?"
Catherine's smile faltered. She tried to speak, but Serena stepped closer, her voice rising in cold command.
"You think the world looks at Lady Lethia and sees someone impure. But right now, when I look at you, I see something far worse. I see a coward who has to dig up graves just to feel tall!"
The insult landed with the weight of an iron hammer. The word coward echoed off the gilded walls. Serena didn't stop there, she turned to the crowd, her gesture sweeping across the stunned nobles.
"Look at her! Look at the pure daughter of Marquess Calvane, mocking her own sister's suffering to hide her own insignificance. If this is what you call honor, then I would rather be ruined a thousand times over than be anything like you."
Catherine begins to back away as the guests start to pull their skirts aside, literally distancing themselves from her as if her cruelty were contagious.
The chaos of the ballroom seemed to fade into a dull hum for Lethia. She stood frozen, her eyes were locked onto Serena's trembling silhouette.
Lethia had spent five years perfecting her silence, turning her heart into a fortress of ice so that no word could ever pierce it again. But here was Serena, screaming at the world, her voice cracking with the very pain Lethia had refused to feel. It was as if Serena had reached into Lethia's soul and stolen back the voice she had lost years ago. To see someone else bleed with rage on her behalf.
Serena, her chest still heaving with fury, suddenly spun around. Her eyes were rimmed with red, her face flushed with a heat that could have melted the winter frost outside. Without waiting for a response from the stunned crowd or the trembling Catherine, she reached out and snatched Lethia's hand in a grip that was tight and protective.
"We are leaving," Serena hissed, though it was less a suggestion and more of a command.
She dragged Lethia toward the grand exit, her silk heels clicking sharply against the marble. As they burst through the doors and into the cooler air of the gallery, Serena began to mutter under her breath.
"Who does she think she is? That... that vulture! To speak like that... does she think being the daughter of a Marquees gives her the right to be a monster? I should have slapped the hazel right out of her eyes! If I ever see her again, I'll... "
Lethia let herself be pulled along, her hand resting small and quiet in Serena's fierce grasp. She didn't look back at the ballroom, nor did she look at the servants who scrambled out of their way. Instead, she watched the back of Serena's head, a soft, genuine smile.
What should I do with this silly girl?
Lethia thought, her heart feeling an unfamiliar, stubborn warmth.
She's going to get herself in a big trouble one day trying to save a ghost like me.