The morning sun spilled golden light across the imperial hunting grounds, setting the dew-kissed grass aglow. What had once been a tranquil forest now stood transformed into a lively tent city, buzzing with layered chatter. Knights and servants hurried about while horses whinnied and armor clattered through the air.
Today marked the second day of Lucien's coming-of-age ceremony: the imperial hunt.
Inside one of the large, lavishly adorned tents, Lucien stood still as two maids fussed over his attire. When they finished their final adjustments, they curtsied and quietly withdrew.
Lucien flexed his gloved fingers. The leather creaked softly in response.
"Your Highness," Alfred's voice sounded from behind.
He turned to find Alfred holding a sheathed dagger. Lucien took it, sliding the weapon behind his back beneath his jacket.
"How is it?"
"The Duchess has agreed to make an appearance," Alfred reported evenly.
Lucien inclined his head. "Good."
Alfred hesitated, a faint crease furrowing his brow. "But, Your Highness… are you certain this plan will work—"
"Ahem!"
Kyle's deliberate cough cut through the air, drawing their attention to him near the tent entrance. A moment later, the flap parted, revealing Roseanne stepping inside. Several ladies-in-waiting trailed behind, their heads respectfully lowered.
The atmosphere shifted at once. All three men instinctively dipped their heads.
"Mother," Lucien greeted.
Alfred stepped aside as Roseanne approached; a warm smile graced her lips.
"I see you're already preparing for today's events," she said, cupping his face in her hands. Her thumb brushed gently across his cheek.
Lucien returned her smile. "Of course."
She nodded in satisfaction, then glanced toward the others. At her silent cue, they bowed and exited the tent.
As the tent flap fell shut, Roseanne released a slow sigh; the polished poise of the Empress melted away, faint weariness softening her features. "Come. There's something I wish to discuss."
She guided him to the couch, and once they were seated side by side, her hand came to rest gently atop his. "Have you heard the whisper?"
Lucien nodded. "I have. Alfred informed me." He clasped her hand. "Fear not, I've already made arrangements to address it."
Roseanne offered him a smile. "I know you might—" concern flickered across her features, "—but that's not the problem."
His brows knitted. "Pardon?"
She sighed, her fingers tightening around his. "The factions are already pushing for Lady Roschella's courtship."
Lucien studied his mother in silence. Whispers were expected, but he hadn't anticipated the Godfrey faction would act this swiftly. The fact that she was telling him herself only confirmed the mounting pressure she was under.
"Wouldn't there be political fallout?" Lucien asked.
There were four ducal houses in the empire: the Godfrey and Vazquez factions and two neutral ones, with the emperor serving as their axis. A union with the Ecklette household would tip that balance overnight. The remaining neutral faction would feel cornered, perhaps even isolated.
And isolation bred desperation.
"The Vazquez faction would see it as a direct threat," Lucien thought aloud. "If they sense their influence slipping, they won't hesitate to seek allies beyond our borders. In the worst case, it could spiral into open conflict."
And once that began, the cracks would spread far beyond anyone's control.
Roseanne exhaled. "Exactly as I warned them. But my son, they don't need a wedding tomorrow. All it takes is planting the idea—once the court latches onto it, pressure grows on its own…"
Lucien's jaw tightened. And that was one of many reasons he despised court politics. Everyone was always a piece on someone else's board.
…Was there a way out of this factional web?
He doubted it. But there had to be.
"I'll speak with Duke Ecklette to clear any misunderstanding before it festers," Lucien replied at last. "I'll also be seen with the foreign princesses. If the court wants rumors, they'll have too many to cling to just one."
Her hand cupped his face, her voice softening. "Be careful. Rumors may serve you now, but no one controls where they land. And tread lightly with Duke Ecklette—he may be neutral, but he's no fool."
Lucien nodded. "I understand."
A brief silence passed before she continued. "I'll speak to the faction. It may not dissuade them, but it should buy us time."
Lucien inclined his head. "Thank you, Mother."
"Your Majesty, Your Highness, your presence is requested," a voice called from outside the tent.
Roseanne glanced at her son, the Empress's composure settling back over her features. "It's time. Shall we?"
Lucien returned her smile, offering his arm. "After you, Mother."
With quiet grace, she laid her hand upon his arm and stepped outside.
***
Lavender and freshly brewed tea perfumed the air, mingling with the earthy scent of pine and the coolness of morning dew. Beneath the white canopy of the ladies' pavilion, a soft breeze stirred silk parasols and teased the lace edges of elegant gowns.
Around a polished round table laid with tiered trays of confections and delicate china, a dozen noble ladies sat with embroidery hoops resting lightly on their laps. While the hunt was a gentleman's affair, decorum dictated that the ladies remain behind, embroidering patience until the men returned.
Roschella kept her head bowed over her work, silver thread sliding smoothly through lavender silk.
"Oh my, yours is already finished?" a voice exclaimed. "So quick!"
Roschella's needle stilled mid-stitch. She lifted her gaze just enough to see the table ripple with amused whispers.
The lady in question smiled. "My father used to say, if one's intentions are pure, one stitches with confidence."
A wave of delicate laughter followed.
When the lady's eyes landed on Roschella, she offered her a warm smile. "Such fine stitching, Lady Roschella. It must be intended for someone… rather distinguished?"
The table quieted. All eyes turned her way.
But before Roschella could answer, the lady gave a soft gasp. "Oh my." She fluttered her fan with feigned modesty. "I shouldn't have asked. It's rather obvious, isn't it?" Her knowing gaze swept the table.
"Indeed," an amused voice chimed in. "Last night's quadrille was… indelible."
Laughter swirled once again. Ever since her dance with the prince, Roschella's name had been on every whispering tongue.
Unfazed, Roschella returned a smile. "You're quite right, Baroness. This is for a distinguished figure. He is…" Her fingers brushed her cheek in mock shyness, lashes lowering just so. "…my father."
"Oh?" The baroness blinked, her serene smile cracking. "How dutiful. I suppose not all of us are so quick to embroider sentiment into scandal."
Another lady hummed. "Still, I hear Duke Ecklette has grown rather intent on keeping his daughter far from unnecessary attention."
"Ah, but that is the burden of beauty and good breeding," a countess drawled, taking a sip of tea. "Even the quietest steps echo in court."
More laughter. Light, lilting, just sharp enough to draw blood if one listened closely.
"Indeed." Roschella set aside her embroidery and reached for her teacup, the porcelain cool against her fingertips. She took a slow sip before continuing, "One must be careful, then, not to trip over an echo."
And just like that, the laughter died in their throats. Smiles flattened to thin lines as their gazes fixed on her. Enjoying the silence, Roschella took a deliberate sip.
Recovering first, the baroness let out a tinkling laugh. "Oh dear, I hope we haven't upset you—it was all in good humor, of course."
Roschella lowered her teacup. "You needn't worry. I find that good humor often reveals more than it hides."
The baroness coughed lightly and raised her teacup. Like iron filings drawn to a magnet, the others followed suit, the air brittle with restraint.
"That reminds me," one of them said airily, "who do you think will win the hunting games?"
As the conversation shifted, Roschella took a quiet sip—but a shadow fell across her. She looked up to find a middle-aged woman with chestnut hair, her cold amber eyes fixed unerringly on her.
The Duchess of Ecklette.
"Roschella," she said. "Walk with me."
It was not a request. From that tone alone, Roschella knew whatever was coming would not be pleasant.
Setting down her teacup, she rose to her feet. "Of course, Mother."
Without a backward glance, she followed her out of the pavilion. The light clink of china and hushed murmurs faded behind her, though the weight of every watching eye did not.
They stepped beyond the canopy's shade, the cool morning air brushing against Roschella's cheeks. Only when they were far enough from the others did her mother finally speak.
"Once this misunderstanding is settled," the Duchess said coolly without slowing her stride, "you are not to speak with the prince beyond what courtesy requires. A greeting—and nothing more."
Roschella's fingers tightened around the folds of her skirt before she inclined her head. "Yes, Mother."
Perhaps love was never meant for a noblewoman.
"Do not mistake lenience for approval, Roschella." Her mother turned, blocking her path. The Duchess's dark figure stood rigid beneath the morning light, her sharp amber eyes pinning Roschella in place. "You may think you've handled yourself well, but remember: your actions nearly dragged this family into a power struggle we never sought."
Roschella lowered her gaze to the dew-kissed grass beneath her shoes. "I've… apologized, and reflected."
"And do you think apologizing twice will untangle what's already been whispered through half the noble court?"
Roschella's lips pressed into a thin line.
The Duchess let out a sharp sigh. "Your father has worked tirelessly to keep the Ecklette name above factional politics. I will not see that undone by idle tongues."
"Of course."
The Duchess turned on her heel and continued walking.
Roschella watched her mother's back in silence, her thoughts drifting to the night of the dance—the brief warmth of his hand against hers, the steadiness in his gaze. For a fleeting moment, her heart had fluttered. Foolishly so.
Pushing the thoughts aside, Roschella followed after her mother.