The towering golden doors of the Imperial Ballroom opened with thunderous elegance.
"Lady Asta Antioch of Antioch Highblood—"
A pause.
Then—
"—and Lord Azriah Antioch, heir to Antioch Highblood!"
The announcement echoed through crystal chandeliers, marble pillars, and the countless gathered nobles of Tamriel's highest society.
Silence descended instantly.
Every gaze turned.
Every whisper halted.
Even music seemed to soften.
Asta entered first—
radiant in her black enchanted gown, every movement embodying authority.
At her side—
Azriah walked with composed precision, dressed in royal blue noblewear, silver accents gleaming beneath imperial lights.
And over his eyes—
a pristine blue blindfold.
The mystery alone was enough to stir curiosity.
Whispers immediately spread.
"The heir…"
"Why is he blindfolded?"
"Was he injured?"
Azriah remained calm.
Through mana perception—
the room was brighter than sight itself.
Thousands of signatures.
Magic.
Emotion.
Political hostility.
Curiosity.
At the throne—
Emperor Elysium himself stood.
A rare honor.
"Lady Asta."
His tone was warm yet measured.
"It is good to see Antioch Highblood remains strong."
A pause.
"Is the main family faring well?"
Asta offered a graceful smile.
"We are doing excellently, Your Majesty."
A pause.
Then—
"You need not concern yourself regarding Idrila Highblood."
The room subtly sharpened.
Asta's voice remained calm.
"The current conflict shall not affect Tamriel."
Another pause.
"Nor the Elysium Empire."
Political reassurance.
Power.
A warning hidden as diplomacy.
Then—
the Emperor's gaze shifted toward Azriah.
More specifically—
his blindfold.
"Your son…"
A pause.
"His eyes?"
The room leaned in.
Asta answered effortlessly.
"An Antioch ocular rite."
Silence.
She continued calmly.
"All direct heirs undergo this surgical process."
A pause.
Then—
"It is necessary for future development."
That answer instantly quelled speculation.
Mostly.
Though it replaced concern with intrigue.
"Remarkable."
The Emperor smiled.
"Antioch traditions remain as mysterious as ever."
Neither Asta—
nor Azriah—
bowed.
The silence this caused was palpable.
Yet expected.
Antioch Highblood was ancient enough that formal submission remained… flexible.
Azriah simply inclined his head slightly.
"Your Majesty."
No weakness.
No apology.
Only acknowledgment.
Rather than offense—
the Emperor merely smiled.
"Excellent."
A pause.
Then—
"My daughter will be eager to meet you."
Azriah internally felt immediate dread.
"She is currently occupied with companions."
Another pause.
"But remain patient."
A knowing smile.
"She will join shortly."
'…This is rapidly becoming unfortunate.'
'You're sweating again.'
'For good reason.'
Soon—
Asta departed for political maneuvering.
Nobles quickly gravitated toward her influence.
And Azriah—
wisely—
moved toward a quieter corner.
Drink in hand.
Observing.
Planning.
Trying to survive aristocratic society.
Then—
came Lucien Auremont.
Young.
Smug.
Overconfident.
The eldest son of Count Auremont.
"Lord Azriah!"
His smile was polished.
Artificial.
"I am Lucien Auremont."
Azriah immediately recognized him.
'…Ah.'
'Problem?'
'Mildly irritating trash.'
Lucien's gaze deliberately lingered on the blindfold.
Then—
he smiled wider.
"Tell me…"
A pause.
"Does Antioch truly expect its heir to thrive…"
Another pause.
"…while disabled?"
Silence.
Lucien chuckled lightly.
"I suppose even great bloodlines eventually weaken."
A pause.
Then—
"Though perhaps blindfolds are fashionable now."
Sham sighed instantly.
'…And there it is.'
Azriah smiled pleasantly.
Dangerously so.
"Interesting."
Lucien, fatally, continued.
"Surely leadership requires sight."
A pause.
"Or has Antioch lowered standards?"
Silence.
Absolute.
Azriah took a slow sip of his drink.
Then—
without warning—
poured the entire contents directly over Lucien's head.
The ballroom froze.
Lucien gasped.
"Wha—?!"
Azriah immediately drove his foot into Lucien's shin.
Hard.
Calculated.
Precise.
Lucien collapsed to one knee instantly.
Humiliated.
Shocked.
Azriah leaned down slightly.
His smile remained elegant.
His voice—
deadly.
"My disability…"
A pause.
Then—
"Does not make me weak."
Another pause.
"It merely means…"
His tone sharpened.
"…you were foolish enough to mistake restraint for vulnerability."
Lucien trembled.
Azriah whispered colder still—
"My mother may tolerate lesser nobles."
A pause.
Then—
"I do not."
Lucien visibly paled.
Azriah's final whisper sent ice through him.
"Pray…"
Another pause.
"…that your life remains too insignificant for me to remember."
Then—
Azriah stepped away.
Perfectly composed.
As though nothing had happened.
The hall descended into utter silence.
And from afar—
Asta witnessed everything.
For the briefest moment—
pride flickered across her expression.
Subtle.
Yet unmistakable.
'…She approves.'
'Naturally.'
Azriah exited toward the imperial gardens.
Seeking distance.
Air.
Sanity.
But not before—
he was noticed.
From across the ballroom—
a pink-haired girl sat among noble companions.
Beautiful.
Refined.
Imperial.
One of her friends whispered excitedly—
"He's incredible."
A pause.
"Terrifying…"
Another.
"But incredible."
Yet the pink-haired girl said nothing.
She merely stared.
At the blindfolded heir.
At his retreating figure.
At the dangerous mystery he embodied.
Diana Elysium—
had officially become interested.