Anwir came back inside the ballroom, his expression slick with trained professionalism even as he was still mentally bemoaning the annoyance of interrupted solitude. He found his way back to the place behind Selvaria, who practically just rolled her head in his direction, and uttered quietly but distinctly:
"Did you have your fun on your little break, Anwir?"
Anwir snapped himself to attention, catching Selvaria's gaze and offering the barest hint of deference. "Yes, Mistress. Thank you for permitting it."
Selvaria's eyes caught Anwir's for one uncomfortable moment, her visage frigid, as she leveled him with her casual evaluation. "Just don't get too accustomed with another. A Rosenthal blade is sharp, not meant to dull in strange company. You are with me, not roaming around under the guise of engaging with off target guests."
Anwir lowered his head, this answer came to him instinctively. "Understood Mistress. I will not make that mistake again."
Selene, who was standing just behind Selvaria, regarded the interplay with barely obscured relief. It felt as if she had been holding her breath, mentally navigating the fabrications to employ in the case that Selvaria picked up the exposition, and now she could softly exhale. The flicker of her gaze passed over to Anwir for a moment, reading his body language, and offering him a slight nod of agreement.
Anwir kept his expression neutral, but inside he was already resolving not to test Selvaria's patience again tonight. Punishment in this house isn't worth a few stolen minutes of normalcy, he thought. Best to keep my head down and my place clear-at least until the next crisis finds me.
Selvaria's attention returned to the swirling crowd, her mood steadied by Anwir's obedience and presence at her side. For now, the Rosenthal blade was exactly where it belonged-and Selene, for her part, was just glad she didn't have to invent any more wild stories to cover for him.
The pace of the celebration quickened, anticipation crackling in the air as the true titans of the Empire prepared to make their entrance. The orchestra's music swelled, and the herald's staff struck the marble, silencing conversation and drawing every eye toward the grand staircase.
House Kallenhart was first.
Aurianne Elodie Kallenhart joined in and took the lead, her golden hair blazing like a fireball under the chandeliers, her gown an illusion of martial grace, deep crimson and gold with well-placed accents closely resembling armor, as though the dress was an oath by a knight. She walked saturated in pride, each stride a challenge, her gaze picked through the crowd with the confidence of one born to command. And comporting himself as appropriately attached to her honor as possible, the Duke himself descended: a mountain of masculine pride-where his very being made persons around him keep their distances; this man radiated an iron discipline. His uniform was ceremonial, but the scars on his hands and the way he carried himself clashed with him wearing a uniform, as did the bleak determination in the set of his jaw. The Kallenhart servants came next, moving crisply in rank and file behind him with barriers of expressionless fury. They were like the Empire's shields tonight, and they were determined to make sure you didn't forget it.
The music shifted as the next family arrived.
House Malrec-the Family of Holy Arts-entered enveloped in a mantle of pale blue and silver. Lady Isolde Malrec, the matriarch of the House, stood serene and regal: all willowy create, her hair appeared as if flowing from a waterfall, silver with the bodacious embellishment of sapphire pins featured in various stages of partial obscurity, her eyes distant yet deep, compared only to prophecy. Her gown glimmered with embroidered runes and a vague aura of mana seemed to birth and trail behind her. The Malrec scions moved with elegant gravitas, expressions of contemplation, as if they heard music that no one else could hear. Whispers trailed them - of miracles, of visions, of hidden secrets caught in subtler light.
A hush fell as the next family appeared-a hush edged with danger.
House Veyran.
The family head, Lady Mirelle Veyran, was like a force of nature. She wore a gown of black silk draping her body like a lover, slashed high up the thigh and feathers black as her reputation, her neck and wrists adorned in jewels all ablaze in the light of the ballroom. Her lips were painted the deepest, darkest blood-red. The woman was dangerously beautiful, with an allure it was almost predatory, particularly the type of smile which always promised as much pleasure as risk. At Lady Veyran's side was her daughter. Although younger, she was a near-sexual echo of her mother's beauty but with a sharper, more lethal quality. Everything about her suggested blades hidden and silent steps. The Veyrans were assassins—a fact known throughout the nobility and one which struck even the stingiest of nobles with a slack palm of fear.
The crowd parted, conversation dying to a reverent murmur as the man of the hour appeared.
Duke Valen Rosenthal-the hero of the northern frontier, the man who had driven the barbarians back and claimed new lands for the Giant Sun Empire.
He stood tall and broad-shouldered, his hair iron-grey, his eyes a cold, piercing blue which seemed to size the world up and judge it in one glance. He wore black and crimson, the Rosenthal crest pickled in silver over his heart, and a heavy cloak lined in wolf fur draped over his shoulders.
With every step he took, purposeful and messy, he exhibited the swagger of a conqueror who expected the world to bow to him and listened to everyone in it. His hands, his jawline, the set to his mouth-all spoke of a man who had earned his worth in blood and fire.
As he strode in, the world seemed to tilt around him. Nobles flowing into adoration for him; courtiers intent on whispering of his presence. The weight of his glory circled the room as if applying a second gravity to the other occupants.
Selvaria straightened at his approach, her expression unreadable, but a flicker of pride lit in her eyes. Anwir, at her side, felt the pressure of legacy and expectation settle over him anew.
The heads of the great houses- Holy, Dark, and all the shadows between- were assembled at last. The Giant Sun Empire's future would be written in what followed: in the alliances struck, the rivalries reignited, and the secrets traded beneath the chandeliers' golden light.
Duke Valen Rosenthal paused at the top of the stairs, gaze sweeping the assembled nobility-Holy, Dark, and Neutral alike-until all conversation died. Even the heads of House Kallenhart and Malrec, draped in their ceremonial finery, turned to face him.
Valen's voice, when it came, was thunder made velvet. "Tonight, we gather not only to celebrate the Empire's triumph on the northern frontier, but to remember what true strength means. The Giant Sun Empire does not endure by prayer alone, nor by the empty rituals of faded glory. It endures by action. By blood. By the will to seize what others only dream of defending."
A ripple of unease passed through the Holy Families, but Valen pressed on, a faint smile curving his lips. "Let us not forget-when the Empire called for champions, it was the Rosenthal name that answered. It was our blades that broke the barbarian stronghold, our banners that now fly on land once lost to chaos."
He let the silence stretch, then turned, voice dropping to a near-murmur that somehow carried to every corner. "And yet, strength is not only measured on the battlefield. Tonight, even in our revelry, we see the truth of things. When a young master of the Holy Families-one groomed for greatness-can be bested by a Rosenthal butler who has not even completed his training… one must wonder what has become of the so-called pillars of faith."
A few nobles gasped. Marius Viridiel's face blanched, his jaw tightening in silent humiliation. The Dark Families-Veyran, Durmont-smiled behind their fans and goblets, their eyes glittering with satisfaction.
Lord Viridiel's knuckles whitened on his goblet. Beside him, a younger priest-mage leaned in, whispering something low and urgent—his eyes fixed on Selvaria.
"He rarely speaks... but when he does, kingdoms flinch," Selvaria said as she looked at her father with a bright glint in her eyes without knowing the dark gaze of Marius on her.
Valen's gaze swept the room, daring any to challenge him. "Let this be a lesson: power is not inherited. It is proven. Tonight, let the Empire remember not just who won the north, but who still holds the heart of its strength."
He raised his glass, the gesture both toast and challenge. "To victory. To the Empire. And to those who remind us that shadows, when wielded well, can eclipse even the brightest sun."
The hall erupted in applause-some genuine, some forced, all tinged with the knowledge that the Rosenthals had seized the night. Selvaria stood at her father's side, her chin high, her eyes cold and proud.
Anwir, silent in Selvaria's shadow. He had drawn no blade, spoken no words—and yet tonight, it was his shadow that lingered behind every toast and tremble.
The party resumed, but the air had changed. The dark families had claimed the floor, and the Holy Families could only watch as the Empire's future was rewritten, one subtle humiliation at a time.
This scene gives Duke Valen a commanding, dramatic presence and uses Anwir's victory as a sharp, public jab at the Holy Families, all while keeping Selvaria and Anwir central to the moment.