The grand banquet hall of the imperial palace shimmered with golden chandeliers, their soft glow illuminating the room filled with noblemen and ladies engaged in laughter, gossip, and calculated pleasantries. Tonight was a night of celebration—an occasion of great joy, for the Empress had once again remarried.


    Courtiers and aristocrats raised their crystal glasses, toasting to the prosperity of the empire, though beneath their smiles lay the same age-old schemes of power and ambition. The air was thick with the scent of wine, roasted meats, and fresh roses arranged in elaborate centerpieces across silk-covered tables.


    Among the lively crowd, however, one figure remained distinctly detached.


    Lazara Highbrook sat in an elegant black gown, her posture languid yet refined. Her deep black hair cascaded down her back like a midnight waterfall, framing a face sculpted with an ethereal beauty—delicate, yet sharp enough to draw blood. Long, curled lashes lowered over striking purple eyes, a rare and unmistakable mark of the Highbrook lineage. She sipped red wine in slow, deliberate motions, as if indulging in a personal reverie, untouched by the festivities around her.


    And yet, despite her apparent indifference, she was well aware of the gaze fixed upon her.


    Viscount Iidem watched from across the hall, stroking his neatly trimmed beard as his eyes lingered on the young lady. A man well into his middle years, he was of modest noble standing, having acquired wealth through shrewd trade and carefully cultivated alliances. But tonight, his ambitions stretched beyond business.


    Setting down his drink, he made his way toward Duke Highbrook, his approach careful, measured. He feigned an air of casual interest as he greeted the duke with the customary reverence due to a man of his station.


    "Duke Highbrook, it has been far too long," the viscount said, inclining his head respectfully.


    The duke, a broad-shouldered man with a commanding presence, turned toward him with a polite smile. "Ah, Viscount Iidem. Indeed, it has. How fares your son? The last time we spoke, he had just entered the Academy."


    The viscount chuckled. "Oh, he is well. Headstrong, but promising. Much like your own children, I imagine."


    The duke hummed, swirling his drink. "Indeed. They are a source of both pride and endless headaches."


    "A father’s burden, no doubt." The viscount''s gaze flickered once more toward Lazara, and then he spoke, his voice tinged with casual curiosity. "Speaking of which, your daughter has blossomed into quite the remarkable young woman. Truly, a beauty unparalleled."


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    The duke let out a deep laugh. "That she is. A handful, but undeniably well-bred."


    "And yet, I have heard she has turned down several promising suitors," the viscount mused, shaking his head in mock disapproval. "The heir of House Ashendus and even the son of Duke Debless… remarkable prospects, and yet she remains unwed. Surely, you must be concerned."


    The duke''s smile remained, but there was a glint in his eyes, sharp as a blade. "You are quite the perceptive man, Viscount."


    Iidem bowed his head modestly. "I only seek to offer my assistance, Your Grace. If she remains without a match, might I be so bold as to suggest an alternative?"


    The duke raised a brow, taking a slow sip of his wine. "Oh?"


    "As you know, I am widowed. A man of experience and stability. Perhaps a younger suitor does not suit her tastes, but an older gentleman of means and influence might be… preferable."


    There was a moment of silence between them. Then, the duke chuckled, shaking his head. "You flatter yourself, Viscount."


    "I merely speak plainly, Duke Highbrook," Iidem said smoothly, a practiced smile on his lips. "It is a rare opportunity to unite two houses of considerable wealth and influence."


    The duke hummed in thought before turning his head toward his daughter. "Lazara," he called.


    She had seen the viscount approaching her father. She had watched the way his eyes lingered on her, like a merchant inspecting fine jewelry. So when her father called for her, she already knew what this was about.


    Setting down her glass, she rose gracefully, her black gown whispering against the marble floor as she crossed the room.


    "Yes, Father?" she said, her voice as smooth as silk, as distant as the moon.


    For a fleeting moment, the duke analyzed to see what the Viscount saw in her, but indeed she was beautiful. Even her voice was refined, carrying a quiet, almost haunting elegance.


    "This is Viscount Iidem," he said, gesturing toward the man. "He has done considerable business with our house this past year. Introduce yourself."


    Lazara turned toward the viscount and, with a slow blink of her violet eyes, dipped into the standard curtsy of the empire.


    "It is an honor, Viscount," she said, her voice perfectly measured, betraying nothing.


    The viscount’s lips curled in approval. "Please, young miss, no need for such formalities."


    The duke wasted no time. "The viscount has expressed interest in marriage."


    For the briefest second, Lazara’s eyes widened before she lowered them again. Her fingers twitched slightly, hidden beneath the fabric of her gown.


    "I see," she said.


    The viscount took a step closer. "I understand you have been dissatisfied with the young men of your generation, Miss Lazara. Perhaps an older gentleman, with experience and wisdom, would be better suited to your tastes."


    A wave of cold disgust swelled in her throat. She could feel her father''s gaze pressing down on her, expectant, demanding. She knew what he wanted her to say. She knew why.


    Her thumb pressed into the flesh of her palm, nails digging in deep.


    Just as she opened her mouth to respond, her mind racing with a thousand different ways to kill the man in front of her—


    A splash of red liquid hit the floor.


    Silence fell.


    The viscount let out a stunned gasp as warm wine dripped down his balding head, staining the fine silk of his garments.


    And standing before him, with a wine glass lazily tilted in one hand, was a boy—no, a young man, not even past adolescence, yet carrying himself with the ease of one who owned the world.


    He was shorter than Lazara by perhaps half a head, yet his presence was undeniable. His golden hair, soft and gleaming like spun silk, framed a face of almost ethereal perfection. And his eyes—pale yellow, like molten sunlight—were unmistakable.


    Those eyes existed only within one bloodline.


    The imperial bloodline.


    With an amused smirk, he turned his gaze from the sputtering viscount to Lazara, tilting his head slightly as if inspecting a rare jewel.


    Then, with a voice laced with both mischief and interest, he spoke:


    "You’re quite pretty."