The silence in the Empress's antechamber was suffocating.
Duke Vernon Trimene sat rigidly on the velvet-lined bench, his gloved hands clenched atop his cane, knuckles paling. The scent of incense wafted from the nearby brazier — too sweet, too calm — a stark contrast to the storm roiling within him.
The Empress was making him wait.
"I came in courtesy," he thought bitterly, "and she keeps me waiting like a common solicitor. Is this how she repays loyalty?"
The untouched tea at his side had long gone cold. His grip tightened on the gold serpent head of his cane.
He had stood by the Farlan line when others wavered. His wife's blood tied him, however distantly, to the Empress herself. But now — this marriage, this disgrace — binding Trimene blood to the ashes of Ravenclive?
"A dying house. A cursed name. And my daughter, bartered like a pawn."
The insult clung to him like a stain.
The double doors opened with a groan.
"Her Majesty will see you now."
The Empress's private parlour was a room designed to disarm—lavishly feminine, with velvet chaise lounges and tall, arched windows that opened into a view of the palace rose gardens. But despite the soft golds and rose-pinks, the air inside was anything but gentle.
Duke Vernon Trimene stood before the Empress with barely concealed tension in his shoulders. A silver tray sat untouched between them, the tea cooling in its cup. Empress Elendra Farlan, seated on the cushioned bench with a silken shawl draped across her shoulders, observed him like a falcon watching a trembling hare.
"You requested a private audience," she said without looking up from the delicate book in her hand. "I do hope this conversation justifies the intrusion into my morning peace."
The Duke bowed stiffly. "Your Majesty… I come regarding the recent announcement. My daughter—Ariana—being given in marriage to Count Ravenclive… surely, this cannot be final."
She shut the book gently, placing it on a glass side table. "Bold of you to assume I had anything to do with it."
"But your majesty—House Trimene has stood by the Farlan line for decades. We have—"
"Reaped your rewards well," she interrupted, brushing a curl behind her ear. "The Batian trade route alone makes your house one of the wealthiest in the southern provinces. Let's not pretend you're owed anything further."
His jaw tightened. "Still, Ariana… she is not suited for such a posting. Ravenclare is remote, brutal. My daughter—"
"—is frail?" Elendra arched a brow, then let out a light, humorless laugh. "Ah yes, the same frail daughter you tried to marry off to the Duke of Kaeltons . Who is on brink of death and thrice-wived, if memory serves. Or was it the Alohara" king with a fondness for young brides, tucked away on some godforsaken rock in the Sea of Dust? And she was only eighteen then."
The Duke's face flushed red. "That was political necessity."
"No, Vernon," she said with sudden sharpness, "that was greed. And desperation."
"She is still unmarried," Elendra continued, rising at last from her seat. "Twenty-three, and still clinging to the title of 'Rose of the Capital'—though most now say it with a hint of irony. Do you know what people say of fading roses, Duke?"
He said nothing.
"They lose their fragrance… and their value."
He clenched his fists. "This union serves no one. The Count is a warhound with no prestige. His house is crumbling. His reputation worse."
The Empress rose from her seat and slowly approached the window, her gaze fixed on the rose garden below. "Perhaps. But Ravenclive is… useful. The Emperor sees something in him. I, too, have heard whispers. About his bloodline. His uncanny survival. His… eyes."
She turned, letting her gaze linger on the Duke. "You , Duke of Calvans Head of the House of Trimene, One of the founding Powers of the Empire…you must be familiar to the Original Prophecy, aren't you".
He faltered, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. "You think… he's one of those?"
"I think," she said calmly, "you would do well not to underestimate someone the Emperor has failed to kill. Multiple times."
Silence stretched between them.
"So don't whine, Vernon Trimene," she said, walking past him with the grace of a blade being drawn. "This is an opportunity. If your daughter cannot be a crown princess, then let her be something better. A pawn placed precisely where we need it."
She paused at the doorway. "You're good at using people. Use her."
And with that, she left him alone in the rose-tinted room, the scent of dying petals lingering in the air.
That same evening, beneath the shadowed archways of House Trimene, unrest brewed once more.
The grand study of House Trimene was cloaked in an uneasy stillness, broken only by the flick of wine in the Duke's goblet. The firelight flickered across his sharp features as he paced behind his desk.
Duke Vernon Trimene paced near the hearth, his expression thunderous. Lady Trimene reclined in a carved chair, eyes calm and lips curled in satisfaction. Xavier stood by the window, arms folded, gaze trained on the rose garden below.
"So," the Duke snapped, "the Empress has decided to wash her hands of us. Convenient. After all we've done."
"You sound surprised," Lady Trimene said dryly. "Surely you didn't expect sentiment from her."
Xavier turned, jaw tight. "Maybe because you two spent more effort groveling for political scraps than protecting Aria. Now she's sent off to marry someone she's never met."
The Duke shot him a glare. "Watch your tone."
"I will when you start acting like a father." Xavier stepped forward. "You wanted to marry her off to that decrepit southern duke — sixty, wasn't he? And then again to some prince from a dead island no one's even heard of. This is the first time she's not being sold for your ambition."
Lady Trimene laughed, unbothered. "Spare me your dramatics. If Ariana had even half the charm of my Casadey, she could've secured a crown years ago. But alas — all beauty, no influence."
Xavier's fists clenched. "You don't get to insult her. She's endured enough under this roof."
The Duke slammed a hand on the desk. "Enough! All I hear is whining. This family was once a pillar of the Empire. And now — a spineless son and a daughter who thinks obedience is a virtue! You've all failed me."
The doors creaked open.
Ariana stood there.
She was in no fine gown, no courtly mask—just a simple navy house dress, her hair undone, eyes tired and cold as winter steel, filled with tears of furry that she refuses to drop.
"How ironic," she said sternly. "You speak of spineless children, Father, but it is you who taught us silence. "You—who remarried before a month had passed since Mother's death. Who smiled at banquets while Daniel was lowered into the ground. You don't even remember his death anniversary. Do you?"
The room froze.
The Duke's mouth twitched.
Ariana stepped forward, her voice louder and steady but edged with years of buried pain.
"I did everything you asked of me. I smiled, bowed, played the perfect daughter in every hall, garden, and wretched political gathering. Even when you tried to sell me off to that lecherous ruler of Alohara — a distant land I'd never even seen — I stayed silent. But now that His Majesty decides my fate, your only concern is how it spoils your ambitions."
Her voice cracked slightly.
"I am not a token to traded off. And I am not the reason you've lost favor at court."
The Duke rose to his feet.
"You insolent—"
But Ariana didn't flinch. "I have bled in silence trying to be enough for you and it burns my heart knowing the fact that whatever I do, I will never be par with unrealistic Expectations of a power hungry Man who dares calls himself my Father. "
Slap.
The sound rang across the chamber like thunder. Xavier flinched. Lady Trimene gasped—but not out of sympathy. Amusement danced in her eyes.
Ariana stood still, her cheek red, her breathing quiet.
The Duke seethed. "You forget your place."
"You will return to your room," the Duke ordered coldly. "I've never been more ashamed of you."
Xavier stepped between them at last, his voice low but firm. "Enough."
Ariana turned on her heel and darted out of the room, the sting of her father's slap still burning on her cheek. Tears welled in her eyes, that she refused to let them fall—not here, not before him. She ran, not from hurt, but from the shame of letting a man who never cared see her bleed.
Xavier didn't hesitate—he was after her in an instant, the echo of their footsteps fading down the marble corridor.