"Lady Anastasia of the house of welwod, and lady Isabella of the house of mantubell."
The herald's voice rang clear across the garden as he announced the guests in measured pairs.
"Lady Sofia of the House of Gelsom, and Lady Diana of the House of Zavattari."
"Lady Octavia of the House of De La Rosa, and Lady Matilda of the House of Canavaro."
As the final name was announced the voice of the herald sized and vanished into the faint darkness of the ivy-clad arches.giving room for the ladies to make their practiced entrance .
Different scents of perfume overshadowed the natural fragrance of the flowers as the noble ladies approached the gazebo, their presence felt before they were fully seen. Rosewater and jasmine lingered in the warm afternoon air, heavier than the soft sweetness of blossoms stirred by a passing breeze.
Sunlight caught on fine silks and embroidered hems, drawing out shades of ivory, sapphire, blush, and deep wine. Jewels glimmered subtly rather than shone, set neatly at throats and wrists, while hair was arranged in careful braids and pinned curls, untouched by a single stray strand. Their steps were measured, their posture impeccable—ladies shaped by courtly expectation, fully aware of the eyes that followed them beneath the open sky. One by one, the noble ladies stepped into the gazebo, skirts gathered just enough to pass its low threshold. Each offered a practiced curtsy, heads bowed in turn toward the seated princesses.
"Your Highnesses," they murmured in soft unison, voices polite and measured.
Phebe acknowledged them with a gracious incline of her head, while Rena's gaze lingered a moment longer, assessing, before she gestured toward the open seats.
The ladies straightened and moved to their places, silks brushing against carved stone and cushioned benches as they settled, the low hum of conversation slowly returning to the garden.
"Oh my, Lady Callista."
Lady Isabella turned to face her, a flicker of surprise and amusement dancing across her face.
"You're already seated? How ever did you manage that? I was certain your carriage was miles behind mine!"
Lady Callista's lips curved into a teasing smile.
"Ah, Lady Isabella, perhaps I simply enjoy arriving before everyone else. Or maybe my driver has a talent your carriage lacks."
Isabella laughed softly, pretending to glare.
"Oh, so it's skill now, not luck? I see how it is—next time, I shall insist on racing you to the gazebo."
Callista inclined her head with mock seriousness.
"You are most welcome to try. Though I warn you, I never lose to anyone—least of all to you, dear Isabella."
A crisp laugh cut through them.
"Ladies, must we turn the garden into a racetrack?" Lady Octavia stepped forward, hands lightly on her hips, eyes sparkling with amusement.
"Enough of this endless squabbling. Save your rivalry for the next ball, or the gardener will declare the flowers trampled!
"Speaking of balls," Lady Sofia interjected, a playful smile tugging at her lips, "the wine that was served yesterday was stupendously sweet. I wonder if the vintner has saved any from lastnight?"
A soft laugh followed. "That would be thanks to my father," Lady Diana said, inclining her head lightly. "Our estate has supplied the finest vintages to the imperial family and many of the nobility for generations. It pleases me greatly to see it enjoyed."
Lady Isabella's lips curved into a sly smile. "Sweet, yes, but far too intoxicating," she remarked, a hint of mischief in her tone. "Two glasses and Lady Lilibet was already throwing herself about the ballroom. Truly embarrassing, if one cares for decorum."
Lady Diana's smile did not falter, though her eyes sharpened slightly. "I fear that speaks more to Lady Lilibet's tolerance than to the quality of our wine," she replied smoothly. "We cannot be blamed if some guests forget moderation once their cups are filled."
She inclined her head, voice still pleasant. "Our vintages are praised precisely because they are rich. One simply must know when to stop."
Lady Anastasia, who had been quietly observing the exchange, finally spoke. "Speaking of last night's ball," she said lightly, smoothing a fold of her gown, "did anyone else notice Prince Levi's… rather striking appearance?"
A brief pause followed, just long enough to draw attention.
"Though I must admit," she continued, her smile thin, "his manners were far less impressive. Poor Lady Avina scarcely finished her greeting before he dismissed her as though she were an inconvenience."
She tilted her head, voice still pleasant. "He has a presence that discourages conversation," she added gently. "Perhaps that is intentional."
soft, knowing laugh followed. "Oh, his appearance is beyond question," Lady Matilda added, her tone almost admiring. "Striking, composed—one can hardly deny he turns heads."
She sighed lightly, as though disappointed by fate itself. "Yet it does seem dreadfully unfair, does it not? That the most charming faces are so often paired with the coldest dispositions."
Her gaze drifted briefly toward the princesses before returning to the group. "And then there are those with the warmest hearts who are so easily overlooked. The world does enjoy its cruel little jokes."
Lady Sofia hesitated, then offered a careful smile. "To be fair," she said gently, "Prince Levi has never been one for empty pleasantries. Some might even admire his… restraint. Not every man is inclined toward flirtation."
She lifted her shoulders slightly. "Coldness, I think, is often mistaken for discipline."
Lady Isabella let out a quiet laugh, the sound light but unmistakably edged. "Discipline?" she echoed. "If that is what one calls it."
She leaned back, folding her hands neatly in her lap. "I happened upon the training grounds this morning. Quite by accident, of course."
Her smile thinned. "The way he drove his recruits—no mercy, no pause. One young man barely had time to regain his footing before being struck down again."
Isabella tilted her head, voice still perfectly pleasant. "Impressive skill, certainly. But I could not help wondering whether such… intensity ever learns restraint."
She glanced around the table. "There is discipline, and then there is brutality. The difference lies in whether one remembers they are dealing with men, not weapons."
Lady Callista, who had remained thoughtfully quiet, finally spoke.
"I also heard," she said softly, "that Prince Levi left the ball before His Majesty himself—and without so much as notifying him of his departure."
A few murmurs stirred around the table.
She lifted her chin, tone still composed. "It is considered a grave offense. My father—being a member of the royal court—mentioned that the council was already in discussion. They were still deciding what punishment might be appropriate."
The air seemed to tighten.
Lady Isabella leaned forward slightly, lips curving. "Punishment," she echoed. "I wonder which of the many they have given him before they will
re —"
"Smash!"
The sharp clatter of porcelain cut through the garden.
Princess Phebe's teacup slipped deliberately from her fingers, shattering against the stone floor. Conversation died at once.
She rose calmly, attendants already moving to clear the pieces.
"I dislike it," Phebe said evenly, "when conversation begins to stray."
Her gaze swept the table—pleasant, composed, and unmistakably firm.
"Prince Levi will not be discussed further."
A pause.
"Not here. Not again."
Silence followed, thick and obedient, as the garden returned to the soft rustle of leaves and distant birdsong.
For a heartbeat, the table
remained quiet.
Then Lady Anastasia spoke, her voice light but laced with disdain.
"The royal draw," she said, "such a curious idea. A peasant bride chosen by chance for a prince."
She let out a soft, humorless laugh.
"How unfortunate for him."
"Indeed," Lady Matilda added.
"One can only imagine the sort of girl fate might select—uncultured, unrefined, overwhelmed by silk and jewels."
Lady Octavia tilted her head thoughtfully.
"Or worse," she said mildly, "one who mistakes her position for power."
A few quiet laughs followed.
"They always do," Lady Isabella remarked. "The moment a common girl is placed near a crown, she begins to imagine herself one."
Lady Sofia shook her head with mock sympathy.
"Poor thing," she sighed. "She will likely believe herself important, when in truth she will only be tolerated."
The murmurs grew, voices overlapping—speculation turning into mockery, pity turning into contempt.
Then—
Rena's hand struck the table.
The sharp sound cut through the gazebo like a blade.
Silence fell at once.
Her eyes were cold, her posture rigid.
"Let me be perfectly clear," she said evenly. "No peasant girl will ever hold power in this palace."
Her gaze moved slowly across the ladies.
"Not through marriage. Not through title. Not through illusion."
She leaned forward slightly.
"And if any such girl dares to forget her place, she will be reminded of it."
The ladies shifted uncomfortably.
Lady Diana spoke first, her voice softer now.
"It is the prince I pity," she said.
" Prince Piers, bound to a stranger chosen by chance."
"Yes," Lady Anastasia agreed.
"Unlucky beyond measure."
Lady Isabella sighed.
"To be forced into such a union… it is a cruel fate."
She was just about to continue—
"What do you mean?"
The voice was calm.
Male.
Young.
Every head turned.
At the edge of the gazebo stood the youngest prince.
Watching.
Listening.
Waiting.