CHAPTER 177: THE FIRST DANCE

[Imperial Palace—Grand Banquet Hall]

The music swelled through the grand ballroom, a cascade of violins and flutes twining together like threads of moonlight. The chandeliers above shimmered in response, each crystal catching the light in a thousand tiny stars.

I could feel my heart racing—not from fear, but from the kind of anticipation that made every second seem to stretch into eternity. My first official dance. Every gaze would be on me, every whisper weighing the steps I took, the smile I wore, and the grace I carried.

And yet... my eyes searched for only one person.

There he was—sitting on his throne, his imperial presence effortless yet commanding. Father. The Emperor. My papa.

When our eyes met, the corners of his mouth softened into something rare—something only I had the privilege to see. The stern ruler vanished for a moment, and the man who once carried me on his arms in the palace gardens took his place.

He stepped forward, each movement deliberate, measured, like the opening notes of a familiar melody.

Then, as though the world itself had paused to watch, he extended his gloved hand toward me.

"Would you like to dance with me, my dearest?" His voice was warm velvet threaded with pride.

The breath caught in my throat. I had been expecting formality, perhaps even a gesture to some high-ranking noble for this honor. But not this. Not him, choosing me—his daughter—to share the first dance of the night.

I smiled, the kind of smile that came from somewhere deeper than joy itself. "I am looking forward to it, Papa," I said, my voice trembling with the weight of the moment.

His fingers closed gently around mine, strong yet careful, as if I were still that little girl whose tears he once wiped with his cloak.

As he led me toward the center of the floor, the crowd parted like the sea, bowing their heads. The music shifted—softened—until the first note of our waltz fell like a drop of rain into still water.

And in that moment, I wasn’t the princess the empire would judge. I wasn’t the poised young lady in silk and diamonds.

I was simply Lavinia.

Dancing with her father.

The music swelled through the grand hall, rich and slow, each note curling through the air like warm silk. My papa’s hand rested steady against my back—firm, grounding—his palm a familiar anchor in the swirl of shimmering gowns, polished boots, and flickering candlelight.

We moved in perfect rhythm, his steps certain, mine instinctively following, as though this waltz had been ours for centuries, not minutes.

"You’ve grown," he murmured, his deep voice low enough to be a secret shared between just the two of us.

I tilted my head, smiling faintly. "Oh? So you’ve finally noticed?"

A rare chuckle rumbled in his chest—soft, unguarded, the kind I’d only heard when the world wasn’t watching. "Not like that, Lavinia. I mean... you’ve grown into someone who walks as if the world already belongs to her."

I lifted my chin, pride curling in my chest. "Doesn’t it?"

His eyes crinkled in amusement, but the smile didn’t quite reach them. "Perhaps. But the world is heavy, my little star... even for those who think they can hold it in their hands."

The orchestra swelled, and he spun me—effortless, graceful. My gown flared around me like a captured sunrise before I returned to the safety of his arms.

"I wish..." His voice dropped lower, almost hesitant. "I wish you could stay my little girl—the one who rolled across my bed, hair a wild mess, and refused to get up until I carried you."

Something in my chest tightened.

"I feel like..." His grip on my hand shifted, almost imperceptibly. "...like I’m losing you. Bit by bit. As you grow."

For a moment, I just looked at him—my father, the emperor who commanded armies without blinking—saying something so fragile it didn’t seem to fit in his mouth.

I held his hand tighter. "No matter what happens, Papa, I will always be your daughter. I’m not going anywhere. You still have to teach me things and scold me when I mess up. Our journey isn’t done—not even close. So..." My voice softened, but the words were unshakable. "...never say you’re losing me. And I just know... if you ever did lose me... you’d bring me back. No matter what you had to do."

His steps faltered—just once.

Papa’s eyes widened, and in them... I saw something I had never seen before.

Tears.

They didn’t fall, but they clung stubbornly to the edge of his gaze, threatening to tip. And beneath them, a flicker—raw and fleeting—of horror. Of fear.

As though what I’d said wasn’t a comforting promise...but the truth.

A truth he had already lived through once before.

The final chords lingered in the air, trembling like the last breath of a candle before it goes out. Papa spun me into one last twirl, his grip steady, his presence unshakable—and then the music stopped.

The hall erupted in polite applause, the sound rising like a tide around us. But all I could see... was him.

Papa didn’t let go right away. He held me close, his hands warm and solid on mine, as if reluctant to break the moment. Then, with a faint, almost weary smile, he said, "I will never lose you, my daughter. And yes..." His voice dipped lower, iron lacing the softness. "...you’re right. I will do whatever it takes to bring you back. Even if I have to burn the world for you."

My breath caught. There was no hesitation in his tone. No jest. Only the terrifying certainty of a man who meant every single word.

I could only stare, my fingers still curled around his.

He straightened, the regal mask sliding back into place as if nothing had been said. "Enjoy the party, my girl... It’s your day today."

And just like that, he stepped away—turning from me with the same quiet authority he used to end court sessions.

But my eyes stayed locked on his back, even as he melted into the sea of silks and brocade.

"...Did Papa... cry?" I murmured to myself, not entirely sure if the flicker in his gaze had been real... or if I’d simply draped my own worry over his expression.

I took one step after him, lips parting—"Pa—"

"YOUR HIGHNESS!"

The shout nearly knocked the air from my lungs.

"IT’S AN HONOR—A GREAT, DIVINE, LIFETIME HONOR—TO MEET YOU!"

Before I could blink, the air around me thickened. Not with incense or perfume—though there was plenty of that too—but with people. They surged forward like a tidal wave of lace and jewels, voices tripping over one another in an endless stream of flattery.

"Your Highness, may I have the honor of the next dance?"

"No, no, surely she would prefer to taste the rare candied figs I’ve personally imported from the East!"

"My lady, I’ve composed a poem about your beauty—"

That was it. My patience had been tested, weighed, and found dangerously short. I inhaled sharply, lifted my chin, and bellowed—

"OSRIC!"

The crowd flinched as if I’d just called down a dragon.

And then—like the dramatic hero he is—Osric emerged from between two gilded pillars, striding toward me with that maddening, unhurried confidence. His gaze swept over the people blocking my path before it found me, warm and steady.

Without a single wasted step, his hand closed over mine—firm, certain, as though he’d been waiting for this exact moment. He pulled me forward until I collided with the solid line of his chest, and his arm came around me in one smooth, possessive motion.

"Lavi," he murmured, his breath brushing my ear, "are you alright? I’m sorry—I was cornered by a pack of nobles."

Still pressed against him, I let my head fall against his shoulder with an exaggerated sigh, my voice deliberately weak. "I... I almost suffocated."

His hand tightened at my waist. "Then I got here just in time."

And then—

Silence.

An unnatural, almost theatrical silence. The kind that makes you check if the musicians have dropped dead or if someone has declared war.

Slowly, I turned my head.

The crowd had vanished—or rather, they’d retreated just far enough to give us a perfect open circle. And every single pair of eyes... every noble, every lady, every foppish lord with his jaw half-open... was fixed on us.

Some stared in disbelief.Some... looked dangerously close to swooning.

Then came the whispers, soft at first—like the rustle of silk skirts—but quickly growing into a scandalous hum.

"So... the rumors were true?"

"It seems they really are in love."

"Did you see the way Lord Osric just held her? Like some hero from a ballad!"

"Don’t they look good together?"

"I agree. Honestly... they look like they were made for each other."

Osric’s hand was still resting on my waist—warm, steady—but my mind wasn’t on that. My eyes stayed fixed on the crowd, expression flat.

"...Did we just," I muttered under my breath, "pour a gallon of oil on a rumor that was already burning?"

Osric leaned in, his breath brushing my ear, his voice low enough to slip under my skin."I don’t mind."

My head snapped toward him. "What did you just say?"

He smiled—slow, deliberate, and infuriatingly unreadable.