CHAPTER 47: THE ROYAL BALL

The night of the royal ball arrived like a storm dressed in velvet.

Across the Empire of Xirudah, the air shimmered with anticipation. Carriages lined the obsidian streets like a procession of stars, their glass wheels reflecting the jeweled lights that hung above the capital. From the spires of the Celestial Palace to the gilded bridges over the river Fian, every corner of the city seemed to pulse with life, music, and meaning.

This was no mere festivity, it was a declaration. A dance of power disguised as elegance. The empire’s alliances would not be sealed in ink tonight, but in glances, smiles, and the choreography of hidden intentions.

Inside the palace’s grand ballroom, time itself seemed to stand still. Floating lanterns drifted near the arched ceilings, bathing the room in a soft, ethereal glow. Hundreds of crystal chandeliers hung above like constellations forced to bow to mortal vanity. The scent of white lilies and amber wine lingered in the air, delicate yet intoxicating.

And at the center of it all, the herald’s voice rang clear:

"Lady Ahce Pentecase, heir of Fienro’s First Ducal House."

Every whisper ceased. Every fan froze mid-motion.

The young duchess stepped into the hall, the click of her heels soft yet commanding against the marble. Her gown, a cascade of sapphire silk embroidered with threads of silver and starlight, caught the chandeliers’ glow with every breath she took. The Pentecase crest gleamed proudly in her hair, an unspoken reminder of the bloodline that had shaped the empire’s fate for centuries.

Ahce moved with the calm precision of a warrior and the grace of a queen not yet crowned. She had faced monsters that devoured men’s souls, seen futures drenched in fire, and walked through the ruins of time itself. Yet here, surrounded by nobles whose smiles cut sharper than any blade, she felt the weight of a different kind of war.

This, she thought, is the true battlefield.

Every glance was a strike. Every bow, a trap. The crowd’s murmur swelled as she approached the dais where the imperial family stood, golden, resplendent, and unapproachable. And then, as her gaze drifted beyond the throne, she saw him.

A tall man in a black ceremonial uniform stood among the ranks of the empire’s elite. His posture was immaculate, his presence commanding, his aura one of quiet, controlled danger. The crest on his chest, silver wings crossed with blades, marked him unmistakably.

Reichardt Razalo.

The Duke of the Second Ducal Household. The empire’s youngest military strategist. A man revered for his brilliance and feared for his ruthlessness.

But to Ahce... he was something else entirely. Her breath caught in her throat. The edges of the world blurred, sound fading to a distant hum.

No. It couldn’t be.

The man’s eyes, gray, cold, but streaked with stormlight, met hers, and for a heartbeat, the earth stopped spinning. There, beneath the mask of composure and discipline, flickered a spark she knew too well.

Richard.

Just the same as his.

He looked older. Sharper. His jaw hardened by command, his expression sculpted by years of duty. Yet the silence that stretched between them screamed of something unspoken, something long buried.

He remembered her.

When the steward finally led her closer, Reichardt bowed with the flawless precision of a man well-versed in diplomacy.

"Duchess-elect Pentecase," he said, voice calm, smooth, unreadable. "It is an honor to meet the famed heir of Fienro."

Not a hint of warmth. Not a tremor. Just perfect control.

Ahce smiled politely, matching his tone. "The honor is mutual, Duke Razalo. I’ve heard of your contributions to the empire’s peace."

"Then I fear the rumors have been too kind." His lips twitched faintly, though the smile never reached his eyes.

They stood beneath the chandeliers, the crowd watching, the orchestra swelling in the distance. And in that sea of gilded masks and murmured politics, they were two ghosts meeting in borrowed bodies.

"Would the Lady care for a dance?" he asked finally, extending a gloved hand.

The question was both an invitation and a challenge.

Ahce hesitated, but only for a breath. "Of course, Your Grace."

Their hands met. Warm. Familiar. Painfully so.

As they stepped into the waltz, the crowd faded into a blur of color and sound. The orchestra’s melody wrapped around them like an old memory, soft and haunting. His hand found her waist, gentle, measured, but the touch sent fire through her veins. Their movements flowed effortlessly, as if muscle memory had survived where time had failed.

"To think," she said lightly, "that the famed Duke Razalo could dance so well."

"I could say the same for the Lady," he replied smoothly. But she heard it then, a faint tremor beneath the calm. A flicker of the man she once knew.

Her gaze lifted to his. For the briefest moment, the ballroom vanished. The years between them burned away. She saw the soldier who used to smile through exhaustion, who traced her name on fogged glass, who bled for a world that betrayed them both.

"You look..." His voice dropped low, intimate enough to pierce through the music. "Different."

"So do you," she whispered. "I almost didn’t recognize you."

His mouth curved slightly, humorless. "Almost?"

"I said almost." Her tone softened. "You can change your name, your crest, even your world. But your eyes..."

"What about them?"

"They’ll always betray you."

The words landed like a blade between them. For the first time, his steps faltered, barely noticeable, but she felt it. His grip tightened at her waist, his composure cracking like glass under strain.

"You’ve mistaken me," he said finally, his voice taut, almost pleading beneath its calm. "I’ve lived in Xirudah my entire life."

"Is that so?" she murmured, her eyes sharp as a dagger’s edge. "Then tell me, Duke Razalo, do all Xirudah nobles bear scars like that?"

The faint scar beneath his left eyebrow caught the chandelier’s glow. The very scar she had once kissed after stitching it herself.

Silence.

The music continued, but for them, the world had narrowed to breath and memory.

"Whoever you are," Ahce whispered, "you’re too much like someone I used to know."

His eyes flickered. Then, softly, so softly she almost thought she imagined it, he said, "Then I envy him."

The waltz ended.

Applause thundered through the hall, breaking the spell. They bowed, the perfect noble pair, composed and untouchable. To the world, it was a moment of beauty, a political waltz between two powerful houses.

But beneath the chandeliers, behind her poised smile, Ahce’s heart trembled. Her fingers still burned with the warmth of his hand.

He remembered.

He was pretending not to.

And that truth, silent and damning, was more dangerous than any weapon in the room.

Richard... or Reichardt... whatever name you wear now, she thought, as the applause died around her. You can hide behind duty, but I will find the truth.

For the first time in years, the game of politics felt personal. And beneath the velvet masks and crystal lights, fate quietly turned its wheel again.