The coming-of-age of Prince Zoltan was meant to be a night of honour, a celebration of legacy. Instead, it may have been the first step toward a battle far greater than any the empire had ever known.
The noblewomen, having returned from the temple, took their rightful places beside their families. Empress Venetia sat beside Emperor Aurelius, her expression unreadable yet commanding. Beside Prince Zoltan, Princess Zephyrine took her seat, her emerald gown gleaming under the golden candlelight. With all now present, the next event of the evening could officially begin.
The presentation of gifts.
The first to step forward was Ophelia, the Emperor's elder sister. Though well into her years, she carried herself with the same strength and confidence that had once made her infamous in the empire's court. A warrior in her youth, raised as her father's equal, she had been a force to be reckoned with.
From the folds of her embroidered cloak, she revealed a dagger—its blade honed to a razor's edge, its hilt inlaid with lapis lazuli. She held it out to Zoltan, her sharp gaze locking onto his.
"This belonged to me once," Ophelia said, her voice steady. "My father gave it to me when I was your age, though he trained me as one would a prince. He believed that steel was a better teacher than ink."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the hall. The late Emperor's favoritism toward his eldest daughter had been well known. It was said that he had raised Ophelia as he would a son—teaching her to wield a blade before a brush, to command before she could curtsy.
Zoltan bowed his head in respect as he accepted the weapon. "I will wield it well, Aunt."
Next came Odette, the Emperor's younger sister, accompanied by her husband, Marquess Renard. Together, they carried a large, leather-bound tome, its weight heavy with history. Its pages, yellowed with time, bore the wisdom of kings past.
"This book contains the lessons of your forefathers," Odette said, her voice softer than her sister's but no less firm. "Bravery wins battles, but wisdom wins kingdoms. Read it well, Zoltan."
Zoltan received the book with a solemn nod, tracing a hand over the intricate script of its cover. "I will learn from it."
One by one, gifts continued to flow toward the young prince—ornate armor, rare gemstones, even a falcon bred from the finest aviaries in the empire. The hall brimmed with voices, admiration, and the occasional jest.
Then, it was Duke Gideon's turn.
The room fell into a hush as the Duke, a man of sharp wit and shrewd mind, stepped forward. But before he presented his gift, he glanced at Princess Zephyrine.
A silent understanding passed between them. Zephyrine gave a slow, deliberate nod.
Zoltan noticed the silent exchange between them, the faintest nod from his sister.
Duke Gideon turned back to Zoltan and clapped his hands once.
From the entrance of the hall, a woman entered.
She was unlike any noblewoman present—a vision of striking beauty, dark-skinned with sleek black hair that cascaded down her back, and eyes black as the night sky, glittering like distant stars. Her dress, though simple compared to the lavish gowns of the aristocracy, accentuated her elegance. A collective gasp rippled through the court as all eyes turned toward her. She moved with quiet grace, her posture composed despite the weight of a hundred gazes upon her.
A murmur spread through the court. This was no ordinary gift.
Duke Gideon's voice rang clear. "Your Highness, I present to you—Mireya. She is a gift from my household, trained in the ways of the court, and skilled in the arts. I ask that you accept her… as your concubine."
Silence.
The weight of the words settled over the hall like a storm cloud. Some nobles exchanged glances, barely concealing their curiosity—or their amusement. Others, more cautious, merely watched.
Zoltan's expression darkened, his fingers curling into fists. His grip on the hilt of his new sword tightened.
A concubine?
His jaw clenched. He had expected wealth, weapons, or books—things he could accept out of duty. But this?
His gaze flickered to Mireya. She stood still, her face unreadable, her dark eyes unreadable pools of quiet strength. She was no mere trinket to be handed over.
He should have expected it—many rulers, especially those of noble blood, were gifted women to ensure strong alliances, to cement power. But the idea of accepting a woman he did not know, chosen for him by another, unsettled him. He opened his mouth, prepared to refuse outright—
But before he could speak, a soft voice cut through the silence.
"What's wrong, brother? Are you going to reject Duke Gideon's gift?"
Zoltan turned sharply. Zephyrine.
His sister sat beside him, her viridian eyes gleaming with something unreadable. Her tone was light, almost teasing, but there was a sharpness beneath it.
Zoltan knew her well—too well. Zephyrine did nothing without reason.
And now, she was challenging him.
Zoltan opened his mouth, ready to answer her—
But Zephyrine spoke first.
"The Prince accepts your gift, Duke Gideon," she said smoothly, her voice carrying through the chamber.
The court stilled. Zoltan turned sharply to his sister, his eyes flashing with disbelief.
Zephyrine met his gaze, her expression calm, yet beneath the surface, there was something unreadable—a quiet calculation, an unspoken decision already made.
The nobles began murmuring amongst themselves, though none dared object.
Duke Gideon smiled. "Then it is done."
Mireya, still silent, lowered herself in a graceful bow before Zoltan.
The hall erupted in applause, nobles murmuring amongst themselves at the spectacle that had just unfolded.
But beneath the thunderous approval, Zoltan's heart was storming with questions.
He cast one last glance at his sister, his voice a whisper only she could hear.
"Why?"
His sister didn't look at him right away. Instead, her sharp emerald eyes were fixed elsewhere.
At Emrys.
The Emperor's eldest son, Prince Emrys was seated a short distance away, his face composed, yet his clenched jaw and the way his fingers gripped the armrest of his chair betrayed his anger. But it wasn't Mireya he was glaring at.
It was the sword in Zoltan's hands.
Zephyrine's lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. Her gaze never wavered from Emrys as she finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Because the game has begun."
Zoltan frowned, still confused. "What game? What are you talking about?"
Zephyrine finally turned to look at him, her eyes gleaming with a quiet intelligence that sent a chill through him.
"The game of chess, dear brother." She folded her hands in her lap, her tone light but deliberate. "And in chess, the most essential piece is not the king."
She leaned in slightly, her voice like silk, yet edged with steel.
"It is the queen."
Zoltan stiffened. The words sank into his mind like stones in deep water, rippling outward with implications he had yet to fully grasp.
Zephyrine sat back, watching him as if waiting for him to connect the pieces himself. But Zoltan wasn't sure what pieces there even were.
The weight of the sword in his hands felt heavier now.
Across the hall, Emrys had schooled his expression back into one of detached amusement, but his fingers drummed against the table—a restless, irritated rhythm. A clear sign that something was shifting.
Zoltan tightened his grip around the hilt of his sword.
Something was happening. Something bigger than him. And Zephyrine had just made the first move.