Location: Shelb estate, Grand hall
The Shelb estate ballroom buzzed with nervous energy as the family prepared for their impromptu dance lesson.
The air was filled with the sound of shoes scuffing against polished floors, music swelling, and the occasional groan of frustration as Micheal, Ethan, and Adrian stumbled through their steps. Duchess Eleanor stood at the edge of the room, her sharp eyes observing every movement with a mix of satisfaction and quiet determination.
Duke Louis, leaning casually against a pillar, appeared to be enjoying the chaos a little too much.
"Dancing," Louis declared suddenly, his voice cutting through the noise, "isn't just a skill—it's a tool. A way to command attention. Take the Emperor, for example. His dances with the late Empress were magnificent, even when she struggled. He made up for it every time."
Eleanor nodded, her expression softening at the memory. "It's true. Watching them was like witnessing art in motion. I wonder if Magda is being trained by her father to carry that legacy."
Micheal froze mid-step at the mention of Magda. His grip on Reginald's hand tightened as he turned to Eleanor, his voice quieter than usual. "Do you think Magda… isn't a good dancer?"
Eleanor shrugged delicately. "If she takes after her mother, she may need some guidance. The Empress struggled with rhythm, but the Emperor carried her through every step. It was breathtaking."
Louis smirked. "And if Magda does take after her mother, Micheal, you'll have to be ready. You'll need to carry her just as the Emperor did. Work harder."
The weight of those words settled heavily on Micheal. His mind raced, picturing Magda on the ballroom floor, the eyes of the capital upon her. If she stumbles, I'll make sure no one notices. If she falters, I'll be her strength. His jaw tightened with renewed resolve.
"Then I'll get better," Micheal said firmly, his voice steady despite the slight tremor in his hands. "I'll make sure she never has to worry."
The music swelled again, and the lesson resumed. Ethan and Barnaby struggled through their steps, with Barnaby's reluctance growing more evident with every passing moment.
"Commander," Barnaby muttered as Ethan's rigid movements nearly crushed his hand, "this feels like training for an ambush. Loosen up, please."
Ethan frowned, adjusting slightly. "I'm trying, Barnaby. Just follow my lead."
Barnaby's response was a resigned sigh. "You'll owe me for this, sir."
Louis, meanwhile, chuckled at the scene before striding into the center of the room. "Ethan, you've had trouble with this before, haven't you? Like at Magda's debut ball, for instance."
Ethan stiffened, his expression unreadable. "I remember."
Louis smirked. "You danced with Flora that night. You looked stiff then too, but luckily, Flora carried you through."With a triumphant smile, he added, "I almost doubted my decision to order you to ask Flora for the first dance—until it managed to steal the spotlight from Magda."
The room fell silent.
Micheal stopped mid-step, his eyes narrowing at Louis. "You stole Magda's spotlight? On her debut?"
Louis shrugged unapologetically. "It was a calculated move. Flora needed the attention. The poor girl was no longer a princess after Magda was found, and the capital had already begun to overlook her. Ethan's sympathy for her made it easy to orchestrate."
Ethan's expression shifted slightly, the faintest flicker of discomfort crossing his face. "Flora was… neglected as a princess. I thought it was the right thing to do."
Micheal's grip on Reginald's hand tightened. "You used Ethan's sympathy to overshadow Magda?"
Louis gave a dismissive wave. "Politics, Micheal. It worked, didn't it?"
Micheal bit the inside of his cheek, swallowing the sharp retort on the tip of his tongue. Magda deserves better. I'll make sure she gets it.
Unbeknownst to the men, they failed to see the darkness that flickered across the Duchess' face.
As the lesson continued, Louis decided it was time to remind everyone of his own prowess. With a flourish, he stepped forward and extended his hand toward Eleanor. "Shall we show them how it's done?"
Eleanor hesitated briefly before smiling and placing her hand in his. "Let's."
The music swelled, and the Duke and Duchess took to the floor. Their steps were fluid, their movements perfectly in sync. Every turn and pivot exuded grace and confidence, leaving the room in awe.
Adrian, leaning against the wall, grinned as he nudged Ethan. "Father's making us all look bad, Commander."
Ethan's jaw tightened, though he didn't respond.
Micheal surveyed the scene with the precision of an experienced engineer evaluating a system. The sight strengthened his determination. He straightened his stance, fine-tuning every motion until Reginald gave a subtle nod of approval."Not bad, Lord Micheal," Reginald said, his tone carrying a hint of surprise.
By the end of the lesson, Micheal's progress was unmistakable. He no longer stumbled; though his movements retained a clockwork precision, his steps were now smooth, deliberate, and, remarkably, superior to Ethan's.Louis approached him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "You've got potential, Micheal. Keep at it."
The rare praise left Micheal momentarily speechless, though a faint smile tugged at his lips.
Adrian raised his hand dramatically. "Stop the presses. Micheal got a compliment."
As the lesson wound down, Eleanor stood at the edge of the ballroom, her gaze softening as she watched Micheal and Ethan step off the floor.
Micheal's determination to protect Magda from embarrassment touched her deeply, while Ethan's rigidity reminded her that even he had room for improvement.
Her thoughts drifted to Magda and Vivian. Neither of them will ever be outshone—not by Flora, not by anyone.
With a determined smile, she clapped her hands. "Same time tomorrow. We're not finished yet."
Micheal groaned but nodded. "I'll be ready."
Eleanor's eyes sparkled with approval. "Good. Because there's no room for mediocrity at the Flower Festival."
Adrian smirked, nudging Micheal. "Better get ready, brother. Mother's just getting started."
Location: Imperial palace, Ballroom
The grand, gilded ballroom of the imperial palace was silent, save for the soft hum of a violin string being tuned by the palace musicians. Moonlight poured through the tall arched windows, casting a silvery glow across the polished marble floor.
At the center of the room, Emperor Raphael stood, his regal form commanding the vast space with ease. His long black hair flowed down his back, tied loosely, and his crimson eyes glimmered with a rare mix of patience and determination.
Magda, standing before him, looked less than regal. Her cheeks were flushed, her crimson eyes darting nervously toward her feet, and her steps were hesitant at best. She shifted uncomfortably in her delicate practice shoes, fidgeting with the hem of her gown.
"You're stiff, little dove," Raphael said, his tone calm but firm. "Relax. Dancing is not a battle, and the floor is not an opponent to conquer."
"I'm trying, Papa," Magda muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. "But this feels… unnatural."
Raphael sighed deeply, his expression softening. "Magda, I've seen you wield a quill with precision, recite the most complex theories flawlessly, and navigate the court with grace. Surely, you can learn to step in rhythm."
Magda gave him a sheepish look. "Mama was terrible at dancing too, wasn't she?"
A rare smile tugged at Raphael's lips. "Yes. Your mother was as hopeless as you are now, but…" He stepped closer, placing a steady hand on Magda's shoulder. "She learned to trust me. That's the key, little dove. Trust me to guide you."
Magda hesitated, glancing down at her feet again. "I don't want to embarrass Micheal," she admitted quietly. "The court already whispers about me enough. If I fail, it'll fall on him too."
Raphael's eyes softened, but his jaw tightened imperceptibly. "You will not fail. Not while I'm here."
Raphael took Magda's hand in his, his touch steady and reassuring. He placed his other hand lightly on her back, guiding her into the proper frame. "The key to dancing," he said, his voice low and steady, "is trust. Follow my lead, little dove. Don't think—just feel."
The music began, a soft waltz that filled the room with its gentle rhythm. Raphael took the first step, guiding Magda forward. She stumbled almost immediately, her foot awkwardly brushing against his.
"Stop," Raphael said, his tone firm but without frustration. He straightened, giving her an assessing look. "You're thinking too much. Let the rhythm guide you."
Magda took a deep breath, nodding. "Alright, Papa. I'll try again."
The music started anew, and Raphael led her into the first step. This time, her movements were slightly smoother, though still hesitant. She managed a few steps before faltering again, letting out a soft groan of frustration.
Raphael's hand remained steady on her back. "Good. Better. But not enough."
Magda glanced up at him, a flicker of determination in her crimson eyes. "You're not going to let me leave until I get this right, are you?"
Raphael's lips quirked in a faint smirk. "You know me well."
As the lesson continued, Magda's steps grew marginally more fluid, though her progress was slow. Raphael, ever patient, guided her with precision, correcting her posture and adjusting her rhythm.
Inwardly, however, his thoughts were less forgiving. She's not ready. Not yet.
His mind drifted back to Magda's first debut, to the whispers of the court that had dogged her every move. They won't do that again. I won't let them.
Stopping the music with a sharp gesture, Raphael took a step back, his gaze piercing. "Magda, your first dance at the festival will be with me."
Magda blinked, her expression a mix of surprise and confusion. "With you? But isn't Micheal—"
Raphael cut her off gently. "Micheal is still recovering. The court will understand if he chooses not to dance. But they won't forgive you if you falter again. This time, your debut will be perfect."
Magda's lips parted, her words caught in her throat. She searched Raphael's face, finding only resolve there. "Do you really think that will work, Papa?"
"It's not about whether it will work," Raphael said, his voice softening. "It's about ensuring that no one—no whispers, no rumors—can touch you. You will make a grand debut, little dove. One worthy of my daughter."
Magda's eyes shimmered with a mixture of gratitude and unease. "Alright, Papa. I trust you."
As the music resumed, Raphael led Magda through the waltz once more. His movements were flawless, each step an exercise in control and grace. Magda, though still faltering, followed as best she could, her determination shining through her clumsy attempts.
Above them, the moonlight seemed to intensify, casting their figures in a silver glow. Raphael's crimson eyes glimmered with a quiet, unshakable resolve. She will shine, he thought to himself. Even if I must carry her every step of the way.