The evening sky stretched wide above the capital, streaked with hues of deep orange and lavender as the Flower Festival reached its peak. Lanterns strung along the fairgrounds cast a golden glow, their gentle light mirrored by the stars just beginning to peek through the twilight.
At the heart of the festivities stood a magnificent raised platform, large enough to accommodate a hundred dancing pairs. Adorned with garlands of marigold and silk banners, it served as a regal stage for the evening's most anticipated event—the grand waltz.
As tradition dictated, if the Emperor graced the dance with his presence, he always claimed the opening. This year, his partner was none other than his daughter, Magda Valoria von Shelb, ensuring her place in the spotlight for the first dance.
It was an honor few ever received, and the gathered nobles buzzed with excitement as Raphael Valoria extended his hand to Magda.
She hesitated for only a moment before placing her hand in his, her crimson eyes sparkling with determination. The crowd fell silent as they ascended the platform together, their movements deliberate and composed.
Magda's white and gold gown billowed gracefully as she stepped into position, the embroidered laurel leaves catching the light and shimmering like liquid fire. Beside her, Raphael exuded calm authority, his black and gold attire a testament to his unyielding command over every space he occupied.
The orchestra struck its first note, the melody swelling and filling the fairgrounds.
Raphael guided Magda into the dance with a precision born of years of experience. Each step was fluid, every turn seamless. His long strides compensated for her smaller ones, and his steady grip allowed her to match his pace.
For those watching, they were flawless—a vision of imperial unity and strength.
"Look at her," one noblewoman murmured. "Like the Empress herself."
As the final note of the waltz echoed into the evening air, the audience erupted into applause. Magda, her cheeks flushed from exertion, whispered to Raphael, "Thank you, Papa."
Raphael's crimson eyes gleamed with faint amusement. "I didn't steal your first dance, Magda. I ensured it."
When the second waltz began, Micheal von Shelb stepped forward. Dressed in his finely tailored suit, his platinum blonde hair tied in its signature half-ponytail, he cut an elegant figure as he ascended the platform.
He offered Magda his hand, bowing slightly. "Princess, may I have this dance?"
Magda, still catching her breath from the first waltz, smiled warmly. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"
"I'm always ready for you," he replied, a hint of playfulness in his voice.
The orchestra struck up a lively tune, and Micheal led Magda into the first steps. It took only moments for the truth to reveal itself—Magda, for all her composure, was not a natural dancer. Her timing wavered, her steps stumbled, and once, she nearly tripped on the hem of her gown.
"You weren't exaggerating," Micheal teased, catching her mid-step.
"I warned you," Magda shot back, her laughter bubbling to the surface.
Despite her struggles, Micheal moved with practiced ease. The Duchess's rigorous lessons had transformed him into a capable partner, and he compensated for Magda's missteps with well-timed spins and smooth transitions. His tall frame towered over her, his steady arms guiding her through every movement. To the onlookers, the pair appeared perfectly in sync.
"She's brilliant," one noble murmured, watching them glide across the stage. "And Lord Micheal—matches her well."
As he danced, Micheal felt the gentle weight of Magda's trust in his every move. Each step, each turn, felt like more than just a dance. It was a connection, a moment of vulnerability and strength shared between them. For the first time, he understood why his father had spoken of ballroom dancing with such reverence.
Magda stumbled slightly, catching herself with his help.
"You're making this look easy," she said, her voice tinged with both amusement and gratitude.
"That's because I'm enjoying it," Micheal replied softly. "And for once, I understand. It's not about the steps. It's about this."
"This?" Magda asked, her crimson eyes searching his.
"Holding you," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
Her cheeks flushed, and for a moment, their laughter subsided, replaced by a quiet understanding. As the music swelled toward its finale, Micheal lifted Magda into a graceful spin, her gown fanning out like a golden blossom. The crowd gasped in admiration, and as he set her down, applause erupted once more.
Magda leaned closer, her voice a soft whisper. "You're incredible."
"And you're not so bad yourself," Micheal replied, his grin mischievous. "Just… maybe no solos."
She laughed, her hand tightening on his arm as they bowed to the audience. Together, they left the platform, the cheers of the crowd ringing in their ears. For Micheal, the dance was more than a performance—it was a memory he would carry with him forever.
-----
The raised platform, bathed in the golden glow of lanterns and the silvery light of the evening sky, remained the centerpiece of the festival. Couples twirled across the dance floor, laughter and applause echoing through the open-air ballroom.
Ethan von Shelb, tall and imposing in his sharp military attire, stood at the edge of the platform with Dame Vivian Whitestone, who seemed one step away from fleeing.
Vivian adjusted the hem of her deep blue gown, her emerald green eyes scanning the crowd with irritation. Her auburn hair, styled in loose waves, framed her sharp features. She looked every bit the commanding knight she was, but the grumble under her breath betrayed her discomfort.
"Your mother is too meddlesome for her own good," she muttered, casting a glare at Duchess Eleanor, who was conveniently immersed in conversation nearby.
"It's just a dance," Ethan said, his deep voice steady and calm.
His piercing blue eyes, framed by his golden blonde hair neatly combed back, gave him a stoic, almost statuesque quality.
Vivian shot him a sharp look. "A dance that half the court is watching. I'd rather spar with a chimera."
Ethan's lips twitched faintly, not quite a smile but close. "It's less dangerous."
Vivian rolled her eyes. "Only because your feet aren't involved yet."
The orchestra struck up a lively tune, and Ethan turned to Vivian, offering his hand. "We should go."
Vivian hesitated, her sharp gaze darting between his hand and the crowd. "Fine," she relented, placing her hand in his with a sigh. "But step on my toes, and I'm filing a formal complaint with your mother."
As they stepped onto the platform, whispers rippled through the crowd.
"Ethan von Shelb and Dame Vivian?" one lady murmured, her jeweled fan fluttering. "An unusual pairing."
"Oh, but they spar together often," another noble added with a sly smile. "And quite closely, I hear."
Vivian gritted her teeth. "If they're going to gossip, at least let them get it right."
Ethan, unfazed, simply led her into the first steps.
But the awkwardness was evident. His rigid movements clashed with her heavy-footed attempts, their steps misaligned and mechanical. After their third near-collision, Vivian sighed in frustration.
"This isn't working," she muttered. "Do you even know how to dance?"
"Not particularly," Ethan admitted, his tone matter-of-fact. "It's not a skill I've needed."
Vivian's emerald eyes narrowed before a spark of inspiration lit them. "All right, think of it like a duel."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "A duel?"
"Yes," she said firmly. "Footwork, balance, timing—it's the same principle. Follow my lead."
She guided him using the language of combat—feints, parries, counters—and to her surprise, Ethan's movements grew fluid. Their dance transformed, becoming precise and deliberate, like the rhythm of a sparring session.
As the tempo increased, Ethan found himself relaxing.
Unlike his past dances—where he'd been afraid of stepping on Flora's feet or stiffened by Barnaby's polite formality—dancing with Vivian felt natural. Her familiarity with his movements, honed over years of sparring, made it easy to match her tempo.
For the first time, Ethan understood what his father had once told him about ballroom dancing. It's not about the steps. It's about the partner. The realization startled him, a thought he wasn't prepared to process.
Vivian, meanwhile, was experiencing her own revelation. As the dance continued, she became acutely aware of Ethan's size. His broad shoulders and towering frame seemed to surround her, his steady arms a wall of unyielding strength. Glancing up, she caught sight of his chiseled jawline, the sharp angles of his face illuminated by the lanterns. He's… grown up, she thought, the admission slipping into her mind unbidden. Tall and… handsome? She shook the thought away, her cheeks warming.
Her moment of distraction led to a misstep, causing her to stumble. Ethan caught her instinctively, pulling her close to steady her. The unexpected embrace left both of them startled.
Ethan blinked, suddenly hyperaware of how small and soft Vivian felt in his arms—words he had never associated with her before. For the first time, the knight he'd always seen as his equal seemed... delicate.
Vivian, still pressed against his chest, felt the solid expanse of muscle beneath his uniform. The realization that Ethan wasn't just tall but built like a fortress made her heart skip a beat. She pulled back quickly, her face flushed.
Neither of them said a word, but the tension between them was palpable.
The music swelled, and they resumed the dance, both slightly more cautious. But their movements were smooth now, a perfect synchronization that drew gasps and applause from the crowd.
"Look at them!" one noblewoman exclaimed. "They're magnificent."
Across the room, Vivian's wingwomen—Greta, Amelia, and Lucia—watched with barely contained glee. "She's blushing," Amelia whispered, her hazel eyes wide with amusement.
"And he's smiling," Greta added. "Well, almost."
As the music came to its finale, Ethan and Vivian ended in a perfect bow, the applause deafening. They stepped off the platform in silence, their thoughts a whirlwind of emotions.
"Well, Commander Shelb," Vivian said finally, her tone a mixture of irritation and amusement. "It seems you've improved."
"And you're surprisingly soft," Ethan muttered before he could stop himself.
Vivian's eyes widened, her cheeks reddening further. "What?"
"Graceful," Ethan corrected quickly, his stoic mask slipping back into place.
Vivian narrowed her eyes, but her lips twitched, betraying the beginnings of a smile. "Words are dangerous, Commander. Be careful."
As they returned to the sidelines, both acutely aware of the curious stares from the crowd, Vivian muttered, "This never happened."
Ethan glanced at her, a rare flicker of humor in his blue eyes. "Agreed."
For once, neither had the last word.
-----
The raised platform shimmered under the warm glow of lanterns and the silvery light of a star-filled sky. Couples danced across the open-air ballroom, their movements weaving a tapestry of elegance and rhythm. The Shelb family, however, had become the quiet center of attention.
From their vantage point near the edge of the platform,
Duke Louis von Shelb and Duchess Eleanor watched their sons with a mix of pride and quiet amazement. Louis, resplendent in his finely tailored black suit with silver accents, leaned slightly forward, his sharp blue eyes fixed on the dance floor.
Beside him, Eleanor, dressed in a stunning emerald gown that matched her hazel eyes, wore a serene smile.
"Micheal and Ethan," Eleanor began, her voice light but tinged with wonder. "I can't believe what I'm seeing."
Louis gave a curt nod, his gaze lingering on Micheal, who twirled Magda with unexpected confidence.
"Micheal… He was all precision during practice, yet there was something missing. He moved like a clockwork automaton."
"And Ethan," Eleanor added, her tone amused. "Rigid as a training mannequin."
The Duke grunted in agreement but didn't take his eyes off the dance floor. Micheal, with his platinum blonde hair gleaming under the lanterns, was dancing with a grace and ease that hadn't been present during his countless practices with Reginald, his father's ever-patient assistant.
Tonight, however, Micheal looked transformed. His tall frame exuded confidence as he guided Magda across the platform, his steps steady and infused with purpose.
"And now look at them," Eleanor said, her voice soft. "Micheal moves like a man in love, and Ethan… Ethan's found his rhythm. I never thought I'd see the day."
Ethan, who had once approached dancing with the same rigid discipline as a battlefield maneuver, now moved fluidly alongside Dame Vivian. His golden blonde hair framed his sharp features, and his piercing blue eyes were focused entirely on his partner. Vivian's quick instructions and natural rhythm had brought out a tempo in Ethan that no amount of lessons ever had.
Louis leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable. "It's remarkable," he admitted. "Ethan, who was too stiff to be considered a dancer, and Micheal, who couldn't connect to the music, now command the floor."
"And yet," Eleanor interjected, her lips twitching with amusement, "our self-proclaimed best dancer seems to be struggling."
Louis followed her gaze to the far side of the platform, where Adrian von Shelb, the family's exuberant middle son, was locked in a comically uncoordinated waltz with Lady Greta, one of Vivian's wingwomen. Adrian, dressed impeccably as always, winced as he accidentally stepped on her foot for the third time.
Lady Greta, a statuesque woman with fiery red hair, glared at him with barely restrained irritation. "Lord Adrian," she said through gritted teeth, "if you step on me one more time, I swear…"
Adrian raised his hands in mock surrender. "My sincerest apologies, Lady Greta! It seems my brilliance doesn't extend to this particular waltz."
Louis let out a low chuckle, though he quickly masked it. "Adrian, the so-called dancer of the family, is earning nothing but ire."
Eleanor laughed, her hazel eyes sparkling. "Perhaps tonight isn't his night."
They both turned their attention back to Micheal and Ethan. Magda, her white and gold gown shimmering with every turn, seemed to float in Micheal's steady arms, her trust in him evident. Vivian, with her emerald green eyes shining and auburn hair glowing under the lanterns, moved with Ethan in a partnership that spoke of long-standing camaraderie and newfound grace.
Louis's expression grew contemplative. "Perhaps my decision to declare neutrality was the right one after all," he said quietly.
Eleanor tilted her head, curious. "What makes you say that?"
"Magda is a candidate for the throne, whether she likes it or not," Louis said. "And Whitestone's loyalty to the Emperor is unshakable. These pairings are more than dances—they're alliances in the making."
Eleanor smiled knowingly. "And yet, alliances or not, they're finding their way. Neutrality gives them the freedom to grow. To choose their paths."
Louis nodded slowly. "Perhaps you're right. I've always valued control, but tonight…" He gestured toward their sons. "Tonight, they're carving their own paths. And maybe, for once, I can let them."
Eleanor's laughter was soft and full of warmth. "Letting go, Louis? That might just be your greatest achievement yet."
For a moment, they sat in companionable silence, watching as their sons continued to surprise and amaze. On the far side, Lady Greta's sharp scolding reached their ears, followed by Adrian's sheepish apologies. But on the main platform, Micheal and Ethan danced with their partners, their transformations a testament to the power of connection—and the right partners to bring it to life.