The 254th Frozen Royal Banquet.
Hundreds of long, candle-shaped lanterns floated against the ceiling, suspended by nothing but magic, bathing the hall in a warm, flickering glow.
They were the work of Queen Grace—a testament to the spell that had written her name into royal history.
“My goodness… how breathtaking.”
“Candles floating in the sky. It’s like looking up at the stars.”
The nobles who had arrived early tilted their heads upward, murmuring in delight as they admired the ceiling.
Elsewhere, clusters of guests had already formed and were deep in conversation.
“House Krost is attending this season, isn’t that right?”
“Yes. Everyone’s been in an uproar over it.”
The banquet had officially begun, but the high-ranking families had yet to arrive.
By long-standing custom, those of greater station made a point of arriving late—a silent declaration of their standing. The royal family, in particular, was known to keep guests waiting by as much as an hour.
“The social season is about to become far more entertaining.”
Not that the lesser nobles minded.
If anything, they welcomed the window. Without the watchful eyes of the upper nobility upon them, they could trade gossip freely.
“It’s been five whole years since anyone’s caught a glimpse of Duke Krost at one of these affairs. Every banquet without that handsome face of his felt like such a waste.”
“Didn’t he just succeed in another Creature suppression campaign? The man never stops.”
A noblewoman fluttered her fan with a pleased smile.
“I doubt any of us will get close enough to actually speak to him—we’ll just have to admire him from a distance. But this banquet already feels like it’s going to be something special.”
“And they say he found Young Lord Lucas as well.”
At that, a young lady who had been hovering nearby seized her chance to join in.
“And apparently he’s formally adopted some orphan girl as his direct heir?”
The northern hero, Duke Krost. The long-lost young lord Lucas, found after five years. And Aisha—a child of no name or blood who had somehow risen to the rank of princess.
Every front page of every broadsheet this past half-year had belonged to House Krost.
And of all the stories to shake the social scene, which had caused the greatest ripple?
“…An orphan, adopted into House Krost. Honestly, it makes me want to cry. To think I was born into a marquess family, and still she outranks me.”
Without question—it was Princess Aisha.
“I’ll be honest—I’m a little concerned. Does she even know how to conduct herself? Has she had any etiquette training whatsoever?”
“She’s five years old. How bad can it be? Probably adorable.”
“Perhaps, but my own daughter is also five and has already mastered the basics of noble comportment.”
“Fair point. She hasn’t even had her debutante, and she’s already being presented at a royal banquet?”
From the moment Aisha’s name had appeared in the papers, she had been a splinter in the eye of established society.
An orphan becoming a noble? Not just any noble—one outranking the majority of those present?
Those who had been born to their titles felt something complicated stirring in them when they thought of her. Curiosity, yes—but also a deep, reflexive unease.
Perhaps that was why.
“You never know. She’s an orphan—she’s probably desperate to see how the other half lives. Could be she badgered the duke into bringing her, whether he wanted her here or not.”
“Speaking of which—why did Duke Krost adopt an orphan in the first place?”
“He lost his wife and children and spent five years shut away from the world. Loneliness will do strange things to a person.”
“Convenient timing, wouldn’t you say? Appearing when the duke was at his most vulnerable and managing to wrangle herself an adoption.”
“When you put it like that, she sounds rather calculating.”
“Calculating is exactly the word! Orphans are everywhere, aren’t they? If she caught his eye, it wasn’t out of pity—there must be something different about her. Something that worked in her favor.”
What had begun as breathless admiration had curdled, steadily, into the particular sourness of envy.
“Though really—now that Lord Lucas has returned, do you honestly think the young lord will bother sparing a thought for some orphan girl?”
“Exactly. The duke might have found her charming at first, but with his real blood returning home? She’s as good as yesterday’s news.”
Who could say, really.
There was every chance that the moment they entered the hall, Duke Krost would have eyes only for Lucas—and look straight through Aisha as though she weren’t there at all.
“Pfft—!”
Several clusters of nobles exchanged glances, and behind their fans, shoulders began to shake.
They were still thoroughly enjoying themselves when the doors at the far end of the hall swung open.
“Presenting the Lord of the North and Hero of the Realm—Calypse Krost, Duke of House Krost! Young Lord Lucas Krost! Princess Aisha Krost!”
At the chamberlain’s announcement, every head in the hall swiveled toward the entrance. The great doors parted—
“…!”
Several young ladies stopped breathing entirely at the sight of the man who stepped through.
Duke Krost wore the white dress uniform of the North—a sharp, immaculate thing that fit perfectly across his broad, inverted-triangle frame. The left breast of his coat bore a row of medals, each one a chapter of his history.
His black hair was swept back from a clean forehead. His eyes—sharp, deep, cold—and the strong line of his nose gave him the quality of a figure from a great painting rendered in rough, bold strokes.
But that was not what made the hall’s collective jaw drop.
“Our little one—are you nervous? Shall we go find the chocolates? Look, there’s a chocolate fountain over there.”
The man who looked entirely unapproachable was standing there in the middle of the ballroom.
“We’ll go see the chocolate fountain. Don’t you worry, sweetheart—no need to tremble.”
“I’m not trembling, you knoooow?”
And he was cooing at a small, entirely unfazed child cradled in his arms.
Meanwhile, walking alongside him, Young Lord Lucas—
“Dandelion. Once you get down from Papa’s arms, you have to hold only my hand the whole time, all right? Don’t let go, not even for a second. Do you understand?”
—was circling the duke, keeping his eyes fixed exclusively on the golden-haired little girl.
What on earth is this…
The fans stilled. The fluttering stopped.
The hero they had revered. The mysteriously absent, devastatingly handsome duke who had been gone five years.
He had not only waltzed in carrying an orphan—he was now pushing through the crowd and making a beeline for the chocolate fountain.
And the tiny princess in question, this child called Aisha—
“I’d rather have strawberry than chocolate, actually?”
—had extended one small finger and was pointing toward a different table entirely.
“Then strawberry it is.”
“Dandelion, funny thing—I suddenly feel like strawberry too!”
And at the direction of that little finger, both men pivoted as one and strode with great purpose toward the strawberry dessert display.
“…”
“…”
The faces of the nobles who, not five minutes ago, had been gleefully dissecting Aisha’s character turned to stone.
She didn’t hear us. Right? There’s no way she heard us.
One by one, fans crept back up to conceal mortified expressions, and the guilty parties drifted—one by one, then in small clusters—toward whichever other group of guests seemed most innocuously occupied.
“Oh my—what were you all just discussing?”
“Actually, we were just saying—we happened to exchange a few words with Princess Aisha just now, and she was absolutely charming. Such impeccable manners—so composed, so bright.”
“Really?”
“Yes, truly. You’d have thought she’d already had her debutante. She was perfect. In fact, we were just about to go and properly introduce ourselves to the princess—so if you’ll excuse us…”
“I beg your pardon?”
The noble holding the fan blinked in bewilderment.
“We’ll be taking our leave now.”
The young ladies offered gracious bows—and then were simply gone.
The message, though delivered with a smile, was unmistakably clear: We’re throwing our lot in with Princess Aisha. And you are not welcome.
“…”
It was a refusal as firm as any door slammed shut.
________________________________________
✶ · · ·𝒟 · · ·✶
________________________________________
Unaware of anything unfolding behind her, I was busy eating strawberry desserts.
“This is really good, Oppa.”
“Dandelion—try the chantilly cream cake too. The texture is subtly different from the ones at our estate. I can’t quite put my finger on why.”
Lucas speared a small piece of cake on his fork and held it out toward my mouth—
“Mfph.”
I chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, and felt a slow, satisfied smile spread across my face.
“Move it forward three hours,” Calypse said above me, in a low voice directed at Knox.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Whatever he was talking about—I had no idea, and honestly, I wasn’t particularly concerned. He was the hero of the North. He could manage.
I am very happy right now.
Sugar-drunk and pleasantly drowsy, I blinked my lazy, half-lidded eyes and burrowed deeper into my father’s chest.
It wasn’t as though I’d planned for things to go this way.
My original strategy had been something along the lines of “I can handle everything myself, thank you”—the clever, capable young noblewoman approach.
But then—just before we’d entered the hall.
With Lord Lucas back, honestly—does anyone think the young lord is going to give a second thought to some orphan?
Right. The duke might have found her sweet at first, but now that his real blood is home? She’ll be yesterday’s news before the night is over.
The voices had drifted through the doors, clear as bells.
And that had changed things.
Not that I’d intended it to, exactly—but then I’d seen the look on my father’s face.
Get me the names of every last one of them.
Calypse had been staring through the doors, his eyes ablaze, issuing the order to Knox in a voice like a blade being drawn.
Someone had to de-escalate the situation. And that someone, clearly, was me.
Calculating, am I?
Nestled in my father’s arms, I had cast a calm, deliberate gaze toward the source of the whispers.
The nobles in question flinched the moment our eyes met—and immediately hid behind their fans, already retreating.
Calculating?! Me?! Fine. Let me show you what calculating actually looks like.
Former spy.
Five years old.
Beyond calculating—I am going to grind your pride into powder with meticulous, surgical precision.
“Papa.”
“What.”
“Your calculating little daughter would very much like to pay her respects to Her Majesty Queen Grace. With Knox, if possible.”
________________________________________
