The Social Ball (1)
Wednesday.
At long last, the curtain rose on the imperial court's social season.
"......Good lord."
Even on ordinary days, I'd been awestruck by the sheer scale and splendor of the imperial capital, but today's spectacle at the Imperial Palace and throughout the city shattered every expectation I'd ever harbored.
The impossibly wide boulevard leading to the palace was lined with thousands of ornate noble carriages from every corner of the continent, stretching out in an endless queue.
Nobles disembarking from their vehicles poured ceaselessly into the palace's vast courtyard, each one flaunting their house's prestige with blinding jewels, the finest silks, and rare monster leathers that screamed opulence.
Standing beside me, Amber had traded her usual casual training gear or light armor for the resplendent uniform of the Imperial Guard—crimson as fresh blood, intricately embroidered with golden thread.
Even the longsword at her hip wasn't her everyday battle-ready blade but a ceremonial piece encrusted with gems.
I, too, wore a bespoke navy tailcoat crafted especially for me by the imperial household—a luxurious garment that fit like it was made for a prince.
I'd been given permission as a defeated kingdom's royalty to don Sterling's traditional attire, but I had no particular attachment to it, and practically speaking, there hadn't been time to have anything fitted.
"There are so many people, Sir Amber. Does the Empire host events like this year-round?"
Amber adjusted the collar of her red uniform as she replied.
"Big and small parties and banquets pop up everywhere, 365 days a year without fail. But a massive formal affair like this, officially hosted by the imperial family where every noble on the continent is obligated to show their face? That happens just once a year, at the start of early winter. It's combined with the Empire's grandest holiday, the Founding Festival."
"The Founding Festival, huh...... But don't major celebrations like founding anniversaries or harvest thanksgivings usually happen in late autumn, when the crops are abundant?"
"Normally, yes. But you know the Empire's founders were a nomadic people, right?"
"Of course."
"That's why. For settled folk, autumn is when they're fattest with harvest, prime time for nomads to sweep in and reap what they've sown. By the time the nomads finish their own 'harvest,' it's late autumn. Once they've prepped for winter, it's early winter. Perfect timing for a festival."
"......Ah, I see."
"Plus, Great Emperor Uzarat proclaimed the founding in early winter. Right after raiding one of those agrarian kingdoms and making off with their bounty."
Honestly, throwing a party off the backs of a year's plundered crops and calling it your Founding Festival? Nomads through and through, down to the bone.
As Amber and I chatted, we made our way toward the palace's grand plaza, where the solemn Founding Festival rites heralded the ball's official start.
"U-za-rat! U-za-rat!!"
The bizarre yet overwhelming music flooding the plaza made me flinch.
On one side, a Western-style orchestra unleashed majestic symphonic swells with dozens of violins, cellos, and brass.
Layered atop that refined melody, though, a chorus of hundreds of men chanted the great founder's name in a guttural, throat-scraping style, weaving an eerie harmony.
Western classics fused with Eastern nomadic shamanic vocals—it was weird, but shockingly grandiose once you got past the initial shock.
"His Imperial Majesty arrives!!!"
As the uncanny sacrificial music shook the plaza, the Emperor appeared atop the massive altar.
Gone was his usual sleek black imperial robes; instead, he wore the traditional garb of a nomadic khan—layered rough leather armor studded with rivets over lavish silk, topped with thick monster-fur pelts.
Neighhh!
The Emperor himself drew a razor-sharp sword and, in a single stroke, severed the throats of the massive black stallion and white ram offered on the altar, spilling their blood for the ancestors.
"Whoa......"
The metallic tang of beast blood mingled with incense, carried on the wind.
The tens of thousands in the plaza dropped to one knee in unison, heads bowed.
Amber and I knelt at a discreet distance, watching the imperial rite to its conclusion.
Once the lengthy ceremony ended, the Emperor set aside his bloodied sword and offered a few light words of welcome from the podium before declaring the social ball officially open.
"From this moment, let the year's official Founding Festival commence. Citizens of the Empire, revel in this week of grand feasting!"
"Hurray!!"
The capital erupted into frenzied celebration at his proclamation—fireworks bursting everywhere, champagne corks popping like gunfire.
"Alright, Your Highness. My duty ends here."
Amber rose and gave me a casual salute.
"I've gotta join the military brass and knightly orders at their banquet hall. You know where to go, right?"
"Of course."
"I trust you, so I doubt it'll be an issue, but try not to pull anything shady in the chaos. Intelligence agents are watching from afar. See you later."
"Got it, Lady White. Good work. Catch you next time."
After parting with Amber, I followed a servant's guidance to my assigned spot.
"Welcome, Prince Ian of Sterling. This way to your seat, please."
The palace's opulent main hall belonged to the Empire's great nobles; hostages like me were relegated outside to a corner of the vast outdoor garden—a table just for prisoners.
It wasn't that bad, though. The buffet was piled mountain-high with food, constantly replenished with rare liquors, fruits, and delicacies.
Well, I'm not alone here—plenty of other dragged-in royals from conquered lands. Guess I'll mingle a bit, swap some intel over drinks, and chow down quietly.
I pictured myself bonding with fellow hostages, clinking glasses and sharing stories as I approached the table.
But the scene that greeted me at the garden's edge table was beyond anything I'd imagined.
"......Huh?"
A large round table hosted about a dozen foreigners.
Once proud royals of their realms, not a shred of dignity or decorum remained among them.
"......"
Chomp chomp.
Slurp slurp, guzzle!
They devoured the food like starved beasts, not exchanging a word or glance—young princes ripping meat with both hands, princesses slurping soup straight from bowls and dribbling it down their chins, even one chewing their own tongue bloody yet stuffing their face relentlessly.
It wasn't a banquet; it was a refugee camp.
What the hell is this?
Dumbfounded beside the table, I froze—until the dozen gluttonous hostages halted mid-bite, turning to glare at me in unison.
"......A celebrity graces us."
"The Sterling prince, right? Empire's lapdog now—nice coat on ya."
Caught off-guard by their inexplicable hostility, I stood there stunned.
That's when a voice cut in.
"Looks like the new guy's pretty shocked."
From the adjacent table, a man in his mid-thirties—dining with some semblance of normalcy—wiped his mouth leisurely with a napkin and stood.
Plainly dressed but ramrod straight, he approached naturally and greeted me.
"First time meeting. You're Prince Ian of Sterling, I take it?"
"Ah, yes...... that's me."
"You might not realize it, but you're kinda famous over there. Lots of folks know your name. Come with me a sec."
He lightly gripped my arm, smoothly extracting me from the growling pack of hostages, then whispered low.
"Got a moment to chat?"
"Sure, no problem. Mind if I ask your name?"
"I'm Prince Nguyen of the Nyeokmam Kingdom. Pleased to meet you."
He flashed a grin, teeth gleaming white as rice noodles.