Three Years Later: Triumph at the Violette Concours
Violette, the wife of Knight King Lenz, loved music. When he returned from war weary in body and spirit, she soothed him with the warm tones of her instruments. Moved by this, Lenz established the Violette Concours in her honor. And so the tradition began.
"Quite a crowd, huh?"
"Don't worry. We can use the VIP entrance."
Violette Hall was packed. Nobles' ostentatious carriages and automobiles had nearly gridlocked the street out front.
As Elizabeth's family, I had VIP access for the concours. I slipped through the private entrance and took my seat in the viewing area to wait.
"Shouldn't we check on Ellie in the waiting room?"
Hildegard asked.
"I'd love to, but she said no. She wants to make her entrance from the front of the stage."
"Impressive. I hope she stays steady and nails it."
"She will."
The concert hall hosting the concours was a vast semicircle. The stage for performers sat in the center, with seats radiating outward in tiers like steps. Ornate ceiling decorations and murals elevated the artistic atmosphere. Yet the hall as a whole was dimly lit—a darkness that only amplified its solemn weight.
At the very front of the stage, the judges sat sternly, ready to evaluate the performers. They weren't just from Eisenwalt; they were masters from across the world.
Meanwhile, at the back of the viewing area sat King Siegfried himself. Attendants and royal guards stood watch around him like sentinels. Word was the king had come because his princess was competing—his beloved youngest daughter, apparently.
It was my first time seeing the king.
"I'll go pay my respects to His Majesty briefly."
"I'll come with."
"No need. I'll be quick."
Hildegard rose from her seat, her loyalty to the crown—forged by the house she saved—driving her to greet him. The concours hadn't started yet; there was still time.
She returned shortly after.
"Hey."
"Yes."
"No issues?"
"...There were too many seeking audience with His Majesty. I couldn't get through."
"Too bad. Next time."
I turned to glance at the king. He was a plump, shortish man in his mid-sixties who somehow looked youthful. He exchanged kind smiles and greetings with those who'd come to see him.
Beside him stood Felix, headmaster of Lenz Academy. Felix's house of Ladenburg was a grand ducal family with royal blood. They'd served as royal chamberlains for generations, and Felix himself held the dual roles of royal chamberlain and Lenz Academy headmaster. It was proof of his talent—and the king's trust.
King Siegfried. The Good King. The Wise King. Hailed as the greatest monarch in history.
I studied him closely. He beamed with a benevolent smile, sharing pleasantries with his retainers. But something felt off.
His face radiated worldly kindness, yet it struck me as awkward, like a mask that didn't quite fit—like a con artist's facade, clashing with his true nature. That's the vibe I got.
And something else. Real people have flaws, even one. But he had none. He was the perfect "virtuous ruler" straight out of a play, which set off alarm bells.
Of course, this was just my gut. He might truly be a good king. Still, I'd play it safe and stay wary. My instincts had served me well over the years, and caution never hurt.
As Hildegard and I chatted idly, the curtains parted left and right, revealing the stage. A grand piano stood proudly at its center.
The house lights dimmed further. But the stage glowed bright. Conversations in the seats hushed instantly, all eyes drawn to the stage.
Quietly, the concours began.
The announcer called the first name.
"Trabrtche Hercula."
The performer strode from stage left, bowed to the audience, sat, and played.
I didn't indulge in this sort of culture often. Tickets were pricey, and I lacked the artistic ear—operas or plays suited me better. But even my tin ear could tell this was top-tier.
"The princess's turn next," Hildegard murmured softly.
"Mandelia de Lenz."
The announcer's voice rang out, and a girl with bright chestnut hair stepped forward. A beautiful girl.
The princess curtsied gracefully and began. It was the finest performance so far.
Clap clap clap.
The silent audience finally applauded—the first time.
"She's got real skill."
"They say she's loved the piano since childhood."
"Ellie's up next... Think she can pull it off?"
The princess had just aced it right before her—pressure on Ellie was inevitable.
"...She'll do great."
Hildegard swallowed hard and took my hand. Her warmth eased my worry. I nodded gravely and focused on the stage.
The hall fell silent again.
"Elizabeth Valentine."
Click-clack.
Clear footsteps echoed through the hush. All eyes turned to the entrance.
A girl with long, gleaming golden hair appeared slowly. Waves rippled with each step. The stage lights turned her locks almost platinum.
She wore a white dress with an off-shoulder neckline. Soft magical lights bathed her hair and delicate pale shoulders.
Her sculpted features caught the glow, casting deep shadows that lent nobility and mystery to her transcendent beauty—like a masterpiece painting.
At center stage, Elizabeth bowed calmly, lifting the hems of her skirt lightly with thumb and forefinger. Her right foot crossed behind the left in a swan's graceful curtsy. Perfect.
"..."
"..."
"..."
A breathless silence fell, as if even breathing had stopped. Young and old, commoner, noble, royal—everyone was entranced by this girl named Elizabeth.
It went beyond "pretty" or "beautiful"—awe-inspiring reverence. An ethereal aura transcended mortal beauty. She embodied nobility and mystery beyond human eyes.
Like an oil portrait defying a stiff photograph, she filled the vast hall with her presence alone.
The audience's bated breath held until she demurely sat and placed her hands on the keys—as if compelled by unspoken command.
Then, from her fingertips, art unfolded.
The piece was the same as the others: "Early Winter." But even identical scores vary wildly in mood, momentum, emotion by performer. That's what made it brutal—any shortfall showed instantly.
And the princess before her had excelled. She attended the Imperial Academy, not Lenz—prestigious beyond compare. Her playing brimmed with raw emotion and flawless technique. Everyone sensed it: she'd take first.
—Until Elizabeth began.
The concours piece, Early Winter, captured a composer's aching love unfulfilled—tragedy, pain, yet life's meaning in loving from afar despite it all. No flashy runs or virtuosity; instead, glass-like delicacy. It demanded precision, splitting performers into extremes: dull if flawed, sublime if mastered.
Elizabeth's was the finest yet—surpassing all.
"Ah..."
A lady's stifled sob escaped. Mouth agape, tears streamed down her face.
Early Winter: the composer's agony at his lover's political marriage, his inability to die while she lived. It pierced cochleas, souls. By the end, most wept openly—not just her.
In the brief stir, I whispered:
"Damn, she killed it. Right?"
"..."
"...Hildegard?"
"Sniff, boo-hoo..."
"..."
I quietly offered my handkerchief.
Thus ended Elizabeth's Early Winter, wrenching hearts raw.
As her final note rang and she turned to the audience, silence held.
Then, precisely five seconds later—
Clap clap clap clap!!!
Thunderous applause erupted. Some leapt up, sobbing and clapping.
Even the judges—stoic-legged since the start—hid faces, tears flowing.
"...We will now announce the winner of this concours."
The announcer took the stage, his face shadowed. It was obvious who won—but the king's cherished youngest was competing. Pure skill or not, politics loomed.
"First place, Early Winter, Elizabeth Valentine."
Clap clap clap!
Elizabeth ascended the top podium, trophy in arms, gazing at me. Radiant light framed her angelic face.
"...Second place, Early Winter, Mandelia de Lenz."
The princess mounted the lower podium, her face twisting viciously.
I glanced back at the king. He clapped silently, murmuring to Felix.
I sharpened my hearing.
"Felix, what house does that girl hail from?"
"Leo Valentine's only daughter, Your Majesty."
"And where is this Leo Valentine?"
I faced forward again. Soon, I felt the king's gaze lock on me.
*
"Daddy~!"
In the participants' waiting room, I braced for Elizabeth's fierce hug.
She launched into my arms; I leaned back slightly, embracing her.
"How was I? Did I do good?"
She nuzzled my neck, urging an answer.
I patted her back.
"Yeah, you were incredible. Honestly, I nearly teared up."
"Aw, so close to making Daddy cry."
Elizabeth pulled back and eyed Hildegard behind me.
"Hello."
Not cold, but not warm.
Hildegard smiled softly.
"Hello, Ellie. Loved your performance."
"Glad to hear it. Thanks."
Three years on, their talk stayed a tad awkward. That was why I hesitated on marriage. Soon they'd be mother and daughter on paper—awkwardness like this hurt me.
"Alright, let's grab dinner. Reserved a nice window table."
I clapped both women's shoulders, heading out—
If not for the royal guard in finery.
"His Majesty wishes to see you."