5. Nobility
Templeton's capital, Leon—the city of light—was not only the center of politics, economy, transportation, academia, and culture but also the epicenter of elegant, sophisticated fashion and lavish spending. Unlike the traditional, classic, even stodgy atmosphere of Leysha, the former capital of the old Koalton Empire and still the current seat of the Ashdon Empire, Leon brimmed with vibrant energy everywhere you looked. Travelers from afar often found themselves obsessively captivated by the city. Leon had a way of fitting any descriptor a visitor's mood might conjure: love-filled Leon, romance-drenched Leon, art-infused Leon, music-swirled Leon, fashion-flowing Leon, and so on.
In particular, true to its nickname as paradise for noblewomen, Fronten Square offered shopping for every adornment imaginable—accessories, shoes, hats, hairstyles, bags, makeup, and more. At its heart stood the flagship Paralroma Workshop, run by the Edelburir Duke's family, alongside Raffinement, the premier designer shop dictating dress trends for noblewomen across the eastern continent, and la beaute, specializing in cosmetics and perfumes.
Seated in her carriage bound for Leon, Shaylin recalled all this with delight. During the Founding Festival, she planned to visit every landmark the city boasted. She spread a map across her lap, circling must-see spots.
Leon’s charm lay in its distinctive free-spiritedness. While Leysha’s nobles overflowed with prying interest in one another, in Leon, a polite indifference was the norm. As long as you didn’t cause serious social scandal—doing whatever, wherever, with whomever—you were free.
Especially at La Duval, the top-tier inn run by the Duval Duke’s family. Its rooms and deposits came at a steep price, but it never pried into guests’ identities. Unlike Leysha’s noble lodgings, which demanded family names, estate details, and even servants’ names, La Duval cared only if the payer’s name matched the guest’s claim on the register—fake or real, it didn’t matter. No further questions asked.
Thus, visiting high nobles without imperial palace quarters often rented empty luxury mansions in Leon during the festival while booking La Duval rooms too. Unlike bustling estates swarming with servants and prying eyes, here discreet encounters were possible without worry.
For nobles, such free encounters were as vital as fresh air to prisoners languishing in dank dungeons. Shaylin, too, had rented two adjoining rooms at La Duval—one for herself, the other for Evril and her lover—prepaying for the ten-day festival in hopes they’d prove useful.
From years of unrequited love, Shaylin had cultivated a habit of psychologically and theoretically dissecting the emotion. She held deep fascination for the subtle psychological interplay akin to mating foreplay, coldly observing high society’s dramas.
As she admitted herself, she lacked the stunning beauty to captivate at first glance. This granted her more time than most beauties to explore her inner world in her brief life. In idle hours without social duties, she read books; when time allowed, she visited Leysha Zoo to keenly watch animal behaviors.
In her view, humans were much like beasts. High society, the pinnacle of worldly vanity, mirrored animal mating rituals almost exactly. Females flocked to capable males, males swarmed beautiful females—same as ever.
Mating involved inevitable competition, breeding jealousy. Society saw not just subtle undercurrents but explosive public jealousies, ending in death, schemes, or ruin—for self or rival.
Jealousy was oil poured on the blaze of passionate love’s flames. Tainted thus, it consumed everything around, even the lovers themselves, reducing them to ash all too often.
From her careful observations, Shaylin classified her dear friend Evril and Olens as the worst case. Their love wasn’t a slow-burning ember over time but a raging inferno. Such passion, the most headache-inducing of loves, spawned like an illegitimate child from a single fateful glance—troublesome once birthed, like most noble bastards.
It paired carnal craving with the beloved, draining time and energy until reason’s foundations crumbled. Unmoored from control, swept by unleashed passion and pleasure, they abandoned noble duties, fixated endlessly, drawing scorn and public condemnation before finally regaining senses—usually too late to salvage.
After prolonged study, Shaylin defined passionate love as: ruin of daily life, terror of incineration by one’s own flames, reckless sacrifice laced with social and moral downfall.
Yet the thrill lay in watching others’ tragic stages unfold—not yours. Cruel, tragic ends were the norm, but as mere spectator, it was delightful diversion in a dull life, like a play or opera viewed from afar.
Shaylin pictured the two actors: Evril and Olens. She eagerly anticipated what spectacle their romance—now premiering on Leon’s Founding Festival stage—would offer.
Especially with perfect outsiders Gophrid and Evril appearing together. In beastly terms, how would Olens—the endlessly pathetic weakling male—react? Jealousy? Dismissal? Acceptance? Outcomes varied, but Shaylin’s responses boiled down to just two, heart pounding at the possibilities.
The carriage slowed on the smooth paving of Templeton’s First Avenue. Ahead loomed Leon: a vast metropolis blending splendid architecture and greenery around the imperial palace.
At the capital’s gate, crowds of festival-bound carriages jammed the way. Shaylin glanced out the window.
Now, the grand curtain rose.
The Templeton Imperial Palace wasn’t a single grand castle completed after fifty years of construction but a small city of countless palaces. Tonight’s Founding Festival ball unfolded in Uno Palace, where a hundred massive, exquisite crystal chandeliers dangled from the grand hall’s latticed ceiling, casting brilliant light.
Below, on the gleaming marble floor, the orchestra on the upper gallery played Leon’s Night, a waltz. Nobles filled the hall, swirling together, parting, reforming—switching partners in flowing social dances, spinning back to originals amid the rhythm.
The imperial ball ripened in a fantastical, dreamlike haze of joyful colors, lively music, and alluring gestures.
Olens stood by a rear pillar, eyes fixed on the dais ahead. There sat the imperial family; below, ambassadors and high ministers conversed deeply as white-faced palace servants darted between them with trays.
Among the gorgeously attired dignitaries, tall, pale Evril stood out. In a blue gown with elegant cascading curves, she lightly rested her hand on her apparent fiancé’s arm, smiling intently in conversation.
She shone dazzlingly tonight. The fogflower-gemmed blue dress complemented her dark hazel eyes and fair skin, sparkling with every subtle motion.
Olens eyed her fiancé. Called Lord Kingston, he wore formal attire. Standing tall-shouldered, he was captivating enough to halt any gaze: tall frame, well-proportioned build suiting his suit, neatly trimmed ash-brown hair evoking refined urban nobility. His golden eyes, set in a coldly sculpted face, gleamed deep and dark.
Lord Kingston conversed with those around, occasionally fixing on Evril. Each time, pride and elegance fled her face, replaced by flickers of unease and submission—like a clever pet fawning over its master. She’d fall silent if he pondered; fidget if his ash-brown locks stirred mid-talk. His golden gaze drew stiff smiles from her, as if facing something fearsomely cruel yet alluring.
Olens stared relentlessly from afar. Finally sensing the prickling gaze, she lifted her demurely bowed head. Her eyes swept the hall’s rear—and met his.
For a split second, Evril froze, staring piercingly at the man.
“My lady?”
Gophrid’s low call from beside her snapped her gaze away. She turned, feigning calm with a smile toward him—but her heart raced.
Undoubtedly, Olens stood there in the distance.