5. Aristocracy
“Sister, is there anything else you need?”
Shaylin shook her head at her younger brother Zekrit’s question. The imperial ball had been nothing short of perfection. Having already filled up at the banquet hall, she had no desire for more food or drink.
“Nope, I’m good. Why?”
Zekrit shrugged and pointed toward a secluded corner of the dais at the front of the hall. There, the crown prince of Templton was deep in conversation with the white mage. Zekrit was clearly itching to head that way.
“Ferris is here too? When did he even arrive?”
Shaylin’s surprised remark drew another shrug from Zekrit. “He’s a mage, sis. He can pop up anywhere, anytime. I’m interested in what’s going on over there, so I’m off.”
Zekrit had always idolized Exangciras. If he’d had even a spark of magical talent, he’d have ditched his promised earldom in a heartbeat, raced to Exangciras, and begged any mage he found to take him as a disciple.
Shaylin gazed at the crown prince chatting with Ferris. Rumor had it he’d recently visited the western continent over the magic stone mines, and it looked like that was the topic at hand. Zekrit had already sidled up to them, bowing politely as he introduced himself.
Templton’s crown prince, Bjorn, patted her year-younger brother’s shoulder with a bright laugh. He seemed as bold and magnanimous as the gossip suggested.
Shaylin shook her head with a wry smile. What’s so great about mages anyway? Good grief, what a child. Thinking of Zekrit gave her a headache. Just then, a servant passed with a tray of champagne flutes; she snagged one. The sweet finish carried a subtle maple aroma—likely from the Duchy of Dubayne. It suited her taste well enough, so with glass in hand, she turned her attention back to Evril and Gophrid, whom she’d been observing.
Coincidentally, Evril had just finished a waltz, and she held the same champagne as Shaylin. Her gaze was modestly fixed on the floor, while Gophrid watched her with tender eyes—until the Duke of Valois drew him into conversation.
Ever since betrothing his daughter Ignes to the crown prince last year, the Duke of Valois had been riding high. Spotting Gophrid, he beamed and launched into talk. And why not? Gophrid already managed Bluebay Trading Company, and the Kingston ducal house owned the Bluebay Shipyards to boot. Most of the swift vessels plying between the western and eastern continents came from those yards. For a duke with designs on trade, Gophrid was the prize catch at this ball—one not to be missed.
As Shaylin watched from afar, she caught Evril slowly lifting her head, her eyes cautiously drifting toward the back of the hall. Following her gaze led predictably to Olens.
Shaylin wet her throat with a sip of champagne and curled her lips. Just as she’d anticipated the whole ride here along the Templton highway, the lavish romance drama was underway, actors in full performance. And today’s twist? A redheaded woman plastered to Olens’s side, flirting shamelessly. Even from a distance, the blaze in Evril’s eyes was unmistakable.
At past balls, Shaylin had hovered near Evril, chatting amiably to keep her close while circling opportunities near Gophrid. But not tonight. For this founding festival, she’d decided to play the leisurely spectator, content to watch the melodrama unfold from the audience.
Now, will the climax of this little affair hit tonight? Or tomorrow?
Eyes alight with anticipation, Shaylin downed her champagne steadily, tracking their every move. The young lovers burned hot, their mutual longing barely concealed. They flicked glances to scatter attention, feigning nonchalance—but to an observer like her, it was plain as day. The sticky, black-smoldering gaze of raw jealousy binding them like spider silk.
Then Gophrid turned from the duke mid-conversation and fixed on Evril. He glanced at his fiancée once, then—much like Shaylin earlier—quietly traced the path of her gaze. Spotting Olens in the distance, his expression flickered thoughtfully before he turned back, pretending to listen to the duke.
Shaylin didn’t miss a beat. Gophrid knew exactly where Evril’s mind had wandered.
Shall I stir the pot a little?
The thought bubbled up—why just watch when she could direct a scene or two? She set her empty flute on a passing servant’s tray, tucked her red clutch under her arm, straightened her posture, and strode toward Evril.
Evril was lost, staring blankly at Olens, when Shaylin lightly tapped her shoulder. She startled.
“Lady Evril, enjoying the party?”
“...Yes, quite, Lady Shaylin.”
Alone, they spoke casually, but amid the crowd, Evril always observed formalities. Shaylin smiled socially, lips curving up. Evril mirrored her with elegant poise.
“You’re late to the stage tonight, Lady Platt.”
Gophrid turned briefly from the duke to greet her, and Shaylin’s mood lifted. Up close, his eyes held their usual serenity. Even after glimpsing his fiancée’s agitation, he showed no ripple. A touch disappointing.
She couldn’t pinpoint Gophrid’s feelings for Evril exactly, but from her observations, he was every inch the Kingston heir—born to grasp everything, with a fierce possessive streak. Evril had stayed meekly under his thumb so far. But this time? Maybe not.
Shaylin peered up at him, probing silently, but he merely smiled politely and turned back to the duke.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
“Anyway, Lady Evril, these new heels are killing my feet. Want to find a spot to rest? I noticed plenty of private lounges off the hall from walking over from the banquet.”
At “private lounge,” Evril’s eyes sparked. Shaylin grinned inwardly. One of her reserved rooms at Raduval might go unused after all.
“There’s that big lawn in front of Uno Palace, right? They hold Kogan matches and tournaments there sometimes. So along the corridor, there’s a row of lounges with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the grass, like VIP boxes at the opera house.”
“Perfect timing—my feet were aching. Shall we?”
Evril’s voice brightened. Shaylin smiled at Gophrid and led Evril from the hall. She felt subtle eyes trailing them from the back.
Exiting through a side door, they followed the corridor lined with small lounge rooms. Empty ones stood with doors ajar; occupied ones were shut tight, numbered plaques on each. The sizes varied as they passed.
She picked a suitable open door and stepped in. A long, plush sofa faced a small table, oriented toward the opposite floor-to-ceiling window. Night had drawn heavy curtains across it. Shaylin shut the door, crossed to the window, and swept the drapes aside. Thick velvet piled in the corners.
Beyond the revealed glass stretched a dark lawn under the night sky, dotted faintly with magical lights.
Shaylin flopped onto the sofa with a thud. Her dress hem puffed up briefly before settling. Evril sat beside her.
“Uno Palace has some unique lounges, huh? Feels like they were meant for spectators originally.”
Shaylin murmured, and Evril nodded. Sitting opened up the view, easing the mind.
“And no sound from next door means perfect soundproofing.”
Recalling the firmly shut doors on either side, Shaylin said it loud enough for Evril to catch. Evril seemed lost in thought. Soon, as Shaylin prattled on about trivial impressions of Leon, Evril chimed in half-heartedly. Her body was there, but her mind was elsewhere—blatantly so.