The Emperor's Grand Entrance
The ceiling of Palatium, the emperor's winter palace in the snow-blanketed cradle of Manrmursk, was said to have been piled up by giants atoning for the wrath of the gods. Vast enough to defy the eye, it was a canvas painted with frescoes of saints and heroes from history. Pillars lined up as if in praise of them descended into a riot of stained glass that seized the gaze. Watching the clouds of light shatter differently with each angle stirred something profoundly fulfilling in the chest. And when the majestic yet faintly echoing strains of the pipe organ layered atop it all, that was it. The collection baskets would be overflowing again this week.
"You can't just wave your family crest from inside the carriage and expect early entry!!"
Palatium was always bustling with pilgrims and devotees, but today it was utter pandemonium—no room to set foot, let alone squeeze in another carriage. This was no ordinary day; it was a banquet welcoming none other than the emperor of the empire. Nobles from near and far, bishops, merchants, even mages from the magic towers swarmed like ants.
"Ahem... Haven't you checked everything by now?"
"It's all for everyone's safety. Your cooperation is appreciated."
Putting up with this much barely qualified as a scuffle. These were the upper crust, people whose lives from cradle to grave had rarely involved waiting. The idea of others making them wait felt like forcing on an ill-fitting garment. Still... even so... these were the imperial guards protecting no less than the emperor himself. No one wanted pointless clashes with them, and with so many eyes watching, pride demanded they maintain decorum—however precariously that thread of reason held.
"Argh, damn it! I can't wait any longer! Get your boss out here, now!"
Of course, there was always one who couldn't stomach the bruised ego over propriety.
"Threatening us won't get you in any faster. Please join the line..."
"Hey! I'm done talking to you. Fetch your superior!"
Judging by his demeanor, he wasn't hereditary nobility. Those born into it started rigorous etiquette training around the time they first babbled—they couldn't act like this. Why else the saying that even on their deathbeds, hereditary nobles fretted over decorum and dignity?
The man's outfit, with gold thread embroidered into every crease, evoked bullfighters. And that wasn't all—his carriage was decked out in fresh flowers, an extravagance in Manrmursk where even May brought snow. Look at me! I've got so much money I can decorate a carriage with live blooms in this frozen hell! Yeah, the owner was probably a merchant. One who'd struck it rich overnight, at that.
"Do you even know how much my time is worth!? How do you plan to compensate Shylock, grand merchant of the caravans, for this loss!?"
Spot on, it seemed. As the pig-violining voice grated on, Seolhwa and Helena nudged their horses alongside the line. The guard, busy placating the "grand merchant," only noticed them when they were right up close.
While he pondered how to shoo away this brazen line-jumper, Shylock butted in.
"And who the hell are you lot! Ha! This is ridiculous. Everyone in this line has time to burn! Standing around like i—!"
A deliberate flick of the hand slammed into Shylock's solar plexus. Faster than the eye—or the snowflakes—Helena's palm now held a gleaming golden badge.
Family crests, merchant guild emblems, religious icons, the magic tower's kaleidoscope patterns, and more. The guard, his expression screaming 'You're not the first to flash one of these at me today, and you sure as hell won't be the last,' raised his hand to wave them off—until his eyes bulged like they might pop.
"Th-this... My apologies! How many in your party, my lady?"
"Just two. You've had a hard time of it."
Shylock retching in agony, the highborn meekly in line, the knights managing other queues, even Seolhwa standing beside them—all were stunned. The golden badge Helena proffered blazed with the imperial crest symbolizing the emperor himself.
"How in the world do you have one of those?"
"Hehe... A woman's secrets are the thorns of a rose."
Leaving the dumbfounded crowd—who'd finally bought the "Oh, I'm a somebody"—Seolhwa and Helena entered Palatium proper. For Seolhwa, who'd hoped for more of that porcine squeal, it was a touch regrettable.
The space glittered. Even Seolhwa, who'd salon-hopped with the scions of great houses during his academy days, lost himself for a moment. Chandeliers embedded with stalactites from icy mountain caves sparkled as if to illuminate the world. Beneath them, guests bedecked in what felt like thirty percent of the realm's precious metals reveled at the banquet.
Tables groaned under black-horned beef roasts dripping juices; opposite, chefs filleted thamdarang fish tableside. And how could liquor be absent? The fountain where devotees had prayed and tested their faith just last week now spewed champagne.
But such blasphemous flair would go overlooked tonight. The place brimmed with ostentatious splendor—the space itself glittered.
"Oh! There you lads are at last."
Utopia's warden, Jepeto, approached lugging hindquarters of black-horned beef in both hands. Grease stains around his mouth suggested he'd already feasted heartily.
"Didn't you flee the capital hating places and vibes like this?"
"Aye, but...?"
Golden juices trailed down the gnawed leg.
"Nothing. You look good."
"Bland as ever. Chief clerk, grab a leg yourself."
"I'll start with a drink."
Helena headed for the sacrilegious fountain. Champagne-reflected chandelier light danced off her golden hair before vanishing.
"Ooh..."
"Stunningly beautiful."
"Which house's lady is that?"
"Hmph! Men... My waist looks slimmer, though?"
The fountain spewing bubbly and the mysterious blonde bombshell? More than enough to draw every eye nearby. Gazes thick with admiration, awe, lust, and envy coiled around Helena.
As she filled her glass and turned, the wolves pounced.
"Pardon the intrusion, lady. I'm the eldest son of Baron Beorn. Might I steal a moment?"
"Would you grant me the honor of being your dance partner shortly?"
"Humble as I am, I helm the Stan Trading Company. Care for a drink together?"
Helena, evidently unprepared for the spotlight, betrayed a flicker of surprise. Even in cooperative Utopia, a warden was a warden. Habitually reaching for her hip—where an invisible baton might be—she felt nothing.
Misreading her silence as coyness, the wolves grew eager. Then the beauty's eyes fixed on one spot.
'Me...?'
The wolves' gazes followed... straight to Seolhwa.
She extended her hand, as if awaiting an escort rather than a truncheon. A twinge of absurdity aside—other people's rice cakes always look bigger, right?—Helena amid the pack looked three times lovelier than back in Utopia.
Loath to admit he'd thought it, Seolhwa kept a straight face as he approached. The wolves eyed his matching uniform dubiously and stepped back half a pace.
"Shall we, lady?"
"Thank you, monsieur."
A northern greeting passable enough—better than his Manrmursk castle antics—and he took her hand. Her skin, glossy as fresh-glazed porcelain, was startlingly soft.
"Oh my, and who's that young master?"
"Not bad-looking. Son of which house?"
"Same outfits? Military?"
The new rooster sparked a rustle among the vixens. Seolhwa, parted hair tailored to Utopia's uniform, had the look of someone who'd broken a few hearts.
A farce erupted while he'd merely fetched champagne—and his own glass to boot. He lightly toasted Helena, who seemed inexplicably brighter. At that instant, every light in the hall converged on one spot.
A grand drumroll and trumpet fanfare boomed.
No one present was dim enough to miss the meaning.
"Emperor of the Romanov Empire; Grand Duke of Agram, Lemberg, Illyria, Chadar, and Piscarenche; Marquis of Styermark, Graz, and Ryusaka; Protector of the protectorates including Sukan, Moribwe, Fraia, Manrmursk, and more..."
Instruments fell silent, the audience held its breath, time itself hushed.
"His Imperial Majesty, Rudolf von Romanov II!!!"
Thunderous drums erupted as a red carpet unfurled crisply to the hall's center. Children in white scattered fresh petals atop it. Everyone rose as one, applauding fervently.
Rudolf von Romanov II had spent more time on tour than reigning from the capital. Even capital dwellers rarely glimpsed him; provincials like those in Manrmursk? Forget it. Tonight might launch a fateful connection to reverse one's fate—or a whole house's. Swollen cheeks rivaled bloated expectations—not just from the champagne fountain.
Jepeto made no secret of his nauseated grimace at these lifelong praise-seekers now fawning over another.
"This is why I ditched the capital... Tch!"
His grumble drowned in the din as someone strode boldly down the carpet. Like a prophet from some faith, the sea of people parted in his wake, bowing like ripened rice.
Reaching center stage, the man allowed a fitting silence before speaking.
"Thank you for gracing my humble banquet. I am Rudolf von Romanov II."