1711, Aethiel Palace, Kestramore City
Ripples formed in the golden liquid in Julian's crystal goblet as the room swayed along with the dance of the common folk, and their visible joy and merriment were almost contagious.
The night was still young, and this was only the tip of the festivities. The sight of such magnificent splendour enamoured the common folk, and that night, they intended to enjoy it to their heart's content.
Julian solemnly stood in a slightly hidden, obscure corner, despite being the focus of tonight's festivities. The golden fireworks, the eponymous to tonight's event had yet to be lit, but judging by how intoxicated everyone was, he doubted that anyone would care.
The events of the past few months had finally come to a head, and tonight, whether he liked it or not, he had to choose one of the remaining six ladies to become his bride.
His entire body and soul only yearned for one, but he was unsure if she felt the same way for him. From the very first moment when he saw her at the academy, he was already besotted, and those feelings never really went away.
But she had turned him away during that night at the library, as if he were a thorn in her side, yet she seemed perfectly content being around Alessandro d'Augustine. Julian was confused, conflicted even.
Then, a soft, demure voice rang beside him, jolting him awake from his thoughts.
"Your Highness," Marguerite greeted, bowing gracefully. "You seem to be in deep thought."
"How could I not?" Julian replied with a chuckle. "Tonight, I must make the biggest choice in my lifetime."
Marguerite softly laughed as she lowered her head. Tonight, she had ensured that her appearance would outshine every lady in the ballroom, and from the looks of it, she had succeeded.
Her long, pale blonde hair was coiffed up in an elaborate pouffe hairstyle, with blue silken ribbons holding the hairdo in place. Pearls and diamond ornaments adorned her hair, and a single feather that had been dyed blue was inserted into her hair, completing the ensemble.
Marguerite's gown was of the latest fashion-- a cornflower blue satin gown with a square neckline that revealed just enough skin to tempt a man without seeming too desperate, sleeves that stretched to her forearm, a cinched waist and a wide, flaring skirt with golden thread embroidery motifs.
Her faux sapphire jewellery adorned her neck and wrists, and though they were fake, Marguerite's noble grace made it seem as if they were the finest jewellery that anyone could find.
"Your Highness, if you are willing, let me ease your troubles away," she said smilingly. "This room is filled with people, yet none of them offered me to a dance. Such a shame, as I do love to dance."
Julian almost guffawed. It was such a blatant attempt to get him to dance with her, it was as clear as day. But then again, a single dance wouldn't hurt, would it?
"Well then, would you give me the honour of leading you through this first dance?" he offered, extending out a gloved hand.
Marguerite smiled as she demurely grasped onto his hand. "You may," she said with certainty.
"I haven't seen Nina yet," Rafael remarked to his cousin, Tristan de Fontaine. "Do you think that she might be ill?"
Tristan shook his head. "Knowing Nina, she is probably just taking her time to do her hair and makeup. You mustn't worry."
"I would much rather prefer if she does not show up at all," Rafael confessed. "Look at all these drunken men and women. I wouldn't want them anywhere near our sister."
"If she doesn't show up, then how is the Prince supposed to fall in love with her?" Tristan chuckled softly.
Rafael turned to glance at Julian, who was waltzing with Marguerite le Prince. "There are thousands of ladies in this kingdom. He should quickly marry one of them and leave Nina alone."
He brought the goblet of red wine to his lips, only to find that it was already empty. Rafael turned around to find a servant to refill his goblet, but instead, he came face to face with the kingdom's famous beauty, Ingrid Blanchard.
"Master Lombardi," she greeted. "It's such a pleasure to see you."
"Likewise, Lady Blanchard," he replied cordially, though he took a step back to maintain a comfortable distance.
Ingrid took a step forward. "You may call me Ingrid. Lady Blanchard doesn't sound very intimate, does it?"
"We do not know each other well, so I believe that it is inappropriate for me to refer to you by your given name."
"Then we should know each other better," Ingrid added, almost exasperatedly. "Come, dance with me, Rafael."
And with that, she gently brushed her fingers around Rafael's, hoping that her soft touch would melt his heart, but it seemed to hold the opposite effect.
Rafael briskly stepped away, his eyes wide with horror at her misconduct. "You are being impertinent, Lady Blanchard."
Ingrid failed to understand why Rafael was so cold towards her. Was she not the fairest lady in the kingdom? Her violet eyes and golden hair had been the subject of numerous paintings and poems, all praising her divine, ethereal beauty. But why does this man, this impossibly handsome man, treat her so coldly?
Were they not on par with each other? Were they not each other's equals?
"But Rafael..."
Ingrid's voice slowly died out when she noticed the smile forming on Rafael's lips, and for a brief moment, she thought that he was smiling at her.
Her heart began to bloom with joy, but the buds of hope were quickly nipped when she realised that he was not looking at her. Instead, he was looking at the person standing behind her.
Princess Demitria.
Rafael carelessly threw the empty goblet into Tristan's arms before walking past Ingrid, his eyes set on Demitria.
Tonight, the princess had donned a sheer, dark blue silken gown, complimenting Rafael's black suit with turquoise accents. Her exquisite dark hair cascaded down her back like ripples on a pool of still water, and beads of freshwater pearls on a silver chain encircled her head, with a single aquamarine gem in the shape of a teardrop left dangling above the middle of her brows.
Demitria was not as blindingly beautiful as Ingrid was, instead, her beauty was subtle and delicate, and the more you looked, the lovelier she became.
"Good evening, Princess," Rafael greeted, his mouth unbearably dry, as if he had just eaten a mouthful of sand. He had rehearsed quite a few lines in his head beforehand, but once Demitria's dark blue eyes met with his, Rafael felt as if his mind had gone blank.
"Good evening, Master Lombardi," she responded, visibly amused by Rafael's speechlessness.
Rafael wanted to say something, anything, but he could hear nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat. He could feel his mouth open and shut and the vibration in his throat, though he had not realised what he had just said.
"Of course, Master Lombardi," Demitria chuckled. "Lead the way."
"Pardon?"
Demitria looked up at him with confusion. "You asked me to dance with you. Why, are you changing your mind now?"
Rafael inhaled sharply as he swiftly shook his head. "No, not at all. Let us dance, Princess."
When Demitria gently accepted his hand, Rafael cursed himself for wearing gloves that night. Nonetheless, he led her to the dancefloor, and the surrounding folk quickly cleared the path for them.
The orchestra quickly changed their tune from a fun, medieval jaunt to a more sophisticated violin piece, and though it was pleasant to hear at first, it gradually became more and more blaring and irritating.
"Do you know this piece?" Demitria asked.
"I've heard it before, but I do not know the name," Rafael replied truthfully. "I am not that proficient in music."
Demitria let out a low hum as she allowed herself to sway along with the music. "Well then, what are you proficient at? Surely there must be something you are good at. Let's say, business? Accounting maybe?"
"Not quite. I do enjoy equestrian sports though."
"What do you plan to do for a living, Master Lombardi?
Rafael awkwardly chuckled. "I am not sure. I do have a modest inheritance from my late father, but it is unclear if I would ever get it."
"An inheritance?"
"Yes. It isn't much, to be honest. Just a small piece of land with a few serfs here and there. But my father's brother is in control now. If my late aunt had not taken me in, who knows where I would have ended up."
The music gradually quietened, but neither of them had noticed. "When you marry, where do you plan to establish your household?"
A sly smirk formed on Rafael's lips as he heard Demitria's question, and immediately he knew where the conversation was headed.
"I have no titles or wealth to my name, but my uncle the Duke had promised me a modest house in the countryside if I ever should marry. We shall work the fields and raise pigs and cattle. It is far from luxurious, but it is a simple, honest life, don't you agree?"
"You speak as if we were to be wed," Demitria retorted.
"It is hypothetical. But answer me this, Princess. Do you not agree?"
Demitria's footsteps came to an abrupt halt. "I agree. But it is not the life for me. I am the Princess of this kingdom. I cannot possibly lead the life of a commoner."
"I see, though it does hurt to know that the life I lead every day is deemed unacceptable by you. Tell me, Princess, are you repulsed by me too?"
An exasperated scoff left Demitria's lips as she glared at Rafael, the whites of her eyes now tinted with a faint red. "No," she mouthed.
"No?" Rafael repeated.
"No, not at all," she murmured weakly.
"Your words contradict each other, Princess."
Demitria's grip on Rafael's gloved hand tightened. "Earlier, it was my mind talking. And now, it is my heart. When you are torn apart by your responsibilities and the desires of your own heart, you will understand."
"I do know that my heart only yearns for one person-- you."
"So do I," Demitria whispered. "But love is not enough to sustain a living. Love will not miraculously make my father allow you to marry me. That is all wishful thinking, Master Lombardi."
"Isn't love itself a miracle?"
"It is. And that is as far as it goes. Once the love wanes, there will be nothing left but regret."
Rafael smiled bitterly as he let go of Demitria's hand. "I see now."
"As you should," she added weakly. "You and I do not belong together. You have your own world and I have mine. You and I, we can never be together."
The ballroom swayed along with the music and the thumping footsteps of the drunken folk as they twirled and pranced to their heart's content, and the palace had never been so warm and full of life prior to tonight.
But there, in the heart of the ballroom, it was cold and lifeless, like the dead of winter.