The grand doors of the royal ballroom at New Years Eve swung open with practiced precision, their polished surfaces gleaming under the soft glow of the crystal chandeliers inside. A hush swept through the crowd as a herald stepped forward, his regal crimson-and-gold uniform catching the light. His voice boomed across the room with commanding clarity:
“Presenting Count Victor Aurelian Cassidor de Roman, the esteemed Countess Eleanora Juliette Valrenne de Roman, and their son, Lord Lucien Darius de Roman.”
Heads turned in unison, conversations paused mid-sentence, and the orchestra’s notes softened ever so slightly as the family entered.
Count Victor led the way, his tall, broad-shouldered figure draped in a deep navy coat accented with gold embroidery. His every step carried the quiet confidence of a man whose rank and lineage required no introduction. His piercing gray eyes swept over the room, nodding imperceptibly at familiar faces but keeping his posture formal, as was customary in such gatherings.
Beside him walked Countess Eleanora, her presence a beacon of grace and composure. Her emerald gown shimmered under the chandelier’s glow, the fabric catching the light like a river of jewels. Her auburn hair was pinned elegantly, allowing her matching emerald earrings to glint softly with each movement. Every step she took was measured, every nod and smile calculated, as though she had been born to command the attention of such rooms.
Trailing a step behind them was their sixteen-year-old son, Lucien. His neatly combed dark hair framed a face that bore the sharp features of his father and the fine refinement of his mother. Though his posture was straight and his formal attire perfectly tailored, the slight tension in his jaw betrayed his unease. His dark eyes darted over the room as though searching for an escape route, his hands brushing nervously against the sides of his coat.
The ballroom was an awe-inspiring sight, a symphony of light and luxury that seemed almost unreal. An enormous crystal chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling, its countless facets scattering golden light. Above, the ceiling itself was a masterpiece, painted with intricate frescoes of mythical gods and celestial skies.
Below, nobles swirled like waves of color. Women in flowing gowns of silk and velvet twirled across the polished marble floor, their outfits adorned with shimmering embroidery and gemstones. Men’s tailored coats, with sharp cuts and embroidered cuffs, gleamed under the chandelier’s glow. Together, they created a living painting, moving in harmony with the orchestra’s waltz.
The air carried the mingled scents of roses and lavender from towering floral arrangements in each corner. Along the walls, banquet tables overflowed with delicacies—golden platters of hors d’oeuvres and desserts crafted like sculptures. Servants moved silently, their black-and-white uniforms blending seamlessly into the background as they refilled goblets and trays.
At the far end of the room, an orchestra played from a raised dais, their performance both lively and refined. The violins sang in harmony with the deeper notes of the cellos, their melody weaving through the clinking of glasses and bursts of polite laughter. The dancers on the floor moved in perfect synchronicity, their steps light and effortless as though they were floating.
Lucien’s gaze flicked around the room, his discomfort growing with every second. The chandelier’s brilliance was almost blinding, reflecting off gilded mirrors strategically placed along the walls to create an illusion of infinite space. The bustling energy of the crowd was suffocating, each corner of the room alive with movement and sound.
His parents, by contrast, navigated the crowd with ease. Count Victor exchanged firm handshakes and respectful nods with his acquaintances, his deep voice carrying faintly over the hum of conversation. Eleanora greeted admirers with her practiced smile, her charm subtle but undeniably effective. Together, they moved as though they belonged at the very center of the grand affair.
Lucien, however, felt like a fish out of water. He lingered behind them, hoping to avoid drawing attention to himself. Parties like these had never appealed to him, and tonight was no different. The endless stream of polite conversation struck him as hollow, and the glimmering finery seemed more a performance than anything meaningful.
Groups of young nobles his age dotted the room, their laughter bright and carefree as they exchanged jokes and stories. But even among them, Lucien felt no connection. Their lighthearted chatter felt foreign to him, a world away from the quiet solace of the books he preferred.
Adjusting the stiff collar of his formal attire, Lucien’s eyes wandered to the garden doors. The thought of the cool night air, free from the overwhelming warmth and noise of the ballroom, tugged at him.
The music reached a crescendo, the orchestra’s melody swelling as the dancers spun faster. The crowd seemed entirely absorbed in their revelry, and Lucien seized his opportunity. Without a word to his parents, who were deep in conversation with an imposing duke, he slipped away.
Without a backward glance, Lucien made his way to the garden doors. The prospect of the cool night air and the silence of the outdoors was far more appealing than the dazzling chaos of the ballroom. The grandeur inside, while undeniably beautiful, did not speak to him
As he pushed open the doors and stepped into the night, he felt a sense of relief. This was what he yearned for—not the bright lights and endless chatter, but the simplicity of the stars above and the quiet companionship of the wind. In the stillness of the garden, he could finally breathe.
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The night air greeted Lucien like an old friend, crisp and cool against his skin. He inhaled deeply, letting the scent of jasmine and damp earth fill his lungs. Behind him, the muffled sounds of the party faded into the background, replaced by the soft rustling of leaves and the distant chirp of a cricket.
The royal garden stretched before him, a carefully cultivated masterpiece bathed in golden lantern light. Cobblestone paths wound between hedges trimmed with precision, and flowerbeds swayed gently in the breeze. Everything here was serene, a sharp contrast to the chaotic brilliance he had left behind.
Lucien wandered aimlessly, his footsteps light against the stone path. For the first time that evening, his shoulders relaxed. His father’s insistence that he attend the ball had felt like a burden, a duty he had no desire to fulfill. Building connections, his father had said. Lucien let out a soft snort. The only thing he had built so far was a deeper disdain for small talk.
As he followed the winding path, he came upon a pond nestled in a secluded corner. Its surface was like glass, reflecting the moon and stars with perfect clarity. The stones bordering the water were carved with intricate floral patterns, faintly glowing with magical runes woven into their design.
Lucien’s gaze froze on the figure at the water’s edge.
A girl sat with her back to him, her brown hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. She was hunched forward, her hands moving delicately in front of her. Small shapes hovered in the air before her, their faint glow catching the moonlight.
Mud, Lucien realized. But it was alive, shifting and swirling as if it had a mind of its own.
She moved with practiced precision, her fingers weaving through the air like a conductor directing a silent symphony. The mud began to take shape: a knight, a dragon, a castle. Each figure glowed faintly, their movements impossibly lifelike. The knight raised its sword, the dragon spread its wings, and the castle gates opened and closed, all as if they were part of some miniature play.
Lucien stood transfixed, his curiosity sparking to life. Magic had always seemed functional to him—meant for solving problems or fulfilling practical needs. But this? This was something else entirely. It was art, a fleeting moment of beauty that served no purpose other than to exist.
For a moment, Lucien considered stepping closer, but he hesitated. He wasn’t interested in her—just the magic. Striking up a conversation felt tedious, and he saw no need to disturb her.
But fate had other plans.
As Lucien shifted his weight to leave unnoticed, his boot caught on a loose stone. He stumbled forward, landing with a sharp thud that shattered the quiet of the garden.
The girl turned, her wide brown eyes locking onto his for an instant. Startled, she scrambled backward, her foot slipping against the pond’s edge.
With a startled yelp, she tumbled into the water, disappearing beneath the surface in an explosion of ripples.
Lucien froze, his heart leaping into his throat. For a moment, he simply stared, panic rooting him in place. Then the water stilled, and she didn’t resurface.
“Help!” he shouted toward the distant lights of the palace. “Someone, help her!”
No one came.
Throwing off his coat, Lucien plunged into the pond. The icy water shocked him, stealing his breath, but he forced himself to dive. The moonlight barely pierced the murky depths, and his hands groped blindly until they brushed against fabric.
Grabbing hold, he kicked hard, dragging her upward.
They broke the surface with a gasp, the girl sputtering as she choked on water. Lucien hauled her toward the bank, his arms trembling with the effort. He pushed her onto the grass before collapsing beside her, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.
For a moment, the world was still. The only sounds were their labored breathing and the gentle drip of water falling from their soaked clothes.
Lucien turned his head slightly, unsure of what to say. She sat hunched forward, her knees pulled to her chest, her damp hair clinging to her face.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
The night had taken a turn Lucien never expected, leaving him restless—and more curious than ever.
The quiet calm of the garden was gone. Now the gentle rustling of leaves had been replaced by hurried footsteps and the bobbing glow of lanterns as palace workers rushed toward the commotion. Their faces, a mix of confusion and alarm, turned toward Lucien and the girl by the pond’s edge. Both of them were drenched, their clothes clinging uncomfortably to their skin, and they shivered in the biting night air.
An older worker stepped forward first, his arms laden with towels. He quickly handed one to Lucien, who took it with a brief nod, wrapping it tightly around his shoulders. Another towel was offered to the girl, who sat on the ground with her knees pulled up to her chest. Her brown hair hung in soaked strands over her face, her wide eyes darting toward Lucien, both embarrassed and startled by the situation.
“What happened, my lord?” one of the workers finally asked, his voice cautious and urgent.
Lucien stood, his movements stiff as he adjusted the towel. He brushed wet hair from his face and cleared his throat. “She fell into the pond,” he said simply, his tone clipped and awkward. “I pulled her out.”
The girl kept her head down, her hands clutching the towel tightly. Her lips parted as if to say something, but no words came out. Instead, her face flushed, a faint redness spreading across her cheeks. The workers exchanged uncertain glances, unsure whether to ask more or remain silent.
The sound of hurried footsteps on the gravel path caught everyone’s attention. Lucien turned to see two figures approaching, their movements brisk and filled with purpose. Even in the dim light, their stately presence was unmistakable. The girl’s parents, Marquise Adrastos Valmontier and Lady Rosalind Amara Valmontier, arrived with worried expressions etched on their faces. Close behind were Count Victor and Countess Eleanora, their own faces portraying a mix of concern and confusion.
The Marquise was the first to speak, his voice deep and commanding. “What is the meaning of this?” His sharp gray eyes swept over the scene, pausing on his daughter, who shrank slightly under his gaze, and then on Lucien, who stood stiffly nearby.
Squaring his shoulders, Lucien met the Marquise’s gaze, though he felt the weight of it pressing down on him. “She slipped into the pond,” he explained, his voice steady but carrying a slight edge of defensiveness. “There was no one around to help, so I went in after her.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them. The Marquise’s stern expression softened slightly as he turned to his daughter. His voice dropped, his tone far gentler than before. “Are you hurt, my dear?”
The girl shook her head quickly, her voice barely above a whisper. “No, Papa. I’m fine,” she said, though her cheeks burned with embarrassment.
The Marquise let out a quiet sigh of relief before turning his attention back to Lucien. His expression regained its sharpness, though this time it carried an air of gratitude. “Young Lord Roman,” he said, inclining his head slightly, “it seems I owe you thanks for saving my daughter.”
Lucien blinked at the acknowledgment, caught off guard. He opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted as his father stepped forward.
“It was nothing, Marquise,” Count Victor said smoothly, bowing slightly. His tone was polite and carefully measured. “Anyone in my son’s position would have done the same.”
The Marquise raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint smile. “Perhaps,” he replied, his voice lighter now, though still firm. “But it wasn’t just anyone—it was your son.” He glanced at Lucien again. “You’ve raised a young man with quick thinking and courage.”
Victor’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly, his discomfort subtle but noticeable. The Marquise’s higher rank was not something he could easily ignore, and his response was cautious. “You are generous with your praise,” he said carefully. “Lucien simply did what was right.”
The Marquise gave a soft chuckle, his demeanor warming as he extended a hand toward Victor. “Be that as it may, I am grateful. If ever there is a way I can repay this kindness, do not hesitate to ask. My word is not given lightly.”
Victor hesitated, then clasped the offered hand firmly, though his manner remained reserved. “Your gratitude is more than enough,” he replied diplomatically.
Lady Rosalind, who had been watching silently, stepped forward at last. Her expression was kind as she knelt beside her daughter, draping an arm around her protectively. She looked up at Lucien, her eyes soft with appreciation. “Thank you, young lord,” she said warmly. “You’ve done far more than anyone could have expected tonight.”
Lucien gave a stiff nod, unsure how to respond. The attention made him feel awkward and exposed, and he found himself staring at the ground, wishing for the conversation to end.
After a few more exchanges of gratitude and reassurances, the Marquise signaled to the palace workers to assist his daughter and prepare their carriage. As they turned to leave, he glanced back at Lucien one final time. “You may not think much of what you’ve done,” he said, his tone serious now. “But tonight, you have earned my respect, young lord.”
Lucien lowered his head in a small bow, his words sticking in his throat. He watched silently as the Valmontiers disappeared into the night, their footsteps fading into the distance.
When they were gone, Victor stepped up beside him and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. It was a rare gesture, brief and understated, but Lucien knew it was his father’s way of showing approval.
The night had taken an unexpected turn, one that left him restless. The cold water clinging to his clothes no longer bothered him as much as the curiosity gnawing at the edges of his mind.
“Come,” Victor said after a pause, his tone softening ever so slightly. “Let’s return inside. You need to change before you catch your death.”
Lucien followed, his footsteps slow as they walked back toward the palace. The garden, once a haven, now felt strangely empty. His father’s presence beside him was grounding, but his thoughts remained far away, caught up in the events of the evening.
Elsewhere, in the Valmontiers’ carriage, the mood was markedly different. The plush interior was silent except for the gentle creak of the wheels as the horses pulled them through the quiet streets. The girl sat huddled under a heavy blanket, her damp hair beginning to dry in uneven waves. She hadn’t spoken since they left, though her gaze kept flickering toward her father.
It was Adrastos who broke the silence, his voice casual but amused. “Well, you’ve had quite the evening, haven’t you?”
She hesitated, her cheeks flushing red as she lowered her gaze. “Yes, Papa,” she said softly, clutching the edge of the blanket as if it might shield her from further questions.
Adrastos chuckled, leaning back in his seat. “You’re lucky that young lord was there,” he continued. “A boy of his age and rank, jumping into a pond without a second thought? Impressive.”
Her face reddened even more, and she shifted awkwardly in her seat. After a moment, she spoke, her voice barely audible. “Papa… would it be… alright if I married him?”
Adrastos blinked, caught off guard by the shy, innocent question. For a heartbeat, he said nothing, and then a booming laugh filled the carriage. “Marry him?” he repeated, his amusement clear. “My darling, is that what’s on your mind?”
The girl turned even redder, crossing her arms and turning her face away. “I’m just asking,” she mumbled, her voice high and defensive.
Adrastos continued laughing, though there was a hint of warmth in his tone as he reached out to pat her on the head. “If that’s what you want, I’ll make it happen,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips. “No one says no to my little girl—not even the Romans.”
She looked up at him, startled, her cheeks still flushed. “You… you’d really do that?”
“For you, anything,” Adrastos said with a wink. “Though it might take some effort. The Romans don’t hand over their sons so easily.”
Lady Rosalind, who had been quietly observing the exchange, finally spoke, her voice gentle but firm. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she said with a faint smile. “For now, let’s focus on getting you warm and rested. There’s plenty of time to discuss such things.”
The girl nodded quickly, grateful for the reprieve. But as the carriage continued its journey, her thoughts lingered on the boy who had jumped into the water to save her. Despite her embarrassment, she couldn’t help but feel a spark of curiosity, much like the one that occupied Lucien’s mind at that very moment.
“Lady Countess… Lady Countess,” the maid called softly, standing at the side of the bed with a delicate porcelain tray in hand. The scent of freshly brewed tea wafted through the room, mingling with the faint chill of morning air.
Isolde stirred, her lashes fluttering as she slowly opened her eyes, blinking against the light. Her expression shifted from confusion to irritation as she sat up, pushing her tangled brown hair back from her face. “What is it?” she muttered, her voice sharp but groggy.
The maid bowed slightly and stepped closer, setting the tray down on the bedside table. “I’ve brought your tea, my lady,” she said quietly.
Isolde reached for the cup, her movements deliberate as she wrapped her fingers around the fine porcelain. She took a small sip, letting the warmth chase away the remnants of sleep. “Speak,” she said finally, her tone flat but commanding. “What’s news?”
The maid hesitated for a moment, her eyes lowering to the floor. “It is about Lady Seraphina, my lady,” she said, her voice subdued.
At the mention of Seraphina, Isolde’s lips curled into a faint smirk. She set the teacup down and leaned back against the pillows, folding her arms. “Ah, the long-awaited delivery,” she said, her tone tinged with sarcasm. “Well? Was it a boy?”
“No, my lady,” the maid replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “A girl.”
For a moment, silence hung in the room. Then, Isolde let out a quiet laugh, her brown eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “A girl,” she repeated, her tone dripping with mockery. “So, in the end, she couldn’t even manage that. How utterly predictable.”
She leaned forward slightly, her smirk widening. “That settles it, then. The position of my child remains untouched. Seraphina’s offspring will pose no threat.”
The maid remained silent, her head bowed, but her posture grew tense. Isolde noticed. Her sharp eyes narrowed, her voice cutting through the stillness. “What else?” she demanded. “You’re holding something back. Speak.”
The maid hesitated, her hands clutching the edge of her apron. “There is… another matter, my lady,” she said, her voice trembling.
“Another matter?” Isolde repeated, her brows arching in curiosity. “Well? Out with it.”
“Lady Seraphina…” The maid faltered, her voice breaking. She took a deep breath before continuing. “Lady Seraphina is no more, my lady. She… did not survive the birth.”
The room was silent for a moment, as though the very air had frozen. Then, to the maid’s shock, Isolde began to laugh. It started as a soft chuckle but quickly grew into something louder, more unsettling. She clutched her stomach as the laughter rolled through her, her shoulders shaking with delight.
“She’s gone?” Isolde said finally, her voice laced with cruel amusement. “The weak little bird finally broke her wings and abandoned her child? How fitting.”
The maid flinched but said nothing.
Isolde wiped the corner of her eye, still chuckling softly. “You should’ve told me that first,” she said, her grin widening. “Such delightful news should never be delayed. She’s left her precious daughter alone in this cruel world. Poetic, don’t you think?”
“My lady…” the maid began, her voice trembling, but Isolde cut her off with a dismissive wave.
“It wouldn’t be entirely unreasonable,” Isolde continued, her tone light but laced with malice, “for the child to meet the same fate as her mother. Fragile things often don’t last long, do they?”
The maid’s hands tightened into fists, though she kept her head bowed to hide her expression. “My lady,” she said softly, “there is… one more thing.”
Isolde’s smile faltered slightly, her eyes narrowing. “One more thing?” she repeated, her voice hardening. “What could possibly make this better?”
The maid hesitated again, visibly trembling now. “The child… has red hair.”
The words hung in the air like a thunderclap. Isolde’s expression shifted immediately. The cruel amusement drained from her face, replaced by shock and something far colder. Her lips parted, but no sound came out at first.
“She what?” Isolde finally said, her voice low and dangerous.
The maid lowered her head even further, too frightened to speak again.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Isolde sat frozen, her dark brown eyes locked on some distant point as her mind worked furiously. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the cup, her knuckles white with tension.
The room seemed to grow colder, the stillness unbroken by even a breath. Isolde’s face became unreadable, her thoughts hidden behind a mask of icy composure.
“Leave me,” she said finally, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
The maid bowed quickly and hurried out of the room, the door closing softly behind her.
For a long time, Isolde sat unmoving, her tea untouched and forgotten. The mention of red hair unsettled her in a way she hadn’t expected. It was a detail that demanded her attention, a complication she had not foreseen.
As the clock on the mantel ticked steadily, Isolde’s lips pressed into a thin line. The ripples of this revelation were already spreading, and for the first time that morning, she felt the faint, unwelcome stirrings of doubt.