Chapter 2

The Betrothal Visit

The afternoon sun bathed the De Claire manor in sheets of molten gold, glinting through tall windows and across polished floors. Servants moved swiftly through the corridors — some carrying freshly laundered draperies, others balancing silver trays of glass goblets that caught the light like shards of crystal rain. Even the air smelled of preparation: beeswax, rosewater, and the faint spice of polished wood.

From the western balcony, the manor looked as if it were made for this day — its towers catching the light, the marble reflecting every shimmer of the heavens above. Yet beneath that radiant calm, an invisible tension coiled in the air. It wasn’t fear, exactly. It was anticipation — the kind that made even the most disciplined servant’s hands tremble slightly as they arranged bouquets of lilies and pale roses along the grand staircase.

For the first time in many years, the House of De Claire would receive the royal family of Salastian.

—

A Daughter’s Poise

Elisana stood before her mirror as her lady-in-waiting, Mariette, adjusted the delicate ribbons of her gown — a soft shade of lavender silk that shimmered faintly under the sunlight. The corset cinched just enough to accentuate the graceful line of her posture, while a silver hairpin, shaped like a crescent moon, held her waves neatly in place.

Mariette stepped back, squinting critically. “If I may say, milady — you look like the very meaning of spring.”

Elisana smiled faintly. “I feel more like winter pretending to bloom.”

Mariette chuckled as she carefully fastened the final pin. “Perhaps. But even winter must give way to the sun eventually.”

“The sun,” Elisana murmured, her eyes wandering toward the garden outside. “How long has it been since I last saw him, Mariette? Two years? Three?”

“Two years and a half,” Mariette replied immediately — she always kept track of her lady’s quiet sentiments. “His Highness was still training with the royal guards then, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” Elisana said softly. “He sent a letter after the northern campaign — short and formal. He mentioned nothing of himself. Only that the emperor’s health was strong and the capital prosperous.”

“Men aren’t known for writing poetry, milady,” Mariette teased, a spark of mischief lighting her gray eyes. “Especially not princes.”

Elisana laughed under her breath. “Perhaps. But he used to write so differently — letters about sparrows nesting in the courtyard, about the scent of the garden when it rained.” She paused, her voice softening into nostalgia. “I still keep them all.”

Mariette met her gaze in the mirror. “Then you remember him fondly.”

Elisana nodded slowly. “I do. Though I don’t know the man he’s become.”

—

The Stir of the Manor

Downstairs, Grand Duke Laurence oversaw the last-minute arrangements. The entire household buzzed under his calm but firm command. Every cushion was fluffed, every vase centered, every servant instructed twice.

“Keep the curtains half-drawn,” he said to Tony, the butler.

“We’ll let the light in, but not so much that it blinds our guests. The Emperor prefers a balance between warmth and shadow.”

Tony inclined his head. “Understood, Your Grace. The musicians are rehearsing the imperial anthem, and the wine has been decanted to your specifications.”

Laurence allowed himself a small nod. “Good. And the guards?”

“Posted at every entrance.”

The Duke looked toward the vast double doors of the manor — carved oak and iron, symbols of both beauty and strength. For a brief moment, he saw not doors but thresholds — the beginning of something that would shape not just his daughter’s life, but the fate of their house.

“Today,” he murmured under his breath, “the sun and moon will share a sky.”

—

The Arrival

By late afternoon, the sound of hooves thundered faintly in the distance. The manor gates opened, and the banners of the Empire — gold and navy blue — rippled like living flame in the wind.

“Elisana,” her mother whispered as they stood at the top of the grand staircase, “remember your composure, my dear. Grace above all.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Elisana’s heart pounded beneath her corset as the first carriage, gleaming black trimmed in gold, rolled into the courtyard. Imperial guards dismounted swiftly, their armor gleaming in perfect symmetry. When the carriage door opened, all movement seemed to pause.

Crown Prince Marcus Alastair Von Salastian stepped down first.

He wore a coat of deep navy embroidered with silver threads in the shape of stars, the insignia of the royal house. His golden hair caught the afternoon sun, and his amethyst eyes — once filled with mischief and laughter — now held the calm authority of a man who bore the weight of an empire.

Laurence bowed, and Elisana and her mother curtsied deeply.

“Your Highness,” Laurence said warmly, “welcome to De Claire.”

“Your Grace,” Marcus replied, bowing in return. “It has been too long.”

When he looked up, his gaze fell upon Elisana. The faintest hint of a smile softened his expression — not regal, not practiced, but familiar. It was the same smile he had given her as a boy who once climbed trees and fell into fountains.

“Elisana,” he said, voice low and smooth. “It’s been far too long.”

Elisana curtsied again, her heart fluttering as their eyes met. “Your Highness. Welcome to our home.”

Behind him, the Emperor and Empress followed — Emperor Maximillian, tall and still sharp-eyed despite the silver streaking his beard, and Empress Marianne, whose elegance could quiet a room without a word. The Grand Duke and Duchess greeted them with deep reverence.

And yet, even as imperial courtesies filled the air, Elisana could feel Marcus’s gaze linger — not commanding, but searching, as if the years between them had not erased but merely paused something unspoken.

—

The Courtyard Interlude

As the guests were led inside, Elisana found herself momentarily beside Marcus at the courtyard steps. The musicians had begun a soft overture, and servants hurried to prepare the evening’s feast.

Marcus glanced at her, amusement flickering in his eyes. “You’ve grown taller,” he said lightly. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Elisana smiled. “And you’ve grown… serious. I almost did.”

He laughed, a quiet, genuine sound. “My tutors would be pleased to hear that.”

“I remember when you used to climb the east wall of the orchard to sneak into our garden,” she said, her tone teasing. “Now you arrive with twenty soldiers and a royal decree.”

“Perhaps I’ve learned something about entrances,” he replied, half-smiling. “Though I do miss the simpler ones.”

Their eyes met briefly before protocol claimed him again. The Emperor called his son to his side, and the moment dissolved — leaving only the faint scent of roses and memory.

—

The Betrothal Ceremony

That evening, the great hall glowed beneath crystal chandeliers. Gold-threaded drapes framed the tall windows, and the marble floors reflected every shimmer of candlelight. Nobles, ministers, and dignitaries filled the room — their jewels glinting like constellations, their whispers fluttering like wings.

At the head of the table stood the Emperor, his goblet raised.

“Tonight,” he declared, “marks the union of two houses whose loyalty has safeguarded this empire for generations. May the bond between House Von Salastian and House De Claire be as enduring as the stars themselves.”

Applause thundered through the hall.

Then Marcus stepped forward, carrying a small velvet box. The world seemed to hush.

He opened it, revealing a ring — silver entwined with a single sapphire-blue gem, the crest of the royal family etched along the band. He turned toward her.

“Elisana Laurel De Claire,” he said, voice steady, gaze unwavering, “will you accept this ring and stand beside me as my future Empress — not by obligation, but by your own choice?”

For a heartbeat, everything stilled. The music, the whispers, even her own breath.

Elisana glanced at her father — his steady, reassuring nod — and then at Marcus, whose eyes carried something deeper than ceremony. A flicker of memory, perhaps. Or doubt. Or both.

“I accept, Your Highness,” she said, her voice calm, though her heart trembled beneath the weight of destiny.

As he slid the ring onto her finger, the hall erupted in applause and celebration. Music swelled, wine poured, and laughter rippled like silk. The Emperor smiled, satisfied. The Empress looked quietly pleased. The nobles exchanged knowing glances — alliances forming in their minds as quickly as the vows on the floor.

Yet even amid the joy, Elisana noticed a moment that didn’t belong. As Marcus turned to acknowledge the crowd, his gaze lingered — just for a breath — on a young woman near the Viscount’s table. Her hair was dark as ink, her eyes glimmered emerald beneath the candlelight.

Elisana followed his gaze, though she didn’t understand why.

The woman smiled — a small, knowing smile that felt like the beginning of something fragile and dangerous.

Lady Alessandra Torresano.

And though Elisana did not yet know her name, her presence would soon draw shadow across all the light that filled that hall.

The music swelled again, and Elisana lifted her goblet with grace — unaware that as the first notes of celebration faded into the night, a different melody had begun, soft and distant. One that would carry love, betrayal, and destiny through every chapter yet to come.