Chapter Text

Chapter Four: A Bloom Of Courage

The evening had descended upon the Imperial Palace, not with a gentle hush, but with the palpable thrum of anticipation. It pulsed from the marble floors, resonated through the gilded ceilings, and whispered from the hundreds of guests arriving in the grand ballroom below. 

For Mikasa, standing in her suite, that pulse felt like a war drum beating a rhythm of impending doom. She had faced down charging titans, their monstrous forms blotting out the sun, with less terror than she felt at this moment. The titans were a known threat, a physical horror she could fight, cut down, and conquer. The ton, however, was an entirely different kind of monster—an amorphous beast of a thousand eyes and a million whispered judgments, and she was about to be served to them on a silver platter.

The only thing keeping her knees from buckling was the steadfast knowledge that Solomon would be by her side, a warm, unshakeable anchor in a sea of silks and scrutiny. His love was her shield. And beyond him stood the rest of the imperial family, a surprising and fiercely loyal wall of support that had welcomed her with a warmth she never could have anticipated. They were her allies in this strange, glittering warzone.

She stood perfectly still on a small, raised platform, a contingent of four maids moving around her with the practiced, delicate motions of artisans completing their masterpiece. They were lacing up the back of her gown, their fingers pulling the crimson ribbons taut, cinching the bodice until it felt like a second skin. The gown itself was a marvel of Valorian couture, a river of crimson silk that fell from her cinched waist to the floor in elegant, flowing waves. The neckline was a tasteful sweep across her collarbones, leaving her shoulders bare, a daring but regal cut. It was the color of the Rose House, the color of blood and royalty, the color of the ruby on her finger.

Standing by the hearth, her ever-present cane held loosely in one hand, was Piper. The stern tutor’s face was, for once, devoid of criticism. In its place was a faint, almost imperceptible gleam of approval, an expression so rare it was like seeing a statue shed a tear.

And as Mikasa looked at her own reflection in the towering, gold-leaf mirror that dominated the wall, she understood why. She had never, in her entire life, felt so beautiful.

The countless fittings had familiarized her with the gown, but the final composition was something else entirely. Her dark hair, usually tied back in a simple, practical style, had been swept up into an intricate and elegant chignon, with soft tendrils left to frame her face, softening her jawline. A master artist had worked on her makeup, a flawless canvas that enhanced her features without masking them, making her dark eyes seem deeper and more mysterious, her lips a shade of subtle, inviting rose. And then there were the gems. From her ears dripped earrings like drops of frozen fire, each a large, perfectly cut ruby surrounded by a halo of brilliant diamonds. A matching necklace, a delicate chain of white gold leading to a single, breathtaking ruby, rested against her skin. A bracelet of smaller rubies and diamonds encircled her wrist. They were a king’s ransom, a treasure from the imperial vaults, chosen by Solomon to perfectly match the magnificent engagement ring that already graced her hand.

She didn’t just feel pretty. She felt luxurious. She felt powerful. For the first time, looking in the mirror, she felt like royalty. And she certainly looked it.

Piper’s stern heart swelled with a feeling she would have vehemently denied was pride. This was a consort. This was a future empress. Who, looking at the vision in the mirror, would ever believe this woman had spent her life wielding blades and felling monsters? Mikasa had always possessed a striking, exotic beauty, a stark contrast to the softer, more conventional prettiness of Valorian noblewomen. But tonight, draped in crimson and dripping with the fire of the Rose House, her beauty was undeniable, irrefutable. It was a statement. None of the sneering nobles in the ballroom below could look at her and honestly say she was unworthy of the emperor’s devotion. They might hate her for being a foreigner, for being a soldier, but they could not deny that she looked the part.

Piper had only known the girl for a few weeks, but they had been the most intense weeks of her long career. She had been tough on Mikasa, relentlessly so, but it was a harshness born of necessity. The court was a viper’s nest, and a girl with no experience, no family alliances within Valoria, would be eaten alive without a formidable shell. Mikasa needed to be more perfect, more graceful, more knowledgeable than any of them just to survive. To Piper’s surprise and secret admiration, the girl had taken every grueling lesson, every sharp correction, every exhausting drill in stride. Her discipline was astounding, her ability to learn and adapt, remarkable. Piper had molded her the best she could, but she knew the true source of Mikasa’s motivation wasn’t her teaching.

It was her love for Solomon.

Piper saw it every time the emperor entered a room. The way Mikasa’s guarded posture would soften, the way her stoic expression would melt into a gentle smile. She saw it in the fierce dedication with which Mikasa tackled lessons on political history, knowing it would help her support him. As much as the young couple grated on her nerves with their “vulgar” public displays of affection and their blatant disregard for propriety, Piper could not deny the truth. Their love was real, powerful, and genuine. And deep down, in a place she would never, ever acknowledge, the cold, stern heart of Piper was rooting for them. She had developed a soft spot for this strange, quiet, fiercely loyal soldier. Though she would rather swallow her cane than admit it to a living soul.

“It is done, my lady.”

The head maid’s soft voice broke the silence. The lacing was complete. The final fold of silk was adjusted. Mikasa took a deep breath, the corset restricting the movement, and admired her reflection one last time. The nervousness was still there, a cold flutter in the pit of her stomach, but looking at the woman in the mirror, she also felt a surge of confidence. She was ready.

A firm, polite knock echoed from the suite’s double doors. One of the maids scurried to open it, revealing the Empress Dowager Solana, looking every inch the regal matriarch. She wore a gown of deep sapphire that complemented her own red hair, which was styled in a crown-like braid. Diamonds glittered at her throat and ears. Behind her stood a servant, a young woman holding a small, ornate box.

Instantly, the room’s atmosphere shifted. As one, Mikasa, Piper, and all four maids sank into deep, respectful curtsies, a silent acknowledgment of the highest-ranking woman in the empire.

“Your Majesty,” Piper said, her voice filled with reverence.

Solana’s warm, emerald eyes scanned the room before landing on Mikasa. A soft gasp escaped her lips, and her regal composure momentarily faltered, replaced by pure, maternal pride. Her heart swelled.

“Oh, my dear,” she breathed, gliding across the room. She gently took Mikasa’s face in her hands, her touch soft and cool. “You look absolutely radiant.” She leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to Mikasa’s cheek, her perfume a subtle, elegant scent of roses and vanilla.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Mikasa said, her cheeks warming under the praise.

Solana smiled, a brilliant, genuine smile that lit up her entire face. She let her hands fall and beckoned to her servant, who stepped forward and presented the small, gold-filigree box. Solana took it, her fingers deftly undoing the clasp. She opened the lid, revealing a treasure nestled on a bed of black velvet.

It was a brooch. A stunning, yet exquisitely delicate piece, it was fashioned from gleaming yellow gold in the shape of a blooming rose. The petals were intricately detailed, and nestled in the center were three small, fiery rubies. Two tiny, perfectly carved emeralds served as leaves at the base of the bloom. It was a masterpiece of the jeweler’s art, timeless and breathtakingly beautiful.

“When I first became the Rose Consort, so many years ago,” Solana began, her voice taking on a reminiscent, story-teller’s tone, “Armand’s mother, the Empress Dowager Lucia, gave this to me. She told me it was the symbol of the Rose Consort, passed down from the consort of the previous generation to the new one.”

She carefully lifted the brooch from the box. “It signifies the passing of the title, the bestowing of the honor and the duty of the Rose House. And now,” she said, her eyes meeting Mikasa’s in the mirror, her expression full of profound sincerity, “I am passing it to you.”

With practiced fingers, Solana pinned the golden rose to the bodice of Mikasa’s gown, just over her heart. It was the perfect finishing touch, its warm gold a beautiful contrast to the cool crimson of the silk. It felt surprisingly heavy, weighted with history and significance.

“I know the court whispers,” Solana continued, her voice low and firm, meant for Mikasa alone. “I know they see you as an outsider. But I see you for what you are. You are brave, you are loyal, and you are a dedicated, honorable soldier. Those are characteristics of immense strength, Mikasa. They are nothing to be ashamed of. Never let anyone in that ballroom tonight make you feel that you are less than them because you are different. Stay true to yourself, to the woman you are.”

She placed a gentle hand on Mikasa’s arm, her gaze unwavering. “And above all else, the love you and my son share is the most important thing. It is your greatest strength and your most precious treasure. Nurture it. Protect it. And watch it grow and bloom into something beautiful, just like a rose. The thorns of court life may prick you, but the love you share will always be the flower.”

By the time Solana finished speaking, Mikasa’s eyes were misty. A single, traitorous tear escaped and traced a hot path down her cheek. This woman, this empress, had been nothing but a pillar of support and kindness from the moment she arrived. She hadn’t just accepted her; she had welcomed her, embraced her as a daughter-in-law with a sincerity that was humbling. The weight of the brooch over her heart was nothing compared to the weight of the gratitude she felt.

She couldn’t help it. Protocol, etiquette, all of Piper’s stern lessons—they evaporated in the face of such overwhelming emotion. Mikasa closed the small distance between them and wrapped her arms around the Empress Dowager, engulfing her in a hug.

The collective gasp from the maids was sharp and audible. Piper looked positively flabbergasted, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, her face a horrified mask of scandalized propriety. An embrace! Uninitiated! With the Empress Dowager! It was a breach of protocol of the highest order.

“ Lady Mikasa! ” Piper finally managed to choke out, taking a step forward as if to physically pry them apart.

But Solana simply chuckled, a low, musical sound of genuine amusement. She raised a hand to stop Piper in her tracks. “It’s quite alright, Piper,” she said, her voice warm. And then, she hugged Mikasa back, her arms wrapping around the younger woman’s shoulders in a comforting, maternal embrace. “It’s quite alright,” she repeated softly.

After a long moment, Solana gently pulled back, her thumbs coming up to wipe away the tear from Mikasa’s cheek. “Now, now,” she chided gently, though her own eyes were suspiciously bright. “We cannot have you ruining that beautiful makeup before you’ve even made your entrance. There will be time for tears of joy later. Right now, we have a ball to get through.”

She gave Mikasa’s hands a final, reassuring squeeze. “The guests have all arrived. The entire family is waiting in the ballroom—Armand and the other ladies, James, and all your new brothers and sisters. They are all so excited to see you.” She leaned in, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “And Solomon… well, my son is so eager to see you, I fear he may wear a path in the marble from his pacing.”

The image of Solomon anxiously pacing like a nervous boy waiting for his date, brought a true, confident smile to Mikasa’s lips. The fear was still there, but it was now overshadowed by a powerful mix of gratitude, love, and a newfound, unshakeable resolve.

She was not just a soldier anymore. She was not just a foreigner.

She was the Rose Consort. And it was time to make her entrance.

With a final, reassuring squeeze of Mikasa’s hand, Solana led the way out of the suite. Piper followed, a silent, severe shadow, while the maids curtsied so low their heads nearly touched the floor. They walked down a private, crimson-carpeted corridor reserved for the imperial family, the muffled sounds of the orchestra growing steadily louder as they approached the Imperial Drawing Room, the final staging ground before their grand entrance. The air itself seemed to vibrate with the energy of the hundreds of souls gathered just beyond its walls.

As they neared the ornate, gilded doors, the lively sounds of the imperial family spilled out into the hall. It was a chaotic, cheerful symphony of teasing laughter and booming voices, a stark and welcome contrast to the formal tension of the evening.

Solana pushed the doors open, and they stepped inside. The drawing room was a masterpiece of Valorian opulence, with walls of pale gold silk, plush velvet settees, and crystal glasses of champagne resting on inlaid tables. But the room's splendor was secondary to the vibrant family scene unfolding within it.

Just as Solana had predicted, Solomon was wearing a path in the priceless Aubusson rug, his long legs carrying him back and forth with an agitated, excited energy. He was impossibly handsome in his formal imperial uniform—a tailored jacket of the deepest black, adorned with golden epaulets, crimson sashes, and a constellation of medals that gleamed in the light of the chandeliers. His red curls seemed to burn with a fiery light of their own.

“She has to be ready by now, James,” Solomon was saying, gesturing emphatically with one hand. “What could possibly be taking so long? Is Piper torturing her? I swear, if that woman made her late…”

James lounged elegantly in a high-backed chair, a glass of champagne held loosely in his hand. He looked dashing in his own dark uniform, though it was less ostentatiously decorated than the emperor’s. “Relax, brother,” he said with a lazy, amused drawl. “Beauty takes time. Or have you forgotten? You spent an hour on your hair alone.”

“I did not!” Solomon protested, a flush rising on his cheeks.

“Oh, he totally did!” squealed Ruby, who was perched on the arm of a sofa next to Gracelyn. The younger princesses were visions in gowns of soft pastel silk, their eyes sparkling with mischief. “We saw the valet go in with three different kinds of pomade!”

“And he kept asking if the lighting in here made his eyes look greener!” added Soleil, her own green eyes dancing with laughter.

Solomon shot his sisters a look of utter betrayal. “Traitors. The lot of you.”

In another corner of the room, a quieter but no less telling drama was playing out. Emperor Emeritus Armand stood with his other consorts. Lady Madeline, mother to Gracelyn and Ruby, was a handsome woman with kind blue eyes, and she was chatting amiably with Lady Blair, a poised and elegant blonde. They were in good spirits, their expressions relaxed. But standing slightly apart from them, a thundercloud in a gown of severe charcoal gray, was Lady Darcy. Her lips were pursed into a thin, disapproving line, her posture rigid. She held her champagne flute like a weapon, her gaze sweeping over the cheerful room with undisguised disdain. She had been forced to attend, a command from the emperor she could not refuse, but she was determined to be miserable about it. Armand let out a quiet sigh, his gaze resting on her for a moment. Decades had passed, their children were grown, and yet she would never let go of the bitterness. A sadness touched his features; it was a waste of a life, to cling so tightly to old wounds.

Solana’s entrance drew every eye. “Mother!” Solomon exclaimed, his pacing halting at once. “Is she… is she ready yet?”

Solana simply smiled, a knowing, radiant smile, and stepped aside.

And then Mikasa entered.

She crossed the threshold with Piper a few paces behind her, and a hush fell over the room. The teasing laughter died, the conversations stopped, and every single member of the imperial family simply stared.

She was magnificent. A vision. The crimson of her gown was a bold, defiant statement, a living flame against the pale gold of the room. The expertly styled hair, the flawless makeup, the regal bearing Piper had drilled into her—it all came together to create an aura of breathtaking power and beauty. The rubies at her throat and ears caught the light, scattering sparks of crimson fire with every subtle movement. She was no longer just Mikasa Ackerman, the soldier from Paradis. She was a queen in waiting.

Even Lady Darcy, her face a mask of practiced cynicism, felt a genuine jolt of shock. She had been prepared to sneer, to find a flaw, to see the common soldier beneath the expensive silks. But there was no flaw to be found. The woman was… regal . There was no other word for it. An undeniable, inherent nobility shone from her, a quiet strength that the finest Valorian lady could not emulate. For the first time, Darcy felt a flicker of understanding as to why Solomon was so utterly bewitched.

Solomon looked as if he had been struck by lightning. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, thunderous rhythm. He had known she was beautiful. He had seen her in gowns before. But this… this was transcendent. The world seemed to fade to gray around the brilliant, vibrant crimson of her, the woman who was the center of his universe. It was like seeing her for the first time all over again, that instant, soul-deep recognition, that feeling of falling, falling, falling into her dark, incredible eyes.

Mikasa felt a blush creep up her neck under the force of their collective, silent stares. She felt exposed, every inch of her scrutinized, and for a terrifying second, her hard-won confidence wavered.

Then the compliments came flooding in, breaking the spell.

“Mikasa, my dear, you are absolutely breathtaking!” Lady Madeline gushed, her hands clasped together in delight.

“The most beautiful consort Valoria has ever seen!” Lady Blair added with a warm, genuine smile.

“Wow,” breathed young Andrew, his adolescent composure completely gone. The twins, Solandor and Solenne, just stared with wide, worshipful eyes.

But Mikasa only had eyes for Solomon. He crossed the room in three long strides, his gaze never leaving her face. He didn’t speak. He simply took her hand, his touch warm and reverent, and lifted it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles that was both a promise and a prayer. He then leaned in, his lips brushing the soft skin of her cheek.

“As beautiful as a rose,” he murmured, his voice thick with an emotion so profound it left no room for his usual poetic flourishes. He pulled back, his eyes scanning her face, her gown, the brooch pinned over her heart. “No… more beautiful than that.” He shook his head slightly, a look of genuine wonder on his face. “There are no words, Mikasa,” he finally said, his voice barely a whisper. “Not in our language, not in any language on this earth, to describe how beautiful you look right now. They haven’t been invented yet.”

The sheer, unvarnished sincerity of his awe made her blush deepen to a shade that nearly matched her gown. In the background, a series of snickers erupted from his siblings, who were thoroughly enjoying their brother’s lovesick, speechless state.

Armand stepped forward, his weathered face crinkling into a proud smile. He took Mikasa’s free hand, his presence a grounding, paternal force. “He is right, my dear. You look stunning. A fine consort for a fine emperor.” He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “You will do well tonight. Remember, we are all here to support you.”

Just then, a palace attendant, dressed in immaculate crimson and gold livery, appeared at the door. He bowed low. “Your Majesties, Your Highnesses. All the guests are assembled in the ballroom and await your presentation. It is time.”

A fresh wave of nerves, cold and sharp, flared in Mikasa’s stomach. This was it. The final moment of peace before the battle. Solomon must have sensed her tension, because his hand tightened around hers, his strength flowing into her. She took a steadying breath and laced her arm through his, the rough, reassuring texture of his uniform a solid anchor in her swirling anxiety.

They began to move as one, a silent, choreographed procession towards the grand ballroom doors. The order was set. She and Solomon would walk out first, a united front. They would be followed by Armand and Solana, the respected and beloved former ruler. Then came the consorts—Ladies Blair, Madeline, and Darcy—a reminder of the tradition that Solomon was both upholding and defying. And finally, the rest of the imperial children, the vibrant, hopeful future of the dynasty.

They paused just before the massive, gold-embossed doors, where an announcer in formal court attire waited, scroll in hand. Through a small, curtained window, Mikasa could glimpse the ballroom. It was a dizzying kaleidoscope of color, light, and people. It looked utterly, terrifyingly packed.

Piper, who had been hovering like a guardian angel, swept forward for one final inspection. Her nimble fingers adjusted a stray tendril of Mikasa’s hair. She smoothed an invisible wrinkle on the shoulder of the gown. Everything had to be perfect. Then, she did something unexpected. She placed her hand on Mikasa’s shoulder and gave it a firm, gentle squeeze.

“Show them no fear,” Piper whispered, her voice low and fierce, for Mikasa’s ears alone. “Let them look. Let them whisper. You hold your head high. You remember your training. You remember who you are. You are Lady Mikasa, the Rose Consort of Valoria. You have worked hard for this moment. Do not let them take it from you.”

Mikasa nodded, her throat too tight for words. She met Piper’s stern gaze and saw, for the first time, a flicker of something that looked like fierce, unwavering belief.

The announcer, seeing a nod from the head of the palace guard, unrolled his scroll. His voice, magically amplified, boomed through the doors, silencing the chatter of the thousand guests within.

“SILENCE FOR HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY! PRESENTING HIS MAJESTY, THE EMPEROR, SOLOMON!”

A wave of sound, the rustle of a thousand people rising to their feet, washed over them.

The announcer took a breath, his voice rising with dramatic weight for the second, more anticipated, proclamation.

“AND PRESENTING, FOR THE FIRST TIME TO THE COURT, HIS CHOSEN… THE ROSE CONSORT, LADY MIKASA ACKERMAN!”

This was it.

Mikasa took a final, deep breath, the air feeling cool and sharp in her lungs. She felt Solomon’s arm tense beside her, a mirror of her own readiness. The great doors swung inward, revealing a breathtaking vista of light, color, and a sea of upturned, curious faces. They stood at the apex of a grand, sweeping staircase, bathed in the brilliant glow of a dozen colossal chandeliers.

She and Solomon took their first step forward, into the light, into the heart of the lion’s den.

Solomon’s head was held high, his expression proud, possessive, and utterly besotted as he gazed down at the crowd, his arm linked with the woman he adored. Beside him, Mikasa kept her own head held high, her posture perfect, her expression serene and unreadable. She let none of the terror churning deep inside her show on her face. 

But she could feel the eyes on her, a physical pressure against her skin. She could almost sort them into categories. There were the looks of pure, unadulterated awe, mostly from the younger lords and ladies who were captivated by the fairytale unfolding before them—the handsome, beloved emperor and his mysterious, beautiful foreign bride. Then there were the looks of sharp, calculating curiosity from the ministers and political players, who were assessing her, weighing her, trying to discern if she would be a pawn or a power in her own right. There were the glares of undisguised envy from the young noblewomen who had dreamed of being in her place, their fans fluttering like the wings of agitated birds. And finally, there were the looks of cold, quiet disdain from the old guard, the traditionalists who saw her as an affront to their heritage, a crack in the very foundation of their empire. But not one of them, not a single soul, dared to voice their thoughts any louder than a murmur. To do so would be to insult the emperor directly, and no one was foolish enough to invite that kind of wrath.

With a confidence she didn't feel, Mikasa took the first step down. Solomon was a rock beside her, his grip on her arm steady and possessive. They descended the marble staircase not as two separate people, but as a single, united entity. Each step was measured, graceful, a perfect synchronization that spoke of a deeper harmony. Behind them, the rest ofthe imperial family followed. Armand and Solana, the very picture of enduring grace; the other consorts, a visual representation of the complex system Mikasa was entering; and the younger princes and princesses, their youthful faces beaming with pride for their brother and their new sister. They were a dynasty on display, and Mikasa was now, irrevocably, a part of it.

When they reached the bottom of the staircase, the sea of silks and jewels parted before them, creating a wide, open space in the center of the ballroom floor. The orchestra, perched on a gilded balcony, waited with instruments poised. The murmuring of the crowd softened to a reverent silence. It was time.

This was the moment Piper had drilled into her with the relentless precision of a military campaign. The opening waltz. The emperor and his chosen consort would dance it alone, a tradition that officially opened the ball and the social season.

Solomon released her arm and turned to face her. He gave her a small, encouraging smile that was meant only for her, a silent message of support that cut through her terror. Following her training to the letter, Mikasa gathered the crimson silk of her gown and sank into a deep, flawless curtsey, her head bowed, the gesture a perfect blend of deference and grace. The skirt fanned around her like a blooming rose. Solomon responded with an equally perfect bow from the waist, the epitome of imperial elegance.

He straightened and extended his hand. She placed her gloved fingers in his. His other hand came to rest firmly on the small of her back, a warm, possessive pressure that sent a shiver of awareness through her. She, in turn, placed her left hand gently on his shoulder, the medals on his uniform cool against her fingertips. They stood poised in the vast, silent ballroom, the sole focus of a thousand pairs of eyes.

Then, the music began.

A single, clear note from a violin sliced through the silence, followed by the rich, swelling chords of the orchestra. It was a classic Valorian waltz, a piece both grand and achingly romantic, its melody sweeping through the cavernous space. Solomon led her into the first step, and the dance began.

One-two-three, one-two-three . The rhythm was a mantra in Mikasa’s head. Her body, thanks to Piper’s torturous lessons, knew what to do. Her feet, which had once been more comfortable in military boots on muddy terrain, now glided across the polished marble. She fought the overwhelming urge to look down, to check her positioning, to make sure she wasn’t about to trip over her own feet and humiliate herself in front of the entire aristocracy. She could almost hear Piper’s sharp, scolding voice in her head, a phantom echo from their training sessions. “Chin up, Lady Mikasa! A consort does not stare at the floor! You look your partner in the eye! You are dancing with the emperor, not inspecting the marble!”

But it wasn't Piper's phantom voice that kept her gaze level. It was Solomon. His emerald eyes held hers, a steady, loving anchor in the swirling vortex of her anxiety. He was her true north, her only point of focus in the dizzying ballroom. She trusted him. She trusted him to lead her, to guide her, to catch her if she faltered. And he was doing a magnificent job, his movements fluid and confident, leading her through the intricate patterns of the waltz as if they had been dancing together their entire lives.

“You’re doing perfectly,” he murmured, his voice a low, intimate rumble that was lost in the swell of the music to everyone but her. “You’re the most graceful woman in this room.”

“I feel like I’m going to be sick,” she whispered back, her voice tight, though her expression remained serene.

A small smile played on his lips. “Just breathe, my love. And look at me. Don’t think about them. There is no one else in this room but you and me.”

As they spun in a wide, sweeping turn, the crimson of her gown flaring out around them, she saw the crowd as a blur of indistinct colors. He was right. If she focused only on him, on the warmth of his hand, on the love shining in his eyes, she could almost believe they were alone.

To the watching ton, the effect was mesmerizing. The emperor and his foreign consort were a stunning couple; that was a fact none could deny. The fiery crimson of her gown was a perfect complement to the regal black and gold of his uniform. But it was more than just their appearance. It was her grace. The rumors that had flown through the city for weeks had painted her as a hardened soldier, a barbarian from a lesser land. They had expected someone rough, perhaps even clumsy, someone who would look out of place in the refined elegance of the imperial court.

They had not expected this.

She moved with a fluid, controlled elegance that many of the noblewomen, who had been trained in dance since they could walk, could not hope to match. Her posture was perfect, her movements precise. She looked as if she had been born to this life, bred for the ballroom. Little did they know that this grace had been beaten into her through weeks of grueling, relentless work, that every effortless glide was the result of a soldier’s iron will applied to an entirely new kind of battlefield.

And the emperor… he was utterly, completely smitten. It was plain for all to see. This was not the formal, detached dance of a monarch performing his duty. The way he looked at her was with an open, unguarded adoration that was almost scandalous in its intensity. They saw him lean in, whispering in her ear. They saw the ghost of a smile on her lips in response. They saw him crack a genuine, joyful smile, a rare sight for the emperor when he was surrounded by the stuffy formality of the court. They were not just dancing. They were communicating, sharing a private world in the middle of a thousand people. They were behaving like lovers.

This display of genuine affection fascinated some and infuriated others.

In a small, clustered group of high-ranking nobles near the grand fireplace, a young woman named Lady Amelia Veyron watched the dancing couple with eyes as cold and hard as blue ice. She was the picture of Valorian nobility: her hair was the color of spun gold, her eyes a placid sky blue, and her gown a confection of pale lavender silk that had cost a fortune. 

She stood with her parents, the Duke and Duchess of Veyron, who had been grooming her for this exact stage her entire life. She had learned four languages, mastered the harp and the pianoforte, studied art and politics, and perfected every dance step, every curtsy, every subtle social cue. All of it had been for one purpose: to be chosen as one of the emperor’s consorts. More than that, she had been groomed to be the Rose Consort . Her family’s lineage was impeccable, her beauty renowned. She had been the frontrunner, the prize jewel of the season.

And now, all of that work, all of that preparation, felt like ash in her mouth.

She watched Mikasa Ackerman, this… this foreigner , glide across the floor in her color, wearing her title. She felt a hot, bitter fury rise in her chest. It wasn’t fair. She hadn’t even been given a chance to compete, to properly present herself to the emperor, to charm him, to win his favor. This soldier had simply appeared and stolen it all away, snatching the grand prize before the race had even officially begun. Her dreams of one day becoming the Empress Dowager, the most powerful woman in the empire, were turning to dust before her very eyes. She knew how the game was played. This Mikasa, this upstart, would surely try to get pregnant with the emperor’s firstborn son as quickly as possible, cementing her power and her legacy forever.

Amelia’s perfectly manicured fingers clenched the ivory sticks of her fan, so tightly she was surprised they didn’t snap. Her gaze, sharp and venomous, followed every move Solomon and Mikasa made on the dance floor. Every loving glance they shared was a personal insult. Every graceful turn was a mockery of her own years of training.

But then, a new piece of information, a rumor that had been spreading like wildfire through the ton just that afternoon, came to the forefront of her mind. The emperor, despite his obvious infatuation with the foreigner, had apparently been convinced to honor tradition. He was going to take three other consorts after all.

The fury in Amelia’s chest did not subside, but it changed. It cooled, hardened, transforming from a hot, helpless rage into something far more dangerous: cold, calculating ambition.

It wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

The title of Rose Consort was lost to her, a bitter pill she would have to swallow. But there were other prizes to be won. The titles of Lily, Dahlia, and Peony were still in play. The game was not over; it had simply changed. All she had to do was adapt her strategy.

Her mind began to race, the music of the waltz fading into a distant hum as she plotted. She had to catch the emperor’s eye. Tonight. She had to make him see her, truly see her, not just as another pretty face in the crowd, but as a woman of beauty, intelligence, and charm far superior to the dark-haired soldier he was currently twirling around the floor. She had to make him fall for her. Or, at the very least, desire her. A proposal would follow. It had to.

And if it didn’t? A darker, more audacious thought took root in her mind. A proposal was the traditional route. But there were other, more direct paths to power. If she could seduce him, find a way to spend a night in his bed… and if that night resulted in a child… it would force his hand. He would have to choose her as a consort. He couldn’t have an illegitimate child of imperial blood running around. And if she was very, very lucky—if she was quicker than the foreigner—she might just bear him a son. His firstborn son.

A slow, predatory smile touched Lady Amelia’s lips. It was a ruthless, underhanded plan. It was scandalous. It was perfect. The Rose Consort could have her dance. She could have the emperor’s love, for now. But Amelia would play the long game. She was determined to get what she wanted, what she deserved . And she would use any tactic, any trick, any weapon in her arsenal to achieve it. The ball had just begun, and so had her war.

The waltz, which had felt like an eternity, eventually came to its graceful conclusion. Solomon dipped Mikasa low, a final flourish that drew a smattering of polite applause from the assembled guests. As he raised her, the orchestra seamlessly transitioned into a more upbeat tempo, and the floor began to fill with other couples, a swirling kaleidoscope of silks, satins, and glittering jewels. The official duties of the first dance were over. The true trial of the evening had just begun.

…

An hour passed in a dizzying blur of introductions and polite, meaningless conversation. As the Emperor’s first chosen consort, Mikasa was the undisputed center of attention, a rare and exotic creature suddenly dropped into their gilded ecosystem. The nobles of Valoria, driven by a potent cocktail of curiosity and ambition, descended upon them.

They came in waves. There were the elder statesmen and their wives, who approached with a practiced, formal courtesy, their questions about Paradis laced with a barely concealed condescension as they inquired about its “rustic charms” and “simple traditions.” Mikasa answered with a brevity and composure that left them with little to grasp onto, her military training serving her well in the face of their verbal reconnaissance.

Then came the women. The younger, unmarried ladies saw her as the ultimate competition, a formidable obstacle that had appeared out of nowhere. They would approach in small, giggling clusters, their compliments as sharp and pointed as hidden daggers.

“Lady Mikasa, your gown is simply… divine,” one would say, her eyes raking over the crimson silk with a look that was more appraisal than admiration. “Such a bold color.”

“And your dancing!” another would chime in. “One would never guess you hadn't spent your entire life in a ballroom. It is truly remarkable what can be achieved with diligent practice.”

Mikasa met their backhanded praise with the same stoic grace she had shown on the dance floor, her simple, quiet “Thank you” offering no purchase for further attack. She was a fortress, and their paltry attempts to find a crack in her armor were proving fruitless.

While Mikasa held her own front, Solomon was engaged in a battle on another. With three consort spots now officially open for contention, he had become the most sought-after prize in the empire. The eligible daughters of the nobility, pushed forward by their ambitious parents, were relentless. They employed every tool in their arsenal of charm, seduction, and flirtation to catch the emperor’s eye.

A blonde with ringlets “accidentally” stumbled near him, allowing him to steady her with a hand on her arm, a touch she held onto for a fraction too long. A brunette with soulful eyes engaged him in a conversation about Valorian poetry, her voice a low, melodic purr. Another, a fiery redhead, laughed a little too loudly at one of his polite remarks, her hand coming to rest briefly on his uniformed sleeve.

Solomon had absolutely no interest. His heart, his mind, and his soul belonged to the woman standing by his side. But he was the emperor. He couldn't outright dismiss them, not when the entire court knew he was obliged to choose three of them eventually. And so, he played his part. He smiled, he nodded, he engaged in the vapid chatter, but his eyes were cold and distant. An internal sigh of profound weariness was on a constant loop in his mind. He felt like a prized bull being paraded at a market, and he hated every second of it.

Mikasa knew he had to do this. She had, after all, been the one to insist upon it. But knowing it and witnessing it were two vastly different things. It was a strange, sharp ache to watch other women, beautiful and polished and charming, flirt so openly with her fiancé right in front of her. It wasn’t their fault, she knew. She understood their desperation, their lifelong training all culminating in this frantic, public bid for a title, for a future. But her understanding did little to soothe the uncomfortable knot tightening in her stomach.

After what felt like the hundredth vapid conversation, this time with a duke who wanted to discuss tax reforms on wool exports, Mikasa felt her composure beginning to fray. The cacophony of the orchestra, the clinking of glasses, the overwhelming miasma of a hundred different perfumes, the sheer effort of maintaining a pleasant, neutral expression—it was all becoming too much. She was overstimulated, her senses overloaded. She needed a moment of silence.

Leaning close to Solomon, she waited for a break in his conversation with a particularly persistent baroness. “Solomon,” she murmured, her voice low. “I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed. I’m just going to step out onto the balcony for some fresh air.”

He immediately turned his full attention to her, his polite mask dropping to reveal genuine concern. “Are you alright? I’ll come with you.”

“No, it’s fine,” she insisted, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “You have to stay and… mingle. I just need a moment. I won’t be long.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, to sweep her away from all of this, but he saw the resolve in her eyes. He gave a reluctant nod. “Alright. But if you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m sending out a search party.”

She gave him a small, grateful smile before gracefully excusing herself from the group. As she made her way towards the tall, arched doorways that led to the balcony, she caught the eye of Princess Soleil, who was standing with her siblings. The young princess gave her a curious look, a silent question asking if she was okay. Mikasa gave her a subtle nod in return, a quick signal that she was fine, just retreating.

Pushing through the heavy velvet curtains, she stepped out onto the balcony and the chaos of the ballroom fell away, replaced by a profound and welcome peace. The cool night air was a balm against her heated skin. The balcony was wide and made of white marble, overlooking the sprawling, moonlit expanse of the imperial gardens. The orchestra was a distant, romantic melody from here, and the only other sound was the gentle chirping of crickets and the whisper of the wind through the rose bushes below. The view was gorgeous, a perfect painting of serene, manicured beauty.

She walked to the balustrade, resting her hands on the cool stone, and took a deep breath. It was on nights like this, surrounded by a strange and overwhelming opulence, that a wave of homesickness would wash over her. She thought of Paradis. Not the walls or the titans, but the raw, untamed beauty of the land, the smell of pine trees after rain, the vastness of the open sky. She thought of her friends, her true family. She missed them all so much it was a physical ache in her chest.

And she missed Eren. Her thoughts always, eventually, circled back to him. The boy she had sworn to protect, the boy whose scarf she still treasured, packed away safely in her trunk. He was a complicated knot of anger, pain, and fierce determination, and she worried about him constantly. Was he taking care of himself? Was he eating properly? Was he letting his rage consume him? She couldn’t wait for his letter to arrive. She needed to know he was okay.

A faint sound, the soft scuff of a silk slipper on marble, broke through her reverie.

Her senses, honed by years of survival, flared to life. Someone was behind her. Before her conscious mind could even process the thought, her body reacted. Her peaceful posture vanished, replaced by the coiled tension of a predator. She spun around, her movements swift and silent, her body instinctively balanced for a confrontation.

But the person standing there was no threat. It was a woman, around her own age, with a cascade of golden blonde hair and eyes the color of a summer sky. She was beautiful, the very picture of Valorian grace, and her lips were curved into a disarmingly kind and slightly apologetic smile. It was Lady Amelia Veyron .

Amelia had been watching, observing, and planning. She had seen the endless parade of simpering debutantes and their overt, clumsy flirtations. She had seen the bored, weary look in the emperor’s eyes as he endured their advances. A direct assault, she had realized, would be fruitless. He was a fortress, and his heart was already occupied. But every fortress has a gatekeeper. To get to the emperor, she deduced, she would first have to go through his consort.

And so, she had crafted a new strategy, a long game. She would not try to compete with Mikasa. She would befriend her. She would become her confidante, her ally in this strange new world. She believed, correctly, that Mikasa held immense influence over the emperor. If she could earn Mikasa’s trust, perhaps Mikasa would be the one to whisper her name to Solomon, to suggest her as a worthy candidate for one of the remaining consort titles. It was a subtle, crafty plan, and it required a flawless performance.

“Forgive me for intruding, Lady Mikasa,” Amelia said, her voice soft and melodic. She executed a perfect, small curtsy. “I saw you come out here alone, and I was worried you might not be feeling well. The heat in the ballroom can be quite stifling.”

Mikasa’s defensive posture relaxed slightly, though her eyes remained wary. She was suspicious by nature, and the sudden appearance of one of the noblewomen she had been trying to escape set her on edge. What did this one want?

“I’m fine,” Mikasa replied, her tone neutral. “Just getting some fresh air.”

“I don’t blame you,” Amelia said, moving to stand beside her at the balustrade, though she kept a respectful distance. “It can be rather… intense in there.” She gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “My name is Amelia Veyron, by the way. It’s an honor to finally meet you properly.”

Amelia’s smile seemed genuine, her eyes holding a warmth that didn’t appear feigned. She didn’t launch into a series of questions or backhanded compliments. She simply stood with her, sharing the quiet moment.

“Your gown is breathtaking,” Amelia said after a moment, her gaze appreciative. “The color of the Rose House suits you perfectly. And your waltz with His Majesty… it was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. You must have worked so incredibly hard.”

The compliment landed differently from the others. Amelia hadn’t said she was surprisingly graceful; she had acknowledged the work behind the grace, a subtle recognition that felt more sincere.

“And if I may be so bold,” Amelia continued, her voice soft with admiration, “I think you are incredibly brave. To leave your home, your friends, everything you have ever known, and move all the way to Valoria for love… that takes a kind of courage most of us could never imagine.”

This struck Mikasa. Amelia wasn’t fawning over her title or her connection to the emperor. She was speaking to her as a person, acknowledging her journey and her sacrifice. The sharp edges of Mikasa’s suspicion began to soften. She could sense no malice from this woman, no hidden agenda in her words. Perhaps… perhaps she was just being kind.

“Thank you,” Mikasa said, her voice losing some of its earlier stiffness.

They fell into an easy conversation. Amelia was clever; she asked about Paradis, not with the condescending curiosity of the others, but with what seemed like genuine interest. She asked about the landscape, the food, the culture, framing it as a fascinating, different world. She spoke of her own life, making light of the pressures of the ton, creating a subtle sense of camaraderie, an “us against them” feeling that made Mikasa feel less alone.

For the first time all night, Mikasa found herself genuinely enjoying a conversation. Amelia was witty, intelligent, and an excellent listener. It was a profound relief to talk to someone without feeling like she was being constantly judged or sized up. Her guard, which had been up so high all evening, lowered more and more with each passing minute. She was starting to think she had found a kind person, maybe even a potential friend, in this nest of vipers.

They had been talking for what felt like mere moments, but was in fact a full thirty minutes, when a familiar voice cut through the night air.

“There you are.”

Solomon stood at the balcony doors, his imposing figure silhouetted against the bright light of the ballroom. His expression was one of relief at having found her, which quickly morphed into one of surprise as he took in the scene: Mikasa, his quiet and reserved fiancée, chatting happily and comfortably with a noblewoman he didn’t recognize.

Amelia immediately broke off their conversation and sank into a deep, graceful curtsy, her blonde head bowed. “Your Majesty.”

Solomon’s eyes flickered over her, his gaze curious and a little wary. He had not expected this. He had expected to find Mikasa alone, enjoying her solitude. He certainly hadn’t expected to find her looking so relaxed in the company of a stranger. And he was even more surprised to see that Mikasa was actually smiling.

“Solomon,” Mikasa said, her own smile genuine. “I was just talking with Lady Amelia Veyron. She’s been so friendly and welcoming.”

Hearing Mikasa’s endorsement, Solomon’s guard dropped. If Mikasa, who was so adept at reading people, trusted this woman, then she must be alright. He gave Amelia a polite nod of acknowledgment. “Lady Amelia.”

Amelia, still in her curtsy, risked a glance upward, peeking at him from beneath her long, golden lashes. Her blue eyes, which had looked so kind and friendly to Mikasa, now held a different light when directed at him—a subtle, siren’s glint of allure and promise. It was a look that lasted only a second, but it was potent.

“Veyron,” Solomon said thoughtfully, the name clicking into place. “Your family is from the northern duchy. I served with two of your elder brothers in the military, Thomas and Gideon. They were good men. Fine soldiers.”

A dazzling, brilliant smile bloomed on Amelia’s face as she rose from her curtsy. It was a smile that could charm angels from the heavens. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said, her voice demure and sweet. “They speak very highly of their time serving under your command.”

But she was cunning. She knew she had made her impression. She had Mikasa’s trust and a positive, if brief, introduction to the emperor. To push further now would be a mistake. It would seem too eager.

“Well,” she said, turning her charming smile back to Mikasa. “It was a true pleasure meeting you, Lady Mikasa. Please, don’t be a stranger. I do hope we can speak again soon.” She then turned and gave Solomon another perfect curtsy. “Your Majesty.”

With a final, graceful nod, she turned and walked away, her silk gown whispering against the marble. As she passed Solomon to re-enter the ballroom, he caught the scent of her perfume—a subtle, intoxicating blend of night-blooming jasmine and something sharper, like citrus. It was intriguing and memorable.

After she was gone, a comfortable silence fell between them. Solomon moved to stand beside Mikasa at the balustrade, his presence a warm and familiar comfort.

“Feeling better?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Much better,” Mikasa said, and she meant it. The fresh air, and surprisingly, the pleasant conversation, had cleared her head and settled her nerves. The ballroom no longer seemed like a battlefield to be dreaded, but simply a room she had to walk back into.

She turned to him, a newfound resolve in her eyes. “I’m ready to go back in.”