"The Emperor's Gaze,"

“Let us take our leave within, Your Highness,” quoth Duke Cedric, his voice tempered with courtesy as he stepped forth with measured grace, extending an arm in gentlemanly fashion. His gloved hand gestured reverently toward the high-arched doors of the estate, carved of dark, polished oak, where the golden sigil of House Viremont gleamed beneath torchlight.

The Emperor, His Majesty Valerian Noctis, gave no reply but moved forward, his figure a commanding presence swathed in a long, sable cloak trimmed with silver embroidery. The trailing hem of his mantle stirred softly against the marble as he passed, and the very air around him grew colder, as though the warmth of the hearth itself dare not approach him. The gathered household—servants, guards, and kin alike—bowed in perfect unison as he entered, heads bent and eyes lowered, reverent silence cloaking the corridor.

Within the grand dining hall, a vaulted chamber of opulence and history, the household gathered under a canopy of crystal light. The chandeliers above glittered with a thousand cut gems, their flickering candles casting dancing reflections upon walls adorned with ancient tapestries—each thread telling of conquests and noble triumphs long past. Velvet draperies the hue of garnets framed the tall arched windows, and at the centre stood a table long and rich, laden with silver and bone china, the meal served in solemn elegance.

The Emperor took his seat at the head of the table with the fluid authority of a man long used to command. His eye—cold, glacial, and calculating—surveyed the hall with the quiet intensity of a hawk. One eye remained hidden, ever shrouded by a silken eye-patch of deepest midnight, embroidered faintly with a royal crest. Not once since his ascension had it been lifted in public.

Duke Cedric, ever conscious of decorum and keen to ease the cold tension that draped the room like a shroud, gave a gentle cough and ventured, “So, Your Highness… how fared thy journey? I trust the roads were kind and the winds not bitter?”

“It was tolerable,” spake Emperor Valerian, his tone clipped and devoid of warmth, as he took up the finely-crafted blade beside his plate and carved through the venison with slow precision. The steel glinted under candlelight, each motion measured, as if even dining was a matter of military deliberation.

A hush returned. The scraping of knife on porcelain echoed in the void left by stilled tongues. None dared fill the silence. Even the servants had withdrawn to the farthest reaches of the hall, eyes downcast, hands folded, awaiting a command that would not come.

Then, as if by whim or calculation, the Emperor spoke once more—his voice calm, yet unsettling in its suddenness. “Lady Ilyana… remind me—what age dost thou bear?”

Lady Ilyana, seated betwixt her mother, the Duchess Seraphina, and her younger half-brother, did not immediately reply. A flicker of uncertainty passed over her delicate features. Her hands, folded in her lap upon her crimson skirts, tightened slightly—fingers curling into the silk. Though her bearing was noble and her posture upright as taught by countless lessons, the question stirred a coldness in her heart she could not name.

“I am seventeen years of age, Your Majesty,” she replied at last, her voice quiet but clear, steady despite the chill that seized her spine.

The Emperor’s single eye met hers. It held her gaze for the briefest moment, unblinking and unreadable. Then, without a word, he looked away, resuming his meal with a stillness that seemed carved from stone.

No one dared speak. The Duchess, seated beside her daughter, kept her face composed, but her fingers ever so subtly adjusted the folds of Ilyana’s sleeve, a silent reassurance. Duke Cedric drank from his goblet, the wine inside untouched.

As the final course was cleared by silent maids and the fire in the hearth crackled low, the Emperor set down his silver goblet. He leaned back with quiet deliberation, folding his hands lightly before him.

“Lady Ilyana,” he said at length, his voice echoing beneath the tall vaults, “wouldst thou grant me the honour of a tour? I should very much like to acquaint myself with thy family’s estate.”

Lady Ilyana’s breath caught. She turned instinctively to her mother. Duchess Seraphina gave a subtle nod, her expression calm yet expectant. Rising with practiced grace, Ilyana dipped into a gentle curtsy, her crimson gown sweeping elegantly about her.

“With pleasure, Your Majesty. I would be most honoured.”

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