In the Karno Empire, Lord Borlin’s marquisate was hosting a grand banquet.

Today was neither Lord Borlin’s birthday, nor his children’s, nor anyone else’s in the family—yet the feast proceeded right on schedule.

Nobles never lacked excuses for a banquet; a birthday was hardly required.

A festival, a deity’s anniversary, any celebratory occasion would do.

This time, however, Lord Borlin seemed truly short on plausible reasons—so he simply invented one:

“Exactly five months since the Grand Knight Commander’s passing. A worthy occasion for celebration.”

Invitations went out to noble peers and, of course, the lesser lords under his domain. Appearances had to be kept.

Still, recipients were left puzzled: was this solemn mourning… or practically dancing on the grave?

Shouldn’t proper mourning wait until six months? A little too casual, wasn’t it?

Yet nobles on decent terms with House Borlin attended punctually—and his loyal vassals, without question.

As one of the empire’s most prominent houses, Lord Borlin’s banquet radiated refined elegance.

The manor’s dedicated courtyard bloomed with manicured flowerbeds around a hall glittering like starlight. As a marquisate, its grandeur ranked just below ducal and imperial halls.

Glowing luminous stones lined the path to the entrance. Inside, a crystal chandelier cast soft radiance across the opulent hall.

The spacious venue held a dining area and a ballroom stage.

Four long tables draped in gold-trimmed silk bore exquisite delicacies. Nobles arrived early—not to be late, but to network and show respect.

By shortly before six, every seat was taken.

Nobles and their heirs greeted Lord Borlin—impeccably dressed in lavish formal wear—and his eldest son and heir. Those closer to House Borlin exchanged brief pleasantries first.

All were seasoned veterans: smiles polite, thoughts hidden.

Lord Borlin included his son for one reason—to let the heir recognize his future subordinates.

Once seated, no one touched their utensils. Lord Borlin stood silently by the door, wine glass in hand, waiting. His son stood beside him, a hint of nervousness in his eyes.

The other nobles fell into tacit silence, waiting with him.

Only one person in the entire empire warranted a grand noble standing guard-like at the door…

Soon, an ornate carriage rolled into the courtyard. It was drawn by a white-and-violet horse-like creature—sharp horn protruding from its brow.

A unicorn. A rare mount from the Elvenwood, reserved for royalty in many lands.

Gemstones traced a crown motif on the carriage door. A dashing female knight dismounted her white steed, bowed respectfully, and drew back the curtain.

Lord Borlin knew—the guest of honor, the one he’d most wished to invite, had arrived. He hurried out with his son.

As they approached, the carriage occupant stepped down, supported by her knight.

Ink-black hair cascaded over jade-white shoulders, flowing along the gentle curve of her figure like a murmuring stream.

With her knight’s aid, the black-haired maiden opened her noble amethyst eyes and stepped down in crystal-clear heels.

Her jewel-adorned, lotus-leaf-style gown was undeniably splendid—yet it seemed the dress shone only because *she* wore it.

She was the empire’s most resplendent gem: the sole surviving direct heir of the imperial line, Empress Beatrice Norlandier.

Part of her silky black hair was braided wheat-style at the nape, violet-tipped; the rest spilled smoothly to her hem. Elastic, subtly sheer black stockings sheathed her long, graceful legs.

Her snow-pale skin, flushed faintly pink, contrasted vividly with her black hair, stockings, and gown.

Every feature aligned perfectly with idealized beauty—truly worthy of her title.

Especially those amethyst eyes: noble, distant from worldly noise, like an unattainable flower blooming on a lofty peak.

Lord Borlin remained composed—he’d met the Empress before, and as a high noble, had seen many beauties. Momentarily captivated, yes, but never unraveled. His son? Another story.

The newly adult Parien had never seen such breathtaking grace. His gaze locked unwaveringly on Beatrice—until his father discreetly tapped his rear with a cane.

“Parien! Pay respects to Her Majesty at once!”

“...Ah! Forgive my rudeness. Parien, son of Marquis Borlin, humbly greets Your Majesty, Empress Beatrice.” He dropped to one knee, hand over heart.

“Lord Marquis, I trust I am not late?”

“Not at all! Your presence, Your Majesty, illuminates my humble hall.”

Lord Borlin ushered Beatrice inside. Her female knight followed silently, ever at her back.

Parien kept stealing glances at the young Empress, recalling his father’s grand promises.

The empire’s balance had shifted. Power had bled to the Inquisition Tribunal. Both Empress and great nobles sought alliances to stand against it.

And the surest bond? Marriage.

Indeed—to counter the Tribunal’s rising might, nearly every major house eyed a royal union. House Borlin was no exception.

He intended his eldest son to marry into the imperial line… to wed Empress Beatrice.