Marrying into the wife’s family was, without a doubt, a deeply humiliating act. Many nobles saw it as disgraceful—especially the high-ranking aristocrats who prized honor and reputation.
But marrying into the Imperial Family? Entirely different. It was a glory to one’s ancestors. Any royal child born thereafter would carry his bloodline; the future emperor would be kin.
The benefits were endless.
And the Empress herself? A breathtaking, peerless beauty. How was this a loss? It was an absolute steal!!
Parian’s heart swelled with delight. He must’ve accumulated blessings over eight lifetimes to spend his days beside such a powerful, elegant, and stunning Empress.
Unaware his naive expression betrayed every thought, Parian remained pleased with his little scheme. The female knight saw right through him and couldn’t help but feel speechless.
As for Beatrice—she noticed, but simply didn’t care. Parian, this green young nobleman, was utterly irrelevant to her.
Neither Marquis Borlin, nor his son Parian, nor the entire banquet hall nor any guest within it could pierce those aloof, noble violet eyes.
Beatrice was present in body, absent in spirit. She regarded all with serene indifference—as if nothing could ever stir her calm expression.
When the Empress took her seat, every noble rose in respect. Beatrice settled naturally at the center.
No speeches followed. Seated beside her, Marquis Borlin made light conversation—reminiscing about old ties between his house and the Imperial Family.
Only as the feast wound down did Borlin steer toward his purpose.
“Your Majesty,” he began, expression turning solemn as he cited the empire’s millennium-old founder, “Emperor Salidon was profoundly wise. He declared: no power may surpass the Imperial Family. Such force must be balanced by all—including the Crown itself.”
“How does Your Majesty view this?”
“Speak plainly, Marquis. No one is listening—and even if they were, they’d hear nothing.” Beatrice’s voice, serene as an orchid in a secluded valley, remained utterly detached.
Borlin sensed she’d long seen through his circling words and grown impatient. He cleared his throat.
“In my view,” he pressed, nearly explicit now, “no faction should wield power exceeding the Crown. If one does, others must unite against this overreaching force.” He waited.
If she agreed, he’d propose alliance. If hesitant, he’d clarify the stakes.
“I agree,” Beatrice said—making Borlin’s eyes light up—“however… Marquis, the realm is peaceful, the nation thrives. Where is this ‘overreaching’ faction? You worry too much.”
*Where?*
Seriously? Must she wait until they storm the palace to see the threat?!
Beatrice was famed for wisdom. Borlin refused to believe she hadn’t noticed the Inquisition Tribunal’s swelling power.
Clearly, she was feigning ignorance—avoiding confrontation.
How could one tolerate a threat sleeping beside the throne? Did she truly trust the Inquisition Tribunal would never reduce her to a puppet?!
Borlin had anticipated every reply—but not this dismissal. Was she confident? Or did she have her own plan?
He probed again and again. Beatrice deflected each with evasion, feigned obliviousness.
No alliance? Even as Empress—could she stand alone against the Inquisition Tribunal?!
Just as Borlin weighed speaking plainer, the Empress’s gaze locked onto a corner of the hall.
She rose. The female knight followed.
Borlin trailed after, baffled—until he saw it: a golden wine cup tucked in the shadows.
Exquisitely crafted, yes—but missing the cat’s-eye gems once set upon it. Its value ruined. He’d bought it merely as decoration.
Surely not *this* that caught the Empress’s eye?
“I acquired it days ago, Your Majesty. Please, take it if you wish,” Borlin offered as her slender fingers cradled the cup.
“…With respect, Marquis—where exactly did you buy it?” Her eyes never left the cup. Her usually composed fingers tightened slightly—a rare crack in her calm.
“An auction house,” Borlin replied awkwardly. The empire’s black market was illegal yet tolerated; naming it outright was unwise. He kept it vague, hoping she’d let it pass. *It’s just a cup.*
“Which auction house.”
Her gaze remained fixed. She would not let go.
Borlin froze. The knight stiffened.
*What is it about this cup?* The knight had never seen the Empress so captivated by an object—more than any living guest.
“Er… the name escapes me. A discreet auction house,” Borlin hedged. Truth mattered; lies would cost trust.
Beatrice held the cup in silence a long moment.
“My apologies, Marquis. I feel unwell. May I withdraw early?”
“Unwell? My manor has a physician—”
“No need. I prefer my palace physicians.” She declined politely.
“Then allow me to escort you.”
“Unnecessary.”
With that, the Empress and her knight departed—straight for the carriage.
Beatrice’s strange behavior left not only Marquis Borlin perplexed, but her own guard deeply puzzled.
