Chapter 30 — The Ball and Unpleasant Surprises (2)
Chapter 30 — The Ball and Unpleasant Surprises (2)
The imperial hall shone intensely under the glow of monumental crystal chandeliers. But to me, that monumental environment felt less like a birthday celebration and much more like a highly dangerous diplomatic minefield.
The physical space was incredibly vast, decorated with symmetrical arrangements and heavy curtains. Following a traditional habit of my mother's lineage, Lady Sylvia, the furniture layout did not feature a single centralized community table. Instead, each noble family possessed its own large private table, where banquets and delicacies were served in isolation. Unlike common banquets where everyone crowded around a single central table, the entire central part of the hall remained completely free, preserving a vast open space paved in polished marble. It was there that the guests moved about and where, at the end of the night, the much-dreaded official presentation waltz would take place.
Surrounded by brilliant minds, heiresses of great Houses, and nobles eager to extract any crumb of technical innovation from him, the young prodigy tried to chart his escape route.
— I need to quickly map out an escape route skirting the perimeter of this hall. — My previous interactions with the high aristocracy had already left deep marks and whispers throughout the court. From the shrewd Royal Princess to the pragmatic Lady Evelyn and the calculating Lady Lyra, Kaelen de Vance's name circulated as the epicenter of a silent revolution. However, the true mechanical and social test began when the middle and lower nobility group — led by figures like Lady Clara, Lady Beatrice, and Lady Melissa — tried to corner my movements with direct questions and political flirtations.
It didn't take long for the heiress of House Vanguard to enter the scene imposingly.
— Oh, my... If it isn't the famous soap architect and savior of the crops hiding behind a column... Tell me, little prodigy... Is the royal Curia's juice up to your refined palate, or have you already calculated the exact formula to ferment a better drink?
The other young women around began to chuckle, playing with the fact that I was a child carrying the administrative weight of an entire province on my back. They even made subtle jokes about me still needing wooden stools to reach the council's meeting table.
Kaelen, in turn, replies with his classic academic sarcasm disguised as childish innocence, leaving the ladies torn between laughing at his audacity or being slightly offended by his lack of reverent fear.
— Thank you very much for your grace? — says Kaelen in a cold tone. — Before starting a conversation with such a beautiful young lady, I would first need you to introduce yourself... And of course, if the young lady doesn't want to, I can go to the other side of the room and look for someone more polite...
— Oh, look at that... The little architect has teeth — replies Lady Isadora, the Marchioness of Vanguard, in a low voice, taking a step forward to shorten the distance. — Running to the other side of the room won't do much good, Kaelen de Vance. After all, everyone in this hall has their eyes on your next 'invention'. But I accept the correction: apologies for the manners. I am Lady Isadora, of the Marchioness of Vanguard.
The other young women around exchange surprised glances and muffled whispers behind their fans. Some contain their laughter at Kaelen's direct response; others, coming from stricter Houses, look scandalized by his lack of immediate formal reverence.
— He really has the temper of a forge dwarf, just like his father said... — murmurs one of the Viscountesses, nudging the friend next to her, but unable to hide the gleam of interest in her eyes upon seeing that he did not bow to their social pressure.
Meanwhile, a few meters away, some nobles watching the scene out of the corner of their eye raise their eyebrows. The way Kaelen imposes his personal space — even with a cold and cutting tone — begins to transform the perception of him: he ceases to be seen merely as a harmless curiosity and starts to be regarded as a little noble with a difficult temper, exactly the type that attracts even more curiosity from the high court.
— Pleaure, Lady Vanguard — greets Kaelen formally. — Want some juice? It's good! You should try it! Not that it's the best, but who knows if you add sugar and carbonated water from thermal ponds... I guarantee you'd like it. But I believe you're more interested not in juice, correct? Perhaps in a better weapon? I believe your House has more aptitude for that... But... I guess that wasn't your intention... or was it?
My direct response — mixed with a surgical geopolitical reading of her lineage — left the little group of nobles momentarily speechless. Lady Isadora's facade of stern composure gave way to a genuine, though etiquette-restrained, laugh. Her amber eyes shone with a renewed interest, far beyond the simple curiosity that had brought her there. She accepts the glass of juice he offers and replies with a defiant smile, leaning slightly forward:
— Carbonated water from thermal ponds with sugar... — She repeats the words, savoring the concept behind the idea. — You really don't rest, do you, Kaelen? Not even at a presentation ball can you turn off that calculating little head of yours.
The other young women around exchange goggle-eyed glances; after all, no one there was accustomed to being read with such precision and indifference by a twelve-year-old boy. She takes a tiny sip of the juice, evaluating the flavor before continuing, her voice dropping to a more accomplice tone:
— And as for a better weapon... let's just say House Vanguard always appreciates innovations that keep our borders safe. But I confess you intrigue me much more than any ballistics project right now.
The group of Countesses and Baronesses accompanying her murmurs among themselves, torn between shock and amusement.
— Did he just try to sell artisanal juice to Vanguard's heiress while dismissing her politely? — whispers Lady Clara from behind her fan, holding back laughter.
Lady Beatrice looks at Kaelen with a dreamy and slightly terrified gleam in her eyes:
— By Eris... He is completely impossible. Romance novels never warned us about boys like this.
Kaelen takes a deep breath, with a tone of disappointment, and says:
— Honestly... I thought I could expect more from you. Not that you aren't smart and pretty, but you aren't sweet, nor do you try to hide your interests. If you really wanted to approach me, you should have approached differently... Well, at least points to you, you had the courage.
Without giving time for retorts, I plunged my hand into the pocket of my gala coat. I withdrew two metal objects and placed them directly into Isadora's bewildered palm: a pointed iron caltrop and one of the mechanical precision needles with an "M" shaped tip that Master Balin had forged.
— Be careful not to hurt yourself, after all this is great against heavy cavalry, I had saved this to give to your father or someone interested. Now, I bid you farewell.
Leaving the future Marchioness completely dumbfounded and the perimeter in absolute silence, I abruptly turned my back. I walked away with firm strides, crossing the hall behind my mother — who was conversing animatedly with Count Sterling and Marquis Helios — and using the movement of servants with empty trays as a visual shield to disappear into the side corridor of the northern wing.
The entire hall seems to fall silent for a tenth of a second. Kaelen's audacity crosses any acceptable limit of courtly etiquette: not only does he reject the conversation with a sigh of boredom, but he also evaluates the personality of the heiress of one of the greatest military Houses as if he were grading her. The heiress stiffens her posture instantly, and her amber eyes widen in sheer shock. In all her life, no noble — let alone a twelve-year-old boy freshly out of childhood — had dared evaluate her, much less give her "love advice" accompanied by a reprimand about being "sweet."
Lady Clara chokes on her own breath, abruptly closing her fan. Lady Beatrice brings her hands to her mouth. The group of aristocrats around paralyzes; nobody believes the boy gave the future Marchioness of Vanguard a tactical area weapon and a ballistic component as if they were caramel candies.
Before Isadora recovers her composure, Kaelen simply turns his back, swerves past the marble columns with firm steps, and heads straight for one of the side rooms — as far away as possible from the dance floor and the royal suitors. Abandoned, holding the cold metal of the caltrop and the needle in her hand, Lady Isadora clenches her fist, lifts her chin with an absolutely defiant smile, and murmurs to herself:
— Ah... You think you're going to get rid of me that easily, Kaelen de Vance? Let's see how long you can run.
While crossing the side corridor toward one of the less illuminated resting rooms, Kaelen thinks to himself: — Worst type of women: those who think about everything except what their real life will be like. To them, everything is nothing more than a geopolitical chessboard of alliances and status. But not for me. I have zero interest in becoming a pawn in anyone's game. Beauty and pedigree are great in theory, but if I'm going to be forced into marriage by sheer pressure, personality and mental sanity weigh much heavier on the scale. If I'm going to have someone by my side, I need someone who won't make me want to tear my hair out in boredom — or poison me at breakfast.
— Just walk quickly behind my mother, wait a bit, and go the other way. Beauty is good, but personality, if I'm forced to marry, matters more to me... Maybe I'll use something to draw someone else's attention to throw them off... Let's see how the reaction goes... If they let me, I can stay calm. I'm just afraid my father will intervene...
I quickly passed behind my mother, who at that moment was gesturing animatedly with Count Sterling and Marquis Helios, pretending to adjust my collar and waiting for the exact time to vanish around the curve of the corridor. I waited a few seconds, blending into a group of servants carrying empty trays, and changed direction to the opposite side of the northern wing.
I pulled a small, noisy mechanical gadget from my pocket that I used as a tactical distraction, in case the pressure from the suitors increased. I was only afraid that my father, Lord Arl, would personally intervene to drag me back to the center of the hall.
My brief peace lasted little. The door of the side resting room opened with an almost suspicious silence. Light, calculated footsteps echoed across the polished wooden floor. Emerging from the penumbra was Lady Valeria, the Marchioness of Montemor, carrying a small plate with refined appetizers and displaying a calm, analytical smile in her gray eyes.
Upon spotting Kaelen cowering by the column of the empty room, she slows her pace:
— Oh, look at that... The fugitive architect — she says in a soft tone, stopping a few steps away. — I passed through the main hall and left your father surrounded by three Dukes and a tactical crop-rotation map. I thought it best to come rescue you... or at least check if you've already survived the night's first diplomatic assault.
She extends the small plate with gentleness:
— I figured you might need something edible that doesn't come with a marriage proposal disguised as a trade treaty. Accept?
Kaelen immediately notices the difference in approach.
— Thank you very much! I accept with pleasure, milady — I replied, taking one of the appetizers. — After all, I much prefer a legitimate commercial agreement to a forced marriage. How would you feel if, by chance, your father induced you to marry a forty-year-old man? Or worse, a three-hundred-and-forty-year-old one? — I let out a mischievous laugh. — I believe you wouldn't like it one bit. But forgive my rudeness. What is your grace?
Kaelen's response completely breaks Lady Violet's polished posture. She blinks a few times before letting out a clean, melodious laugh:
— A three-hundred-and-forty-year-old man...? — she repeats, arching an eyebrow with a gleam of pure amusement in her gray eyes. — Well, considering that at that age he would probably already be buried in the ancestral crypts of some distant province, I suppose I would prefer to flee to the Adventurer's Guild and disguise myself as a salt merchant. It's a rather desolate future prospect, I admit.
Оhe accepts the formal greeting with an impeccable bow.
— As for my grace, little prodigy — she says, adjusting the hem of her dress —, we've already exchanged enough words for them to at least whisper my name in the main hall. I am Lady Violet, of the House of Montemor. — She makes a dramatic pause: — * And as for a commercial agreement... I confess I am much more flexible than the Dukes out there. What exactly would you have in mind to transact with me, Kaelen de Vance? A refined soap patent, optimized trade routes... or just a safe hiding place for us to spend the rest of the night away from our parents?*
The muffled sound of waltz music begins to echo faintly from the main hall.
— Lady Montemor! — I lowered my tone, adopting a icy seriousness. — I must say that you are friendlier so far, and smarter, for not trying to bite off more than you can chew... so I ask you a sincere question... All our families are ships sailing on different paths, but they all reach the same port! You can command the ship, but you have no way of commanding the wind that blows it, and even so, how are you going to appease everyone inside the ship? You know, not everything is what it seems; sometimes a mummy can be a 12-year-old boy and you didn't even notice? Maybe I'm a vampire or a disguised elf? Who knows...? If you can answer that, then I'll wait to dance with you...
— A centenarian vampire or a millennial elf trapped in the body of a twelve-year-old boy who makes soap and invents crop rotation...? — she repeats, arching an eyebrow. — I confess it would be a formidable lineage for House Vance, although a bit complicated for the province. — She takes a step closer: — As for your question... If the captain cannot command the wind, he learns to adjust the sails, Kaelen. And to appease the crew inside the ship, you don't use brute force... you give them a destination so lucrative or interesting that they forget about mutinies. In your case, for example, if the crew knows that the 'twelve-year-old boy' is actually the engine that will double their economy, they'd rather die than lose sight of you.
Violet pauses upon hearing the chords of classical music swell. She extends her hand with a victorious smile:
— Therefore, I think I answered your riddle with flying colors. And now... the waltz is about to begin, young 'vampire'. You promised that if I answered, you would give me the honor of a dance. Will you run away from your word, or will you face the dance floor with me before the Dukes come find us?
Kaelen lets out a huff of disappointment:
— Milady, don't get me wrong, but the boat is our heart, and the wind is destiny. If you don't even know where your own heart wants to take you, how can you want to marry someone just to be manipulated by the rules of the nobility, living your life lamenting being just a reproducer of heirs? Wouldn't you want something more for your existence? Only it will be too late, because you will have already lost control of your own heart. Can't you see that an elite crew follows a captain not just for money, but for the destination that captain can reach? And if that captain falls bedridden sick, what will you do? Will you fight for him or let the whole structure fall? Money is great and buys a lot... But when you get sick, confined to a bed... Who is actually going to visit you out of genuine affection? That's why I really expected a deeper answer from you... Sorry... I bid you farewell.
Kaelen's words fall into the environment with an unexpected density. The amused smile slowly fades from Lady Violet's face. Her gray eyes widen, absorbing the intellectual and emotional blow dealt by a twelve-year-old boy. As Kaelen turns his back and walks away, Violet remains motionless for an instant, looking at the hand that seconds before was extended for the dance. His words echo in her mind: ...when you get bedridden, sick... who is actually going to visit you?
She doesn't scream or call the guards; she merely lifts her chin and murmurs to the empty corridor:
— You really are no ordinary child, Kaelen de Vance... And perhaps... you just won the argument.
However, as soon as I crossed the threshold of the oak door, I ran straight into an insurmountable military barrier: Lorde Arl, my own father, crossing his arms with an expression that mixed immense pride over the rumors of my debates and unnegotiable paternal severity.
He crosses his arms, blocking his son's path with an amused half-smile.
— So this is where you were hiding, my little philosopher? — teased Lorde Arl. — Rumors spread in the main hall that you almost made the entire high nobility rethink the meaning of life in less than fifteen minutes. The Dukes are confused, the ladies are fascinated, and your mother is two seconds away from having the guards search the castle.
— Father, wasn't you the one going to fix me up with a suitor with more meat? — retorted Kaelen, laughing openly and throwing his hands up. — You spent too much time chatting with the guests! At least they need to have mom's sweetness, or do you want me to marry a vampire and be sucked dry?
The Marquis laughed out loud, a muffled rumble escaping his chest before giving his son an affectionate tap on the back.
— A... a vampire?! — Lorde Arl repeats, raising his eyebrows. — Kaelen... Where on earth did you get that idea? I spent half an hour discussing iron ore prices and crop rotation with the Marquis, and you come at me with creature-of-the-night talk?
He leads the boy back toward the main table where Kaelen's mother awaits them with a curious look.
— And as for having your mother's sweetness... — Lorde Arl continues. — Let me tell you a secret, my son: women like your mother are as rare as pure metal in an exhausted mine. If you wait to find someone identical to her, you'll spend the rest of your life single building parts in the workshop. But... at least I see your criteria are still sharp.
Before sitting down, Kaelen looks around and notices the double advance of Isadora and Violet approaching. With desperate urgency, he pulls the sleeve of his father's coat. Lorde Arl widened his eyes, surprised by my despair, but a gleam of pure perverse and paternal fun crossed his weathered face.
— Father, father, help! — whispers Kaelen in a rapid tone, pointing with his chin at the two heiresses. — Please, save me! Say I need to fulfill an urgent family honor directive! Can you dance with the Princess or, if she refuses, with mom? Please! If you take on this diplomatic front, I promise never to complain about your etiquette pills again!
Lorde Arl looks at his wife, Lady Sylvia, who watches the scene crossing her arms with an absolutely merciless smile. Sylvia casts a knowing glance at her husband, making it clear he should fend for himself. Lorde Arl adjusts the collar of his uniform with false solemnity:
— I'm sorry, my son. The rules of protocol are clear: the heir of House Vance must fulfill his own salon obligations. Besides, the Royal Princess has already sent word that she has strictly economic matters to discuss with the Marquis here... and your mother is exclusive property of mine on this dance floor. In other words... you are completely cornered. Good luck with your "ship," captain.
— You traitor! — I glare at him before turning to the newcomers. I took a deep breath, recomposed my formal posture, and turned to face the two heiresses who had stopped firmly in front of me. — Ladies... — raising my hands in a gesture of diplomatic surrender. — I am only one! How can we resolve this stalemate?
Lady Isadora crosses her arms with a wicked, defiant smile:
— The answer is simple, Kaelen. A waltz has two distinct beats or can be split. But if you try to run away again, the next gift I give you won't be a ballistic needle, it'll be a pair of forged iron handcuffs.
Beside her, Lady Violet laughs softly:
— Or else, captain, you can simply admit you didn't expect your crew to mutiny so fast. But relax... House Montemor is generous. I agree to share the floor, as long as you guarantee me the conversation during the dance won't be about infantry tactics.
I let out a heavy sigh, feigning a dramatic defeat, and stare at the two with a mixture of resignation and calculated petulance:
— Well, nothing to be done, right?! You won the war in the end! Okay, I'll do as you want! But that doesn't mean either of you has the advantage... Since I am only one and nobility requires diplomatic equity, the math is simple: the song has two beats. The first half of the waltz I dance with Lady Vanguard, to ensure the borders remain secure, and the second half I dance with Lady Montemor, to recalibrate the 'ship's' course. That way no one can accuse House Vance of political favoritism!
Isadora breaks into a victorious smile:
— A perfectly logical solution for a little strategist. Deal, Kaelen.
Violet laughs softly, shaking her head in approval:
— I accept the terms of the negotiation, captain. Let's see if your dance steps are as sharp as your tongue.
Without giving time for new escape attempts, the two pull him gently toward the center of the open area of the hall, just as the orchestra's chords fill the room. My parents watch from afar, laughing openly, while I find myself trapped between two relentless heiresses. Amid forced spins, high nobility glances, and the silent triumph of having survived the most chaotic night of his life, Kaelen's rite of passage ended, proving once and for all that the imperial nobility would never be the same.
