Chapter 7
Divinity and Venom: The Crown Sees All
The pavilion was in chaos—healers rushing, nobles whispering, guards forming tense lines between foreign and imperial camps. The Imperial Pavilion—grand and serene just hours ago—now echoed with panic and accusations.
The moment Adrien and Ophelia stepped from the returning carriage, all eyes turned.
The pavilion trembled—not from wind, nor storm, but the sudden, soul-deep hush that fell across the noble assembly.
Gasps rose like a tide. Fans snapped open. Voices hushed.
And then, like a blade drawn in silence, Ophelia arrived with him.
Crown Prince Adrien Sebastien Asriel de Kaiser von Ciel.
Down the grand marble steps of the pavilion, he was draped in gold and cerulean, his white armor gleaming like sunlight on snow, etched with imperial sigils and celestial filigree. He looked less like a man and more like a divine judgment made flesh—regal, untouchable, and terrifyingly beautiful. A god among mortals, whose very presence made nobles bow and sinners beg for mercy, bearing the unmistakable seal of the Sky Throne on his chest.
His boots struck the polished marble like tolling bells, and every step sounded like a verdict.
No one had expected him—not today, not from the warfront, not from a nation away.
He wasn't supposed to be here.
Lady Chaeri's fan paused mid-flutter.
A nobleman dropped his wine glass.
A high official stumbled into a bow, unsure whether to kneel or run.
Second Prince Killian von Ciel's jaw almost dropped to the floor.
Even the Empress Dowager straightened in her seat, her gaze sharp with interest.
Adrien moved like stormlight—measured, precise, devastating.
And beside him, Ophelia, cloaked in a soldier's jacket, clothes torn and dusty, yet with her head still high—an empress in battle, not in pearls.
Then—
Envoy (stepping forward, pompous): Your Highness, forgive our urgency. But Lady Ophelia is to be detained at once. She stands accused of endangering the Imperial Envoy. Evidence points toward her orchestration of the incident.
The guards hesitated.
Until Adrien spoke.
Adrien (quietly): Draw your blade against her and your bones will be the last thing your mother recognizes.
Silence. Stone-heavy.
He stepped between Ophelia and the knights as if they were already corpses.
Adrien (to the court and delegation): You accuse the Crown Princess of attempted assassination.
His eyes flashed.
Adrien: Yet you offer no evidence but your tongue. So allow me to offer mine.
His tone was calm—but beneath it ran something frigid, ancient, final.
He pulled a sealed scroll from beneath his cloak and passed it to the Grand Marshal. It bore the crest of the Royal Guard's Intelligence Division.
Adrien: Signed testimonies from ten witnesses—including soldiers and nobility—confirm that Lady Ophelia's horse went mad like the others, near killing her.
She bears the wounds. She was found lost, alone, in the forest.
Then, he raised a torn length of foreign cloth—scarred with the sigil of Evlencia, wet and bloodstained.
Adrien: This was taken from two foreign knights found attempting to capture her near the waterfall basin.
They did not bear Imperial seals. Nor were they announced as part of your envoy's protection.
The court stirred.
Adrien (to the envoy, voice dropping like falling ice): You claim she sought to harm your envoy. And yet, she was the only one nearly killed.
The envoys started protesting all together
Envoy: She could have staged it. Poisoned her own horse. Played the victim.
Adrien's smile was sharp and mirthless.
Adrien: Fascinating. Then explain the three men in Evlencian armor who intercepted her after she fell. Knights who spoke your native tongue. Who plotted to throw her off the falls. Would that also be part of her 'performance'?
The knights shifted uncomfortably. The nobles began to murmur.
Adrien (voice rising): I recovered her with my own hands. She had no guards, no weapons, and no warning. Why would she risk everything she's built—for a petty plot like this?
Knight Commander (defensive): Perhaps she feared her status waning. A desperate woman can be—
Adrien (interrupting, voice like thunder): Say one more word to dishonor her, and I'll have your tongue pinned to the palace gates.
He turned to Ophelia, gaze softening only for her.
Adrien (to Ophelia, in a low voice): You don't need to speak, my Celeste. I'll destroy them for you.
He moved to Ophelia's side and took her hand—gloved and bloodied though it was.
Adrien (to the entire court): You will not touch her. You will not speak against her. And if any of you still breathe with doubt, you will answer to me.
And none did.
Not a duke. Not the Envoy. Not even the Emperor spoke.
Because when the storm walks in velvet, no one dares raise their voice.
And beside him, Ophelia stood unshaken—because she knew:
He would burn the world before letting it harm her again.
Then, he turned once more to the Evlencians.
Adrien (regal and merciless): You came to this hunt expecting theater. But this is the Solciel Empire. Here, we don't act—we rule. And if you threaten my future Empress again, there will be no trial. Only ashes.
Then, he faced the Emperor.
Adrien: I invoke royal authority. These accusations are not only baseless, but insulting. Lady Ophelia is not the accused—she is the nearly-assassinated.
The Emperor said nothing—but he did not protest.
And then, Adrien turned one final time to the Evlencian delegation.
Adrien (low, regal, absolute): Speak ill of her again, and I will return to your borders—not with parchment, but with fire.
A while later
The great marble hall was still thick with the echoes of accusation and defense. The nobles had been summoned, the evidence laid bare. One by one, they came forward—some trembling, others hiding behind forced dignity. But it was not enough to fill the growing void of certainty the court demanded.
Killian stood quietly in the corner of the chamber, half-shrouded in shadow, as if he belonged more to the silence than the spectacle. His gaze was sharp and calculating, taking in every testimony, every flicker of expression. He had not moved once—only watched. The weight of his presence was like the stillness before a thunderstorm.
Then came Chaeri.
She was summoned next.
The murmurs dulled. The room seemed to hold its breath. Her shoes clicked against polished marble, echoing louder than any voice before hers. She answered each question with poise, the threads of grace and restraint wound tightly around her.
The Magistrate: Miss Chaeri Rose, may I inquire—what did you witness and hear during the tumultuous events of the Imperial Hunt, and what occupied your attention amidst the unfolding chaos?
Chaeri: Your Highness, amid the turmoil of the Imperial Hunt, I was occupied with guiding the elders and fellow ladies to safety, away from the rampaging mad horses. There are many present who can attest to my actions. However, I did not catch sight of Crown Princess Ophelia during that time.
When her part ended, she was dismissed with a polite nod from the presiding magistrate. Her figure cut a dignified path through the hall, not looking back.
The hallway outside was colder. Quieter. The chaos had faded behind gilded doors.
But he was already waiting.
Killian.
He leaned against a tall stone column, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. The torchlight cast slanting shadows across his face, catching in his silver eyes like the glint of a blade unsheathed in moonlight.
He didn't announce himself. He didn't need to.
Chaeri: Greetings,Your Highness.
Chaeri offers a curtsy to the prince
He pushed off the column slowly, approaching with the kind of calculated calm that made every step louder than it should've been.
Killian: You are indeed a clever and careful woman, Miss Rose. But tell me—how long do you think you can keep escaping the consequences?
His lips curve up into a sinister smile and his eyes gleam with something quite indescribable. Was it arrogance or satisfaction?
Chaeri: I do not understand what you mean,Your Highness. Would you care to enlighten me?
Killian: You should know very well what I am talking about, Miss Rose. From now on, you should be careful in what you do...otherwise.
Before she could respond, he was gone as if all that just happened, never did.
His Highness Prince Killian von Ciel
Second Prince of the Solciel Empire
"The King of High Society"
"He smiles like a gentleman, but his eyes say: run."
With obsidian-black hair that falls in soft waves just past his collar and crimson eyes that gleam like embers beneath chandeliers, Killian von Ciel is the kind of beautiful that makes people forget to breathe. But behind that polished grace lies a mind sharper than any blade in the imperial armory.
If the Crown Prince is the Empire's sword, Killian is the mask—a prince of wit, whispers, and perfectly timed smiles. High society bows to him not out of duty, but desire. He knows every rule, every scandal, every ambition in the court—and he plays them like a waltz.
He is the chessmaster of the noble world, and the ballroom is his battlefield.
Unapologetically charming, irresistibly cunning, and always three steps ahead, Killian dances between gossip and power with wine in hand and mischief in his smile. His presence can silence a room—or ignite it.
Beneath the elegance and the velvet laughter, however, lies something dangerous. Something quiet. Something no one can truly predict.
Because behind that red gaze and charming mask, Killian von Ciel always gets what he wants.
A few hours later
The chaos of the Imperial Hunt had settled into uneasy silence.
Ophelia sat inside the pavilion, wrapped in an embroidered shawl someone had thrown over her shoulders in the aftermath. Her hair was tousled, her gown slightly torn from the ordeal, her fingers trembling just slightly—but her gaze remained sharp.
Then the doors opened.
Not slammed. Not flung wide. Just quietly opened.
And there he was.
Crown Prince Adrien Sebastien Asriel von Kaiser Ciel—war hero, feared strategist, untouchable sovereign heir—stood at the threshold, cloaked in snow-dusted travel garb, boots muddied, silver-blue armor dulled from days on the road. His expression was unreadable. His presence burned.
His eyes found only her.
And the moment he saw her, the entire room disappeared.
Adrien: Ophie-
The nickname barely left his lips—only for her, always only for her.
He dropped to his knees before her, not as prince or general or imperial heir, but as a man who was terrified of losing the one thing he couldn't bear to live without.
He gently took her hand, cold from worry, and pressed it against his cheek as if anchoring himself to reality. He closed his eyes, exhaling a shuddered breath, nuzzling her palm like a man who had wandered through hell to find light again.
His golden gauntlets clicked as he pulled her closer—reverently, protectively.
Adrien: I've fought battles, commanded thousands, defied death. But nothing—nothing—scared me more than the thought of losing you.
His breath tickled her ear as he whispered.
Adrien: You're trembling. Let me hold it for you—for just a moment. Let me carry it all.
Adrien: I'm done dealing with all the procedures.
He caressed her cheek
Adrien: Let's go.
He lifted her off the ground and carried her bridal style to his carriage.
The nobles whispered, but they didn't care.