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Michael's POV
"It is a curious facet of the human condition," I began, my voice echoing slightly in the large dressing room, "that we so often weave the very threads of our own future discontent. We make a choice, believing it to be the most logical or benevolent path, only to find that this path leads to a cliff of our own making. A debt that fate invariably collects, often with significant interest."
I paused for dramatic effect, staring at my reflection in the grand mirror. Elara, who was meticulously fastening the last button on my sleeve, didn't even look up.
"So," she said, her voice completely deadpan, "in short, you're regretting your decision to agree to the ceremony."
I was caught. A fake cough escaped my lips as I straightened my posture. "Yes," I conceded, my cheeks feeling a little warm. "You could say that."
A small giggle escaped her, a rare and welcome sound. "You are very cute when you're trying to sound like a philosopher, Young Master."
After what felt like an eternity of tucking, straightening, and adjusting, she was finally finished. I turned fully to the mirror to examine her work.
I had to admit, I looked clean. Elara had dressed me in a formal suit of sharp black and rich gold, with a pristine white overcoat worn over it. The collar and cuffs of the coat were embroidered with intricate golden thread that perfectly matched my hair and eyes. I looked less like a five-year-old and more like a miniature lord, which I suppose was the entire point.
"Well," Elara said, placing her hands on her hips with a satisfied smile. "If you're not a heartbreaker when you grow up, I'll eat my apron."
I gave her the flattest, most unimpressed look I could muster.
Just then, the doors to the dressing room swung open, and my parents walked in. They were a study in contrasts, and they looked magnificent. My father was dressed in a severe, perfectly tailored suit of dark charcoal, accented with the silver Kira family crest pinned to his lapel. He looked every bit the sharp, calculating political mind he was. My mother, by contrast, seemed to float into the room in a gown the color of a twilight sky, a flowing masterpiece of soft lavender silk that shimmered with every step. She was elegance and light personified.
The moment her eyes landed on me, she shrieked. A genuinely happy, high-pitched sound of delight.
"Oh, Mich! Look at you!" She rushed forward and swept me into a hug, lifting me off my feet. "My little sunshine looks so handsome! So grown-up! All the girls are going to fall in love with you! You're going to be such a heartbreaker!"
I sighed internally. It seemed to be the theme of the day.
My father chuckled softly before turning his attention to Elara. "Will you be joining us for the ceremony, Elara?" he asked, his tone polite and neutral.
Elara gave a small, respectful bow. "Thank you for the offer, Lord Roderic, but I must decline. I find that large gatherings of nobles... do not often agree with me or like my presence there."
Her smile was polite, but I knew what she meant. I remembered my cousin and how he had treated her. She had endured the scorn of nobles her entire life. This ceremony would be a room full of people just like him.
My parents understood immediately. My mother gave her a warm, understanding smile, and my father simply nodded. With that, they each took one of my hands, and we left for the ceremony I was already dreading.
Third Person POV
At the Silva Estate, another five-year-old was undergoing a similar trial of preparation. Acier Silva stood patiently on a small stool while a trio of maids made final adjustments to her dress.
She was an angelic-looking child. Her silvery-white hair, a trademark of the Silva line, was silky and fell in gentle curls just past her shoulders. A single light blue ribbon tied a portion of it back, keeping it out of her large, silver-blue eyes. Those eyes were full of a quiet curiosity, holding the innate sharpness of a noble but softened with the wonder of a child.
Her dress was a tasteful creation of white and silver silk, with puffed sleeves and delicate lace trimming the edges. It was elegant but not ostentatious, perfect for a young noblewoman. Pinned to her collar was a small silver brooch shaped into the Silva family crest.
The door opened, and a woman with the same silvery hair and a kind, diplomatic smile entered. "Are you ready, my dear?" Lady Virelia Silva asked her daughter.
Acier's quiet composure was immediately shattered. She bounced on her stool, her eyes sparkling with an excitement that had been building all week.
"Mother, is it really true? Is she going to be there?"
Virelia smiled. "Yes, Acier. Lady Seraphiel will be there with her son."
"The Captain of the Golden Dawn!" Acier breathed, her hands clasped together in reverence. "She's not just a Captain; she's the Captain! They say her magic is like a star given form and that she's the strongest female Magic Knight in the entire kingdom! I want to be just like her someday. I'm going to be strong enough to stand beside her!"
Her mother laughed, a gentle, melodic sound. She walked over and affectionately patted her daughter's head. "I have no doubt you will be, my clever girl. And I hear her son, the birthday boy, is quite strong himself. Perhaps you two will become good rivals in the future."
Acier's excitement dimmed slightly. A flicker of skepticism crossed her face. "A rival?" she mumbled, thinking of the other noble boys she had met. They were arrogant, boastful, and cruel to the servants. "I hope he is not like the other boys."
Lady Virelia's smile turned knowing. "I think you're in for a surprise, Acier."
Meanwhile...
In a carriage, this one emblazoned with the roaring lion of House Vermillion, the atmosphere was considerably less serene.
At the head of the carriage sat Lord Ignatius Vermillion, the stern patriarch of the family and the captain of the Crimson Lion. His powerful build was contained within a strict military-style uniform, and his fiery red hair and sharp gaze promised no nonsense. Across from him sat his wife, Lady Evelina. Her beauty was more refined, her expression one of amused patience. She was the calm ember to his raging fire.
Beside her was their eldest daughter, Lysandra. At fifteen, she was on the cusp of receiving her own grimoire. She carried herself with an elegant confidence that belied her age, looking very much like a more composed version of the fiery women her family was famous for producing.
And beside Lysandra, fidgeting relentlessly in her formal dress, was Ignara Vermillion.
"This is ridiculous," Ignara grumbled for the tenth time, pulling at the stiff collar of her restrictive crimson and gold dress. "Why do I have to go to some random brat's party? I could be training!"
Ignara was a ball of pure, unfiltered energy. Her bright red hair was tied back in a high ponytail that seemed to crackle with her restless spirit. Her eyes, the same fiery orange as her father's, darted around, looking for something, anything, more interesting than the inside of a carriage. She loved a good fight, respected only strength, and had already challenged half the knights in the Vermillion estate to a sparring match.
"Because, my dear," her mother, Evelina, said calmly, "it is a gathering for House Kira. Lady Seraphiel will be in attendance."
Ignara's complaints stopped instantly. Her mouth snapped shut.
Her older sister, Lysandra, smirked. "Oh? Struck a nerve, did she? Don't tell me our little lioness is a total fangirl for the Captain of the Golden Dawn."
"I am not!" Ignara exploded, her face turning as red as her hair. "She's just... strong! Like REALLY strong! Even Dad can't defeat her. It's good to respect strong people!" To cover her embarrassment, she went back to her original complaint. "And this stupid dress is too tight! How am I supposed to move in this thing?!"
A deep voice cut through her rant. "Enough, Ignara."
Lord Ignatius fixed his youngest daughter with a stern look. "There are certain duties a noble must perform. Attending these functions is one of them. You will represent our house with dignity."
Ignara grumbled under her breath, crossing her arms petulantly. "Whatever," she muttered. Then she added, a bit louder, "He better not be one of those whiny, crying types. If he is, I'll beat the snot out of him."
Her entire family sighed in collective defeat. There was no changing her.
But as she stared out the window, watching the noble estates flash by, a different thought burned in Ignara's mind. It was a silent challenge, a demand thrown out to the boy she was about to meet.
You'd better be strong.
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