In the Empire of Aeternia, the Duchy of East Imerthia stood as the largest and most illustrious among the three duchies of the empire.It bordered three empires...Sylvaris to the south, Soumoina to the east, and Thalrien to the north, making it a land of both diversity and influence.
The duchy was blessed with fertile soil and dense, whispering forests, its fields yielding harvests of unmatched bounty. Its coffers were the envy of the empire, for much of the Aeternian treasury drew sustenance from Imerthia's prosperity.
In the grand hall of Marquess Calvane's mansion, the coming of age celebration for Lord Davian unfolded in full splendor. Candlelight flickered across the gilded walls, glinting on crystal chandeliers that hung like frozen constellations. Music filled the air a lively string ensemble playing the sort of dance melodies favored in noble courts and couples glided across the polished marble floor in formal steps, while others lingered in clusters, exchanging careful pleasantries over glasses of spiced wine. Servants moved silently through the hall, carrying trays of delicate pastries, fruits, and wines from the far reaches of the empire, as the scent of roasted meats and fresh flowers mingled, creating the intoxicating perfume of festivity.
Near the eastern balcony, a small circle of noblewomen had gathered, their gowns rustling like whispers of silk and satin.
"Do you think her ladyship, will attend?" asked Baroness Wilhelmina Hartfeld, her jeweled fan fluttering nervously. "After all, Lord Davian is her son."
"Attend?" scoffed Countess Seria Duval, her pearls catching the candlelight. "Why would she? She never set foot in Calvane Mansion after the divorce."
Countess Helena Armand joined "And why should she? She is married to another now. It would be… unusual to appear at her former husband's."
Baroness Hartfeld tilted her head, a glimmer of curiosity in her eyes. "I heard she sent a great many gifts for Lord Davian. And Lady Lethia is here even though her ladyship cannot be present herself."
Countess Duval pursed her lips. "Then why is she nowhere to be seen? I have not once glimpsed her in the hall."
Helena Armand smirked faintly. "They say she is something of a tomboy. Not like other girls at all. Her coming of age ceremony was two years ago, and she remains unmarried."
The baroness sighed dreamily. "How I wish I were a granddaughter of a duke. Such freedom, to come and go as one pleases."
Countess Duval murmured under her breath, barely audible: "I think Marchioness Calvane would be quite pleased not to see mother and daughter here."
Baroness Hartfeld shook her head. "It is a shame. She did everything to marry the Marquess, and yet the heir is still the son of his first wife."
To any passerby, it was but harmless chatter...the idle music of society. Yet beneath the gentle murmur of their words lingered something heavier, something not so easily dismissed as mere gossip.
For Lord Davian was no ordinary gentleman. He was the son of the first wife of Marquess Calvane and that first wife had been none other than Lady Laine Lorvil, cherished daughter of Duke Imerthia, Julius Lorvil, a name spoken with reverence across the realm.
It was said rhat Lady Laine departed the very day whispers of the Marquess's betrayal reached her ears. Proud and unyielding, she gathered her dignity and left, severing her bond with the Calvane house.
In those years, the scandal rippled through drawing rooms and grand halls alike. Voices dropped, fans paused mid-air, and eyes gleamed with scandalized delight.
The disgrace of House Calvane.
To betray a duke's daughter a lady of noble blood and unblemished grace for the fleeting charm of a mere Baron's daughter. It was a folly too grave for society to forgive, too delicious for it to forget.
Yet, as all storms must pass, so too did the fervor of scandal fade. Years softened memory, new dramas claimed attention, and the world, ever restless, moved on.
The orchestra's melody drifted like golden mist through the grand ballroom, weaving between chandeliers and silk clad figures gliding across the polished floor. Laughter chimed softly in one quiet corner where a circle of young noble ladies had gathered, their conversation light, their smiles bright with youth and mischief.
Just then, Lady Mariel Thornbridge returned from the refreshment table. She lowered herself into her chair rather more heavily than grace allowed, her skirts rustling in protest. The delicate grimace upon her face spoke louder than any words she was clearly displeased, and not in the mild, passing way of trifling annoyances.
"What is it, Lady Mariel?" Grace asked lightly.
Grace Calvane, with her vivid red hair cascading over her shoulders and sharp green eyes glinting beneath the ballroom lights, tilted her head curiously. Clad in a soft pink gown that shimmered like dawn's first blush, she leaned forward, a teasing smile playing upon her lips.
"Do not tell me Emrys has rejected you again."
A soft laugh escaped her, though it carried more playfulness than cruelty.
Lady Mariel's expression crumpled at once.
"My lady, please do not jest about such things," she murmured, her voice trembling with wounded pride. "It truly pains me."
Grace raised a brow, her amusement fading slightly. "Then what troubles you so?"
"That is not the matter… I happened to overhear some ladies speaking." She swallowed, fingers tightening over the folds of her gown. "They were whispering… about Lord Davian."
Grace's gaze sharpened, though her face remained composed.
Mariel hesitated, as if the words themselves were too sharp to handle. Then, almost in a whisper, she continued
"They were saying… that Lord Davian is the true heir, not Lord Emrys."
Her voice grew even softer, laced with unease.
"And… they spoke far worse things, my lady. Things I dare not repeat… lest they wound you."
The laughter faded as though a sudden wind had swept through the circle. One by one, the young ladies fell silent; a few shifted in their seats, some even half rose as if to excuse themselves yet none truly dared to leave.
Before Marquess Calvane had taken his second wife, Duke Lorvil himself had spoken firmly... none but Davian would inherit the Marquessate. Only after that solemn assurance had the second marriage been permitted. Such words, once spoken by a duke, were as binding as iron.
Grace Calvane smiled.
It was a gentle smile, serene and composed yet behind it, a quiet fire stirred.
"Lady Mariel," she said softly, "what fault lies in that? Brother Davian is the rightful heir. He is the eldest legitimate son, even if we are not born of the same mother he is also my brother. That is only just. It makes neither Emrys nor me any less of a Calvane."
Her tone was calm, dignified almost soothing.
Just then another young lady, Lady Edith Holloway, leaned forward, her voice edged with concern.
"As expected of you, Grace ever kind, ever understanding. But I say people take advantage of your kindness. No matter the past, your mother Lady Opehila is the Marchioness. She should not be disrespected so lightly."
A murmur stirred, then faded.
Lady Mariel spoke again, more hesitantly this time.
"Well… what can we truly do? No matter how one tries, one cannot compare to a duke's family."
Silence followed. No one contradicted her.
Suddenly a voice, clear and sharp as glass, cut through the air.
"How amusing," it said coolly. "The way people paint themselves as victims."
Every head turned.
"It was Lady Ophelia who carried on an affair with Lord Kaelric," the voice continued, unwavering. "And it was only by the mercy of my aunt and my grandfather that they were spared disgrace allowed even to wed. And yet here you sit, speaking of unfairness?"
The speaker stepped forward.
It was Elowen Valehart, daughter of Marquess Valehart.
In all Imerthia, there existed but two Marquess houses Valehart and Calvane both bound by blood to Duke Lorvil. His elder daughter had wed Marquess Calvane; his younger, Marquess Valehart. Elowen bore her mother Isabella Lorvil's beauty light brown hair, bright hazel eyes and her reputation preceded her. She was the most outspoken lady of the duchy, famed for her blunt, unyielding tongue.
Grace turned toward her, thinking inwardly, I was already troubled… and now she has come.
Yet she smiled still.
"Lady Elowen, it is but a misunderstanding. Lady Mariel only overheard idle gossip and felt hurt on my behalf. In her concern, her words came poorly. I trust you will forgive them."
A chill ran through the circle of ladies. For Elowen was not merely a Marquess's daughter she was the Duke's granddaughter.
Elowen smirked faintly.
"Oh, our gentle and innocent Grace," she said. "Do you truly believe such a pitiful act would deceive me?"
The tension thickened, drawing quiet attention from nearby guests. Yet most dismissed it as nothing more than youthful chatter.
Just then a figure entered the grand hall.
A lady with dark brown hair braided neatly, crystal blue eyes gleaming beneath the chandelier light. She wore not silk nor lace, but a tailored gentleman's attire, a dark cloak draped over her shoulders. And yet, despite the absence of jewels and gowns, she was striking, mesmerizing in a way none could deny.
Whispers rippled through the hall.
"Who is this shameless woman to appear dressed so?"
"Hush," another murmured. "Who else in Imerthia dares do as she pleases and live? That is Lady Lethia."
"The Duke's eldest granddaughter…"
A young girl whispered dreamily, "She looks wonderful… I wish I could dress so."
Her mother pinched her sharply. "Your father is but a baron. Ask the Duke to adopt you first."
Soft laughter followed.
Lady Lethia Lorvil once Lethia Calvane eldest daughter of Marquess Calvane, who had left with her mother after the separation and taken the Lorvil name. She rarely attended balls or ceremonies. Flattery, cosmetics, silks meant to please watching men none suited her spirit. She stood beyond such trifles.
Lethia glanced toward the cluster of young ladies, already sensing the storm.
"Ah… not again," she muttered. "Why is Elowen always quarreling with that redhead? I cannot endure this tonight."
Beside her, her bodyguard Ciro bowed slightly.
"Shall I inform Lord Davian of your arrival, my lady?"
Lethia shook her head.
"No. I shall go to him myself. I was late at his coming of age ceremony...he must be sulking even now."
She paused, eyes flicking once more toward the tense gathering across the hall.
"Go," she added quietly. "Bring Elowen to the rest chamber."