Chapter 26

The day of Crown Prince Laurent's celebration had finally arrived.

From early morning, Ravelle Manor had been filled with quiet activity. Maids moved between rooms carrying garment boxes and polished accessories, while the household staff ensured that everything required for the evening had been prepared.

Elowen stood before the mirror as her maid made the final adjustments to her gown.

She had chosen a dress worthy of the occasion without allowing it to become unnecessarily extravagant. The fabric fell gracefully from her waist, its delicate embroidery catching the light whenever she moved. Her hair was arranged in an elegant style, with a few loose strands framing her face, while a modest selection of jewelry completed her appearance.

Tonight was not merely another aristocratic gathering. It was the Crown Prince's celebration, an occasion attended by the most influential families in Valoria.

And she had received a personal invitation from His Highness himself.

Once her maid finished, Elowen examined her reflection for a moment before giving a small nod.

"That will do. Thank you."

The maid stepped back, visibly pleased. "You look beautiful, my lady."

Elowen offered her a gentle smile before turning toward the door.

Downstairs, Duke Alistair and Duchess Evelina were already waiting. Her father, dressed in formal attire, looked up as she entered the drawing room.

For a moment, he said nothing.

His gaze lingered on his daughter, and a quiet, unmistakable pride softened his expression.

"You look wonderful, Elowen."

"Thank you, Father."

Duchess Evelina approached to smooth a small crease near her daughter's sleeve, though there was little left to correct.

"You have grown into such a fine young woman," she murmured.

Elowen lowered her eyes briefly, accepting the affection without knowing quite what to say.

Her father, meanwhile, continued to regard her with that familiar smile.

He had watched her change in ways he could not always understand. She had become more determined, more occupied with matters that once would have seemed beyond her interests. She made decisions with a seriousness that sometimes left him wondering what had prompted such a transformation.

Yet he had never demanded that she explain herself.

Whatever Elowen wished to pursue, whatever path she chose, he would stand beside her for as long as she needed him.

He was her father before he was a duke, and no ambition of his own would ever take precedence over her happiness.

"Shall we?" he asked, offering her his arm.

Elowen accepted it.

"Yes, Father."

Their carriage departed Ravelle Manor shortly afterward, accompanied by six of Elowen's personal knights.

Four rode behind the carriage in their distinctive armor, their black capes bearing the insignia of the black bull. Two more followed, their blue capes displaying the blue falcon emblem upon their shoulders.

As the carriage traveled toward the Imperial Palace, Elowen glanced through the window.

The familiar streets gradually gave way to the broad avenue leading to the imperial grounds. Banners hung from the buildings, and the city appeared more vibrant than usual, with carriages carrying noble families arriving from every direction.

She had attended celebrations like this before.

In her previous life, however, she had often entered such gatherings with her attention fixed on the people around Nathaniel, on her duties as his wife, and on the expectations attached to their marriage.

Tonight, she was arriving under her own name.

Lady Elowen Ravelle.

The thought settled quietly within her.

Whatever happened tonight, she would meet it on her own terms.

When the carriage finally approached the palace, the grandeur of the imperial grounds unfolded before them.

The vast courtyard outside the palace was already crowded with arriving guests. Carriages stood in orderly lines, their crests displaying the emblems of duchies, marquessates, and other noble houses. Knights gathered beside the vehicles, some wearing the colors of their respective families, others bearing the insignia of their military appointments.

The palace itself rose beyond the courtyard, its imposing architecture illuminated by the late afternoon sun. Servants and officials moved briskly between the entrance and the arriving carriages, guiding guests toward the proper reception halls.

The celebration had drawn nearly every family of significance in Valoria.

Their carriage slowed as it joined the queue.

Through the window, Elowen observed the familiar procession of noblemen and ladies descending from their vehicles. Some exchanged greetings immediately, while others paused to admire the palace decorations or speak with acquaintances they had not seen in months.

Then her gaze caught sight of a familiar carriage.

The Ashbourne crest.

Elowen's expression remained unchanged, but her attention lingered as the carriage ahead came to a halt.

A moment later, Duke Nathaniel Ashbourne stepped down.

He wore formal black attire, impeccably tailored, with the Ashbourne insignia fastened neatly to his coat. His bearing was as composed as ever, and even from a distance, there was something unmistakably authoritative about the way he moved.

A knight approached to speak with him. Nathaniel listened, answered briefly, and turned toward the palace entrance.

He looked as though nothing in his world had changed.

Yet Elowen knew that appearances rarely told the whole story.

For a brief moment, she watched him through the carriage window, remembering the formal greeting they had exchanged at the palace weeks earlier. The distance between them had once seemed unimaginable. Now it had become the natural consequence of a decision they had both allowed to stand.

She wondered whether he had noticed their carriage.

Before she could find out, the carriage door opened.

A footman stepped aside, and Duke Alistair descended first. He turned at once to offer his hand to his wife, then extended it toward Elowen.

She placed her hand in his and stepped down onto the palace grounds.

Several nearby nobles glanced toward them. The Ravelle crest was too prominent to pass unnoticed, and Elowen's appearance drew a few appreciative looks from the ladies gathered near the entrance.

Her father noticed none of it at first. His attention remained on her as he offered his arm.

"Are you ready?"

Elowen looked toward the palace doors, where the golden banners of the Crown Prince's household stirred in the evening breeze.

Then she turned to her father.

"I am."

Duke Alistair smiled, his pride quiet but unmistakable.

"Then let us go."

Together, the Ravelles began their walk toward the palace.

Behind them, their six knights followed in disciplined formation.

And across the crowded courtyard, Duke Nathaniel Ashbourne turned his head.

Duke Nathaniel had only taken a few steps toward the palace entrance when he noticed the Ravelle family approaching.

He stopped.

"Duke Ravelle. Duchess."

His greeting was impeccable, accompanied by a courteous inclination of his head.

"Your Grace," Duke Alistair replied warmly. "It has been some time."

"Indeed. I trust you and the duchess have been well?"

"We have, thank you. And yourself, Duke Ashbourne?"

"Well enough, Your Grace."

The exchange was brief but cordial, the sort of conversation expected between two ducal houses whose histories had long been intertwined. Nothing in Nathaniel's expression suggested any discomfort, and Duke Alistair responded with the same ease he might have shown any other nobleman of equal standing.

Then Nathaniel turned toward Elowen.

For a moment, neither spoke.

His serious eyes settled on her face, lingering just long enough for her to notice the quiet scrutiny behind them. His gaze traveled briefly over her carefully arranged hair and the elegant gown she wore before returning to her eyes.

Elowen maintained her composure.

"Duke Ashbourne," she greeted him, offering a graceful curtsy.

Nathaniel did not immediately answer.

Instead, he extended his hand toward her.

The gesture was familiar enough that Elowen understood what he expected. Refusing him here, before their parents and the gathering nobles, would draw precisely the sort of attention neither family needed.

She placed her hand in his.

His fingers closed gently around hers, neither hurried nor hesitant. Then, with the same measured elegance he displayed in every public interaction, Nathaniel raised her hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss against her knuckles.

It was a simple gesture.

Yet its meaning, to anyone watching, was unmistakable.

A nearby noblewoman paused in the middle of her conversation. Another glanced toward them before leaning closer to her companion, a flicker of interest passing between them.

Elowen noticed.

Of course she did.

Nathaniel's gesture had answered questions no one had yet dared to ask aloud.

And he had done it without saying a single word.

"Lady Ravelle," he said at last.

His voice was low, formal enough for the occasion.

"Your Grace."

Her answer was equally composed.

For a brief instant, his thumb rested against the side of her hand before he released it. The touch was so slight that no one else would have thought anything of it.

Elowen, however, felt the weight of what had just happened.

She had no other choice but to accept the gesture. Not here. Not with the eyes of the aristocracy already beginning to turn toward them, and certainly not when the dissolution of their engagement had yet to be formally announced.

Nathaniel's gaze remained on her for another second.

Then he turned toward Duke Alistair and resumed the conversation as if nothing unusual had occurred.

Elowen lowered her hand to her side.

He knew the state of their engagement. He knew that she had no intention of returning to the future they had once been expected to share.

And yet, with a single gesture, he had allowed everyone watching to believe that nothing between them had changed.

Elowen glanced at him from the corner of her eye.

Nathaniel was speaking to her father, his expression composed and his manner perfectly courteous. He gave no indication that he had deliberately made a statement before the assembled nobility.

Perhaps he had simply followed an old habit.

Perhaps he had wanted to preserve appearances for the sake of their families.

Or perhaps he had reasons he had not yet chosen to share.

For now, she would remain courteous. She would attend the celebration, fulfill her obligations, and leave the palace without creating unnecessary trouble for her family.

The rest could wait until the truth was finally made public.

"Shall we proceed inside?" Duke Alistair asked, turning toward them.

"Certainly," Nathaniel replied.

He stepped aside to allow the Ravelles to pass first, an act of courtesy that drew another approving glance from a nearby group of nobles.

Elowen walked forward beside her father, her chin lifted and her steps unhurried.

She did not look back at Nathaniel.

But she could feel his presence behind her, steady and unmistakable, as they crossed the palace threshold together.

The ceremony proceeded far more quickly than Elowen had expected.

After the formal presentation of the Crown Prince, the exchange of congratulations, and the customary addresses from the imperial family, the guests were ushered into the grand ballroom, where the much-anticipated celebration awaited them.

Everything was beautiful.

Everything was elaborate.

And everything about the evening was beginning to exhaust Elowen before it had properly started.

Because there was one part of these gatherings she had always hated.

Dancing.

It was an entirely different sort of torture.

Elowen stood at the corner, holding a glass of fruit punch she had barely touched, and watched as the first couples made their way onto the dance floor.

Her expression remained perfectly pleasant.

Perhaps I can leave before the next set begins.

Elowen took a small sip of her drink.

The problem was everything that came with it.

Unfortunately, the musicians seemed determined to make matters worse.

The opening piece ended, and a livelier melody soon followed.

Several young gentlemen began approaching the ladies gathered near the edge of the ballroom.

Elowen immediately became very interested in the decorations on the nearest pillar.

"Lady Ravelle?"

She closed her eyes for the briefest moment.

Already?

She turned, prepared to offer another courteous refusal, only to find Crown Prince Laurent standing before her.

For a moment, her practiced smile faltered.

"Your Highness," Elowen greeted him, curtsying gracefully.

Laurent accepted her greeting with a slight inclination of his head. Then, with an almost boyish brightness in his eyes, he glanced toward the ballroom before looking back at her.

"Tell me, Lady Ravelle. Are you planning to run away again?"

Elowen blinked.

"Again, Your Highness?"

"Must I remind you?"

"That is a rather serious accusation, Your Highness."

But Laurent merely laughed, his expression brightening as though she had given him precisely the answer he had hoped for.

"There you are," he said.

Elowen could not help noticing how easily he carried himself among the guests. Though surrounded by nobles eager for his attention, he seemed genuinely delighted to speak with her rather than merely fulfilling another obligation of his position.

It made refusing him considerably more difficult.

Especially when his gaze drifted toward the dance floor.

"Now," he said, extending his hand, "before you discover another fascinating pillar to admire, may I have this dance?"

Elowen looked at his offered hand.

Then she looked at him.

Of all the people who could have approached me, why did it have to be him?

Declining an ordinary nobleman was simple enough. Declining the Crown Prince at his own celebration, however, would invite entirely different questions.

She could already imagine the whispers that would follow if she refused without a convincing reason.

So much for enjoying the evening from a safe distance.

"Your Highness is quite determined to prevent my escape."

"Not at all," Laurent replied pleasantly. "I am simply hoping to save the palace pillars from having to entertain you for the entire evening."

Elowen pressed her lips together, fighting the smile threatening to appear.

She placed her hand in his.

"Very well, Your Highness. I shall grant you one dance."

"One?" Laurent repeated, looking wounded.

"Your Highness should be grateful I have agreed to that much."

He grinned.

"Then I shall have to make it memorable."

As he led her toward the dance floor, Elowen caught sight of her parents. Her mother was watching with an expression of pleasant surprise, while her father looked as though he had just witnessed the fulfillment of his own prediction.

Elowen silently resolved not to discuss this with either of them later.

The musicians began the next piece, and Laurent guided her into position among the other couples.

"Tell me, Lady Ravelle," he said as the opening notes filled the ballroom, "have you truly become so busy with your knights that you no longer have time for celebrations?"

Elowen lifted her gaze to his.

"Not at all, Your Highness. I simply find that some duties are more productive than others."

Laurent nearly missed his first step.

Then he laughed so suddenly that Elowen had to resist the urge to remind him that they were in the middle of a ballroom.

"You truly have not changed," he said.

The remark made her pause, just for a heartbeat.

She looked at him more closely, wondering what he meant by it. But Laurent had already resumed their steps, his expression light and untroubled.

Perhaps he was referring to the young lady he had known before.

And if the Crown Prince intended to make the evening memorable, Elowen could only hope he would not decide that one dance was insufficient.