Reid and Reina descended the staircase with quiet grace. Reina glided like moonlight on water—ethereal, composed—while Reid carried himself with the poise of a man carved from legacy and discipline.
His face was calm, but beneath that calm: precision. Control. Lucian watched, momentarily stunned. The man he used to mock, joke with, pull into harmless mischief... that Reid was gone.
Now, he looked every bit the Duke of Greywood.
A faint golden glow lit Reid's throat—his Dominion awakening with practiced ease.
"Thank you all for coming," he said, lifting a crystal glass and swirling its contents. His gaze swept the room, sharp and luminous. This wasn't a toast—it was a proclamation.
He began to walk, each step deliberate, clicking against the marble like a metronome. The crowd fell silent.
Then his eyes found Lucian.
"And Lucian," he said, tone smooth and deliberate. "A joy you managed to make it on time."
He approached, offering only a slight nod—measured, distant—before turning away just as fluidly.
Lucian blinked, disoriented. That calm, unreadable face—it wasn't unfamiliar, just… masked. Like Reid had been holding it behind glass all this time.
As Reid reached the first step of the staircase, he glanced over his shoulder. For just a moment, the very shadows around Lucian twitched—responding not to Lucian, but to Reid's gaze.
"Can't afford to be too playful on a night like this," Reid said with a sly wink.
He turned away, voice rising once more as he addressed the gathering.
"I trust you'll all treat my daughter with the utmost respect. I won't linger—I'd hate to draw the spotlight away from Reina."
A soft chuckle, and then he vanished into the manor's upper floor, leaving only the echo of his footsteps behind.
Reina stood at the center of the ballroom, poised before the grand staircase. For a long moment, silence gripped the room—Reid's commanding presence still echoing in the space like distant thunder. The nobles didn't speak. They didn't move. They simply waited.
Then, from somewhere in the crowd, a quiet whisper.
"Why does everything he does have to feel like a power play?"
The tension cracked as a waiter cleared his throat, stepping forward.
"The night is still young. May the esteemed guests of Duke Reid Perval enjoy tonight's festivities to the fullest."
With a respectful bow, the waiter turned and exited through a side door, leaving the stunned nobles to recover.
One by one, they did—adjusting their coats, smoothing their dresses, and drifting toward Reina. The ball had begun in earnest, and the star of the night had to be greeted, celebrated, and properly welcomed into noble society.
Lucian watched the shift with quiet amusement, shaking his head.
"Reid and his theatrics," he muttered, smirking. "Never knew he had that kind of split personality."
He was just about to make his move toward Reina when a voice interrupted him.
"Are you new here?"
Lucian turned, mildly annoyed—his grand entrance plan suddenly sidetracked.
Beside him stood a young noble, likely in his early twenties. He wore a modest yet well-tailored green suit that matched his neatly slicked-back hair. His eyes were curious but unassuming.
"I'm Fey. It's nice to meet a fellow new face."
Lucian chuckled, more out of reflex than warmth.
"Fey, huh? Bit on the nose, considering the whole forest aesthetic you've got going."
Still, his eyes kept darting back toward Reina, watching the way guests surrounded her like moths to a flame.
Fey noticed and covered his mouth, clearly amused.
"Taken aback by Lady Reina? You wouldn't be the first. She has that effect on people."
His tone was light, honest—surprisingly free of arrogance.
Lucian nodded, appreciating the sincerity, even if the conversation felt… pointless. Not entertaining. Not strategic. Just polite.
And that, more than anything, made it feel like a waste of time.
He tilted his head, expression flat. "So… why are you talking to me?"
Fey nearly choked on his drink at Lucian's bluntness, coughing mid-laugh as his composure cracked.
"I—I'm sorry?" he stammered. "I just... thought it'd be nice to talk to someone my age."
Lucian sighed, then placed a hand on Fey's shoulder with mock solemnity. His expression shifted—his posture straightened, eyes gleamed with that familiar, sharp charisma. Mischief returned like a second skin.
"I'm sure there are plenty of fascinating people here dying for a chat," he said, giving Fey a gentle pat before turning away with a flourish.
He waved dismissively, already slipping into the crowd gathering around Reina, eyes set on reclaiming the spotlight.
Fey stood there, blinking—stunned, disappointed, and very much not used to being brushed off like a piece of dust on a noble's coat. With a small sigh, he turned and set his sights on other young nobles who might offer a warmer welcome.
Meanwhile, Lucian pushed forward—but the crowd had grown dense, nobles swarming Reina like bees around the rarest bloom. From where he stood, he could barely see her, much less get close.
"Tch... these third-rate nobles are ruining my moment," Lucian muttered under his breath, stepping back from the mob with visible irritation. "Do they not realize I'm the former Dark Lord?"
He exhaled slowly, composed himself, then flicked his fingers.
The raven-feathered mantle draped over his shoulders shimmered, lengthening subtly, the fabric catching the light like a shadow made silk.
"Alright then... let me show them how true royalty makes an entrance."
With a self-satisfied grin, Lucian activated his dominion—not flashy magic, but just enough to let his mantle ripple as if caught in a gentle breeze that existed only for him. The feathers rustled and flared with graceful defiance, a quiet herald of his presence.
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate. His boots struck the marble with precision, each step echoing like a soft drumbeat.
No emotion manipulation. No glamour spells.
Just presence.
Lucian didn't need to steal attention with power.
He was the attention.
Then, from somewhere within the crowd, a voice broke the noise with a casual but curious tone:
"Wait… how is his mantle flowing like that?"
The words rippled through the gathered nobles like a dropped stone in still water.
Heads turned.
Eyes followed.
The attention Lucian had once lost slowly circled back to him—the mysterious noble with the shadow-cloaked stride and theatrical presence. Whispers spread like fire catching silk.
The man they had nearly forgotten was suddenly the center of it all once more.
Lucian's smirk returned, sharp and knowing. He didn't need to force the crowd to part—it parted on its own, curiosity drawing a line straight between him and Reina. The space between them cleared, a natural spotlight cast without magic.
With the grace of someone born to bask in attention, Lucian stepped forward, the soft thud of his boots rhythmic and composed. As he neared, he dismissed the subtle magic behind his mantle with a flick of his will—the feathers fell still, settling against his back like sleeping wings.
"Pleased to meet you again, Reina," he said, his voice smooth and unhurried, as if the moment had always belonged to him.