Prima Risera
The vestige of winter still lingered on the streets, painting the cobblestones with damp trails and veiling the air with a silvery chill. Dew clung to rooftops and windowpanes, glistening like faint morning jewels. Yet despite the lethargic wind that nipped at fingers and flushed cheeks, the people of Fleurein and its neighboring towns had poured into the city for a single reason: the Prima Risera, the grand coming-of-age ceremony of Rosmayne's youth.
Steam curled from field kitchens scattered along the roads leading to the Great Plaza, filling the air with the comforting scent of warm stew, roasted nuts, and spiced cider. Laughter echoed between stalls; children danced between cloaks and skirts, while parents watched with misted eyes and tired smiles.
“Does it taste good, Viena?”
“Munch munch Yews, Geanny! Yeu wunt sum?” Viena held out a half-eaten pastry with greasy fingers and hopeful eyes.
Eleanor chuckled as she walked, holding the girl’s hand in her gloved one. “Haha. No, thank you. I’m full. Older folks like me don’t get hungry quite so easily.”
“Gulp Too bad Lily just ran off this morning. After all that fuss about her dress, I didn’t even get to see it!” Viena pouted, her steps bouncing in sync with the crowd's flow.
Earlier that morning, Lisabelle had already vanished by the time Viena stepped out of the bath, her hair still wet and clinging to her back. Alan and Gwen were gone too, not even a trace of them in the guest house out back. Viena had stomped her feet in protest at first—angry and abandoned—but Eleanor had explained patiently that Lisabelle, as a Prima Risera participant, had to arrive early to prepare alongside the other young marchers.
“They’re gathered inside that building over there,” Eleanor said, pointing ahead to a tall structure trimmed with pennants. “When the ceremony begins, they’ll march out into the plaza together.”
“Will there be a lot of people?” Viena asked, eyes wide.
“Oh, yes. You’ll have to spot Lisabelle among at least five hundred others.”
“F-Five hundred?! That’s impossible...” she whimpered, gripping Eleanor’s hand tighter.
“Heh. Don’t worry, little bee,” Eleanor smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair from Viena’s brow. “You’ll see her. You always do.”
At seven in the morning, the sound of trumpets tore through the air, sharp and resonant like the cry of a herald bird. The crowd surged with excitement, flooding the edges of the Great Plaza like a rising tide. By a stroke of luck—or perhaps Eleanor’s practiced foresight—she and Viena had managed to secure seats right at the front, closer to the parade than anyone else.
From where they stood, they could see the ceremonial path clearly: a ribbon of stone now transformed into a walkway of wonder. Soft candlelight glimmered solemnly along its edges, their flames barely flickering in the crisp morning air. Bundles of snowdrops, freshly picked and gently bundled, lined the path like whispers of winter bidding farewell.
“If only Papa was here...” Viena muttered, eyes flicking toward the empty space beside her.
“Duty is one of the bittersweet burdens of adulthood, dear,” Eleanor replied gently. “That’s why I think you should enjoy today twice as much—once for you, and once for him.”
Viena nodded with renewed vigor. “Yeah! You’re right!”
Five minutes passed in humming anticipation. Then, the second trumpet blared, deeper and more solemn than the first. The grand wooden doors of the adjacent ceremonial hall creaked open. A hush fell over the plaza.
A column of youth emerged, marching in formation—ten rows wide. Each participant wore their own distinct attire, expressing personal or familial pride. Some bore regional motifs, others house crests, and yet some dressed in simple robes—but every step they took was filled with purpose.
Viena didn’t waste time with questions. She was already scanning the rows with fierce determination.
“There she is! Third row!” she shouted, her eyes lighting up.
“Oh my...” Eleanor sighed, placing a hand to her cheek. “She looks even more radiant than her mother once did...”
Lisabelle stood out immediately, as if the spotlight of the morning sun had chosen her alone. She wore a flowing robe of lavender and white, the colors dignified yet delicate, with the Arbon family crest embroidered in silver on the back. Her hair was artfully done, crowned with artificial blossoms that shimmered with dew. Two slender blue earrings danced from her right ear, catching the light with each graceful step.
Even amid the sea of youth, Lisabelle was unmistakable—so poised, so composed, so heartbreakingly elegant. She didn't just stand out from the crowd; she seemed to float above it. So much so that she looked almost misplaced among the procession, like a swan gliding among fledglings.
“LILY! YOU’RE SO PRETTY!!”
Viena’s shout cut through the air like a firework, drawing gasps from those nearby—and even making Lisabelle flinch mid-step. Heads turned. The crowd murmured. But instead of recoiling, Lisabelle embraced the moment.
As she approached, she turned her face ever so slightly toward her little sister and, with practiced grace, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her multi-layered gown fluttered with her movement—a masterwork of lavender and pearl-white silk, with a beaded front-split design that revealed just a glimpse of her pale, glowing leg beneath. That fleeting flash of skin, bold yet elegant, drew glances from all sides like moths to a lantern.
Each step she took announced itself with a rhythmic click of her high heels against the plaza's smooth stones, accompanied by the delicate jingling of silver anklets. The air seemed to shimmer around her.
“Holy Mother... who is that girl?”
“I’m glad my wife stayed home—she’d claw my eyes out for looking!”
“Hey! Way to go, purple girl! You're killing it!"
Eleanor exhaled a long sigh, but her lips curled with a smile. The comments, suggestive or not, only confirmed what she already knew: Lisabelle was magnificent. Even the nobles around them, so often composed and aloof, were now murmuring like dockside fishmongers.
“Go, Lily! You’re the best-looking girl today!” Viena cheered with a grin so wide it almost swallowed her cheeks.
Lisabelle, trying and failing to suppress a grin of her own, continued her walk with a mix of bashful pride and practiced poise. She gave Viena the briefest glance—just a flick of her eye—and a sly wink, as if to say “Of course I noticed you.”
That was all it took for Viena to explode with applause, clapping so furiously that Eleanor had to gently pull her hands down as the ceremony was beginning.
Unfortunately for the little bee, speeches were never her strong suit.
Even the prestigious national choir’s opening hymn could only hold her attention for so long. The oration that followed—a grand, eloquent speech about virtue, unity, and the future of the nation—soon had her fidgeting. After a few minutes, she tugged Eleanor’s sleeve and whispered something about “just a quick look.”
Before Eleanor could answer, Viena had already darted off, scampering along the line of guards to reach the front row of the procession. Her instincts had been right—those standing there were every bit as dazzling as Lisabelle. Embroidered tunics, shimmering veils, sashes that caught the light like water, and hairstyles that could rival a royal painting. She stared, wide-eyed, for a moment—then bolted back, almost tripping over herself in excitement.
"Granny! Granny! Who are the people in the first row? They all look immaculate also!"
“Oh? That’s quite the grown-up word, ‘immaculate.’ All those books you’ve been reading are really rubbing off on you, aren’t they?” Eleanor gave Viena a gentle pat on the head. “Well then, to put it simply—the place someone holds in the cavalcade reflects the rank of their house. The front row is reserved for the most distinguished families. Those ten fine lads and lasses you see leading the procession? They’re likely the sons and daughters of dukes and marquesses.”
Viena’s eyes widened. “How many dukes and marquesses are there?”
“A good question,” Eleanor nodded. “Rosmayne has seven dukedoms and twelve marquessates. The most notable among them are the Dukedoms of Anthia, Bavelin, Sarbonna, and Tolston. Three of those boys at the very front are the children of the Duke of Bavelin.”
“Wow! That’s a lot!”
“Haha. It might seem so, but Rosmayne’s nobility is modest compared to Varnaria. That republic has over thirty dukedoms and forty marquessates. It’s the second-largest realm on the Seraina Continent, after all.”
Their conversation drifted on as the ceremony continued, the two of them making sense of the grandeur laid before them. Eleanor pointed out the sigils stitched into each participant’s garments—wolves, roses, serpents, wings—each marking the heritage of a noble house.
“And there,” Eleanor said, nodding at Lisabelle as she passed into view again, “you see the Arbon insignia stitched on her back, right above the hem? That’s your house.”
Viena nodded proudly.
“She could’ve chosen any number of colors,” Eleanor went on, her voice tinged with a quiet admiration, “but purple... that was no accident.”
Viena blinked. “Why purple?”
Eleanor smiled. “That’s not just any purple. It’s Tyrian purple. It used to be made from sea snails, can you believe that? Thousands of them, just for a little dye. It was so rare and expensive that in the old days, only kings and emperors could afford it. Even now, it’s a symbol of power, prestige, and wealth.”
Viena looked again at Lisabelle, now shimmering in the light, her purple and white gown catching the sun like silk and starlight. “So... she wore that to show she’s strong?”
“More than that,” Eleanor said, her gaze thoughtful. “She wore it to remind everyone that even without servants, even without a grand estate, the name Arbon still stands proud. That’s not just beauty you’re looking at, little bee—it’s quiet defiance.”
At long last, the endless speech came to its merciful end. The apostolic legate from the Holy Theocracy of Helden stepped forward, his robe heavy with golden embroidery, and bestowed the ceremonial blessings upon the gathered youth. The final hymn, sung by the nation's most prestigious choir, soared into the air like a flight of white doves, marking the conclusion of the Prima Risera.
And with that, the festival began.
The air shifted from reverence to revelry. Laughter rang out. Dancers spun to the tune of lutes and tambourines. Street vendors poured warm spiced wine and handed out roasted chestnuts wrapped in parchment. Children dashed about with ribbons, and nobles mingled freely among the crowd.
But Viena had only one goal in mind.
“Come on, Granny!” she urged, tugging Eleanor’s hand. “Let’s find Lily!”
They weaved through the jubilant crowd, past clusters of chatting guests and swaying dancers, until finally—
“There!” Viena pointed.
Lisabelle stood radiant in her purple and white gown, now without the stiff posture of the parade. Her high heels clicked softly as she laughed and conversed. A small crowd of men had gathered around her—young nobles and sons of patricians, all vying for her attention. She handled them gracefully, offering curt smiles, clever remarks, and just enough indifference to keep them on their toes.
But then, a sudden chill.
A group of well-dressed girls, participants in the procession themselves, stepped into the ring. Their eyes gleamed—not with admiration, but malice.
“Oh my, oh my,” the first one cooed, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I didn’t know criminals were allowed to roam so freely these days. What’s next? A sword in the gut, just for old time’s sake?”
Another gasped theatrically. “Truly! Such fatherless behavior. I suppose decorum dies with decency.”
A third added, “Where are the guards? How could they allow a narcissistic psycho to parade around like she owns the ceremony? This is the worst Prima Risera I’ve ever seen.”
The effect was immediate.
Some of the young men began to quietly excuse themselves, faces paling as they connected the dots—the infamous girl from secondary school, the one who’d assaulted a military officer. Whispers rippled through the onlookers. A few guests looked uneasy. Others just watched, the way people do when they sense blood in the water.
A few gentlemen made a half-hearted attempt to calm the situation, murmuring placations and awkward jokes. But the air had shifted. The ceremony was over. Now came the games people play with smiles that cut deeper than daggers.
“Gentlemen,” Lisabelle began, folding her arms lightly, her fan half-raised like a veil of disdain. “If it’s a lively ride you’re after, the stables are that way. I hear the horses are thirstier than ever—and far less selective.”
A ripple of gasps. Then silence.
Her words hung in the air like a silken guillotine. For a heartbeat, no one moved—until the girls erupted.
“You wretched little tramp!”
“She should be banned from civil society!”
“She’s just jealous—her family’s a relic, and she knows it!”
“Our family has stood for centuries—”
“—while yours stabbed men in the street!”
One after another, they shrieked, each more desperate to wound. They invoked titles, lands, and bloodlines as if reciting holy scripture. They threw names and scandal like stones, hoping something—anything—would break her.
But Lisabelle only stood there.
Fan lifted, smile hidden.
Listening.
She did not blink.
Only when their voices frayed into breathless panting did she speak again—softly, so they had to lean in.
“Oh, dear. I’ve no idea what kind of wild things you get up to in your spare time, but I do pity your poor mothers—having to be kissed by those mouths.”
A beat. Then, with a slight curtsy and the grace of a queen, she turned.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
The girls looked ready to claw her to ribbons.
Some actually surged forward—but the young men, perhaps trying to redeem themselves, quickly stepped in. They formed a loose wall between the girls and Lisabelle, murmuring reassurances, raising palms, cooling tempers before blood boiled over.
A few still watched Lisabelle go, dazzled and aching. Some even took a few steps as if to follow.
But then they saw.
Eleanor was already standing beside Lisabelle, dignified as ever. Viena flanked her sister, practically vibrating with pride. She glared at the crowd with that stubborn fire only younger siblings possess.
Lisabelle didn't need any validation. She has all she had ever wanted.