Chapter 3
The silverware had been set down. The final sip of velvet-red juice had been swallowed. And the feast worthy of kings—no, of Archdukes—had ended.
The towering double doors of the grand dining hall creaked open once more. Several maids stepped in with practiced precision, their steps graceful as they began the symphony of post-meal service—clearing plates, replacing cloth, and resetting silver that glinted like stars against satin.
Lucien quietly slipped out of his velvet-padded chair, careful not to make a scene. His small figure, dressed in noble attire stitched with Velebrandt silver threads, made his way back across the polished black-marble floor.
Behind him, the cool and gentle voice of his father echoed across the hall.
> "Lucien."
The boy froze for a moment, straightening reflexively. The Grand Duke's deep baritone followed:
> "Your training begins next week. Be prepared."
Lucien turned slightly, offering a firm nod—remembering to stay composed, noble.
> "Yes, Father."
He bowed ever so slightly and continued walking, his soft leather shoes echoing lightly in the hallway.
At his side was Marie, ever the quiet shadow with a warm smile and observant eyes. She matched his pace effortlessly, hands neatly clasped before her apron.