Chapter 52: Chapter 51. The Grand Ball
The news of the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess’s beauty spread faster than wildfire. It began with the nobles who had seen them enter the palace, then trickled down through servants who worked within Solendreich Palace. By nightfall, the whispers had already escaped into the streets, filling taverns, markets, and alleyways until the entire capital buzzed with speculation.
For years, everyone had been told the same story: the Grand Duke of Borgia was a monster, a cursed creature of demon blood, terrifying in form and cruel in nature. So when servants claimed otherwise, most scoffed.
"The Grand Duke is a woman," someone whispered in a crowded market stall.
"An alpha female?" another asked, eyes wide.
"Yes. The old servants who once served Princess Morwenna swore it. They say the duke has her mother’s beautiful face and the demon king’s power."
"So it was never an alpha male?" a butcher muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.
The arguments carried on late into the night. Some said the rumors were foolish lies meant to glorify the North. Others insisted that the nobles themselves had been left speechless by her presence. Curiosity grew, and more than one citizen admitted they longed to see the couple with their own eyes, if only to settle the question.
But what truly shook the capital isn’t just that the Grand Duke is a woman, but that her wife, Vivianne de Borgia, was said to be more beautiful than anyone at court—even more than the empire’s jewel, the soon-to-be empress consort Liselotte.
Among the common folk, the idea seemed impossible. "There’s no way it was true, more beautiful than Liselotte de Rothschild?" bakers and washerwomen asked in disbelief.
For days, ever since Liselotte came to the capital and started getting into the high society circle, Liselotte’s beauty had been a point of pride for the empire, her elegance admired even from afar. People gasped when she passed, her presence dazzling enough to silence an entire hall.
Yet the whispers painted Vivianne as something more—something untouchable. "Silver hair like moonlight," said one servant, wide-eyed from what she claimed she had seen. "Eyes the color of violets, brighter than jewels. A beauty that doesn’t fade, even standing next to the Grand Duke herself."
Such words caused unrest among the nobles. In salons and dining halls, they discussed the Borgias in tones of both awe and bitterness. Some were quietly envious, others openly scornful.
"If this is true, it is dangerous," muttered one baron, sipping his wine. "The people love beauty. They follow it. And if they turn their gaze from the empress consort to this northern duchess, what will that mean for the throne?"
"Worse," another replied darkly. "The Grand Duke is not only beautiful but powerful, too powerful. Imagine the loyalty she could win if people believed her wife was heaven’s chosen omega."
Not all nobles agreed. A few smiled at the rumors, hoping the Borgias’ presence might humble the emperor. Others whispered of opportunity, of aligning themselves with the Principality of Borgia while its influence rose.
By morning, one thing was certain: the capital had not been this alive with talk in decades. Every whispered word, whether in the gilded chambers of nobles or the smoky taverns of commoners, carried the same weight—the Borgias had arrived, and nothing in the empire would ever be the same again.
-
Erengrad Palace Grand Hall
The Grand Hall was alive with light and music once more. Yet this night was different. It’s not for young nobles stepping into society, nor another lavish celebration for the emperor. Golden chandeliers blazed with hundreds of candles, their light catching on crystal goblets and mirrored walls until the ballroom seemed to shimmer like sunlight on water.
Musicians tuned their instruments at the far gallery, preparing to drown the air in lilting waltzes. Courtiers arrived in gowns and uniforms heavy with jewels, the floor polished so perfectly it reflected their every movement.
This grand ball is meant for celebration, at least on the surface. The event is a celebration of the Grand Duke of Borgia’s marriage to Vivianne de Borgia, who had not set foot in the capital for over a decade. The chancellor had pressed hard for it, telling the emperor that such gestures would keep Borgia loyal to the empire.
Dietrich had agreed readily, not out of diplomacy, but because it gave him the chance he craved. After the failure of Black Covenant, Dietrich turned his focus to the grand ball, which the chancellor had already prepared since Roxanne had given him the word that she agreed to come to the Emperor’s wedding.
When the heralds finally announced them, silence swept through the hall like a sudden wind. "Her Grace, the Grand Duke Roxanne de Borgia. Her Grace, the Grand Duchess Vivianne de Borgia."
All eyes turned to the grand stairs, waiting to see the couple who had set the capital abuzz. The murmurs fell into silence as the great doors opened, the two descended the stairs side by side, and the sight was enough to still even the most restless tongue. Vivianne’s hand rested lightly yet firmly on Roxanne’s arm, the gesture not only intimate but also possessive, as if daring anyone to question where she belonged.
Roxanne herself is a vision of danger. She’s wearing the formal uniform of the Borgia Grand Duchy, a black uniform molded perfectly to her tall, commanding frame. Over it, a long crimson coat trailed behind her like a flowing banner of war, gold embroidery catching the firelight with each step.
Her raven-black hair spilled down her shoulders, framing a face pale as porcelain, lips painted in blood-red, and eyes glowing like embers in the dim light. She’s terrifyingly beautiful, an untouchable figure who seemed carved of shadow and fire.
Vivianne, by contrast, dazzled like a star descending from the heavens. Her gown shimmered in midnight blue, layered with silk and sheer lace, speckled with beadwork that sparkled like constellations.
Crimson gems glittered along her bodice and at her waist, a deliberate echo of Roxanne’s scarlet, as though the two had woven their appearances together. Where Roxanne radiated danger, Vivianne shone with elegance, soft but no less commanding, her presence like a calm night sky holding a storm at bay.
Vivianne’s beauty drew more attention than Roxanne’s, though in a different way. Her silver hair shimmered under the chandeliers, every strand catching the light like woven moonlight. But it’s her eyes, those light purple eyes that held the hall captive. Gentle, glowing, and unearthly, she struck everyone who saw her into silence, as though they were staring at something divine.
Her beauty is unlike anything of this world. It’s quiet yet overwhelming, a kind of grace that made hearts pause and breaths catch. Side by side, the contrast between the two is breathtaking—Roxanne, a storm dressed in fire and steel, and Vivianne, a celestial vision, untouchable and holy.
The nobles didn’t know where to look. Some stared at Roxanne with a mix of fear and fascination, while others couldn’t tear their eyes from Vivianne, awe written plain on their faces.
Some nobles leaned closer, their eyes wide with awe, unable to look away. Others shrank back as Roxanne’s gaze swept over the crowd, her burning eyes making them feel exposed, as if their silks and jewels could not protect them from her scrutiny. And yet, when Vivianne’s serene smile brushed across the same faces, they felt their breath return, like light breaking after a storm.
At last, Roxanne and Vivianne reached the ballroom floor. They walked side by side, moving as though they belonged only to each other. The nobles stepped aside, their eyes following the couple in silence.
"The rumors were true," someone whispered from behind a fan. "She is a woman—and what a woman."
"And the duchess," another murmured, voice tinged with awe. "By the saints, I’ve never seen such beauty."
At the end of the hall, the throne awaited. Emperor Dietrich sat tall in his seat, his face calm, though his eyes betrayed something darker. Beside him sat Liselotte, beautiful and composed, though her presence dimmed in the glow of Vivianne and the strength of Roxanne.
When the couple reached the dais, they stopped. Roxanne bowed politely to the emperor and empress consort, her face unreadable. Vivianne curtsied with grace, her violet eyes catching the light like gemstones. Liselotte de Rothschild smiled with perfect composure, though her hand tightened on her fan until the fabric strained.
Their gesture isn’t just a formality but also a message. Before all who watched, the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess showed that Borgia still honored the empire. Dietrich, seated at the dais, felt his pulse quicken. His eyes lingered on Vivianne with a hunger that’s almost feverish, though he told himself it was admiration, destiny, even love. He scarcely looked at Roxanne except with venom. Tonight, he promised himself, the poison would find its way.
The crowd whispered again. Some admired their beauty, some questioned their power, and others felt uneasy. But none could deny the sight; they were loyal, at least for now. The musicians struck up a waltz, breaking the stunned quiet. Conversations resumed, though the whispers never truly stopped.
The ball unfolded with polished grandeur. Nobles sought introductions, some eager to curry favor with Borgia, others merely to catch a closer glimpse. The common gossips that filled the streets now played out in gilded salons—questions of loyalty, power, and beauty, dressed in courtesy and wine.
At the center, Roxanne and Vivianne danced. The Grand Duke’s strength and composure guided her wife across the floor, the two moving with such harmony that the hall seemed to pause around them. Whispers followed their every step.
"They dance as if they were born for each other."
"Look at the way she watches her—like the world begins and ends with her."
Even Liselotte, seated on her throne beside Dietrich, felt the sting. For some time, her beauty in the capital had gone unchallenged, her grace admired across the empire. Yet now, every gaze seemed to drift, not toward her, but toward the northern duchess with the violet eyes.
The chancellor, standing quietly behind the emperor’s seat, watched all of it. He noted the nobles who leaned forward, eager; those who frowned, threatened; and those who exchanged glances heavy with calculation. He could feel it, the tide shifting. For the first time in decades, the court looked northward, not toward the throne.
Wine flowed, laughter rose, and the orchestra swelled. Yet beneath it all ran a current of unease. Dietrich’s smile never reached his eyes, his goblet untouched as he schemed. He imagined Vivianne by his side and freed her from the northern wolf. Every laugh she gave, every gesture of her hand, he twisted into proof that she should have been his.
The night kept coming, the grand chandeliers dimmed slightly, and servants carried out trays of delicacies, among them a goblet meant for Roxanne. Dietrich’s gaze followed it like a hawk, his fingers tightening on the armrest of his chair. Soon, he told himself. Soon she would stumble and fall, and the path to Vivianne would be cleared.
A poison strong enough to kill even a demon, Dietrich had spent another fortune from the empire’s treasury to obtain it. He believed that with this, he could finally rid himself of Roxanne. In his mind, all it would take was one well-placed sip, one careless moment, and the Grand Duke of Borgia would fall.
But the chancellor’s eyes narrowed as he too noticed the goblet’s path. He said nothing, but his jaw tightened. In his heart, he prayed that the Grand Duke of Borgia wouldn’t be so easily deceived; he had a high hope for Roxanne de Borgia.