Chapter 27: The Birthday of Silence
The Grand Duke's estate had never been so alive.
Gold-threaded banners of the Von Ross family crest draped across the highest towers. The eastern gardens bloomed with enchanted moonflowers, glowing silver under the dusk sky. Musicians from all seven noble provinces had gathered, tuning harps and violins with trembling fingers. Foreign lords stood shoulder to shoulder with imperial nobles, all waiting.
The young lord—the Empire's prodigy, the Tenth Pillar—was turning sixteen.
They said no heir in the history of the Empire had ever reached such heights at such an age.
A Grand Swordmaster at fifteen.
Now, on the verge of sixteen, whispers said he would become something more—something no one had achieved in centuries.
And so they came. From across kingdoms and borders, they came.
Not only to offer gifts.
But to see the boy who had already become legend.
The Grand Hall shimmered in white and gold. Chandeliers bathed the marble in soft light. Tables of wine and delicacies curved through the room like rivers.
And among the sea of people, girls.
Daughters of marquises, duchesses, even foreign princesses. Dressed in flowing silks, practiced smiles, and rehearsed charm. Each one had been told by their mothers:
"This is your moment. One word from him and your life will change."
But none of them had ever spoken to Sirius Farah Von Ross before.
They only heard of him.
He was polite, they said. Cold, but not cruel. Distant, but respectful.
And handsome.
So very handsome that some had dreamt of him without ever having seen him.
Then, the doors opened.
He entered in silence.
No trumpet announced him. No steward declared his name. He simply walked.
And the entire hall fell still.
He wore black. Deep, elegant, seamless black with silver lining—the color of the night sky just before the moon rises. His hair fell in soft waves over his forehead, his crimson eyes unreadable. His presence was like frost in spring—beautiful, cold, and final.
He looked at no one.
He nodded to no one.
He passed through nobles like wind through glass.
And the closer they stood, the more they realized:
He doesn't see us.
Sirius reached the dais where his parents stood.
The Grand Duke—tall, proud, once known as the strongest man in the empire—looked at his son with a mix of pride and something like unease. The Grand Duchess, radiant and powerful, gave her son a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
They hadn't seen him much lately.
Even they had begun to feel the quiet growing in him.
But they did not speak of it tonight.
They simply raised their glasses.
"To Sirius," the Grand Duke said.
And the hall followed.
"To Sirius!"
The music resumed.
But Sirius did not stay.
He bowed once to his parents, turned, and walked away—before the first waltz began.
In the hours that followed, his absence stirred more excitement than his presence.
Where did he go?
Why did he leave?
What did it mean?
Girls who had spent weeks preparing stood in stunned silence. Nobles debated if it was rudeness or majesty. One foreign ambassador murmured, "He walks like he already rules something greater."
And then came the rumors.
A certain noble girl—quiet, clever, from a rising household—was seen speaking often with the Grand Duchess. Some claimed she had a private audience. Others swore the Duke had praised her virtue.
Her name circled in whispers: Evelyne.
"She might be the one," a baroness said.
"She could be our next Duchess," a merchant's wife added.
But those who had watched Sirius that night said nothing.
Because they saw something no one else wanted to admit.
He hadn't even looked in her direction.
Not once.
Not even for a heartbeat.