Chapter 7: So That’s the Kind of Woman You Liked
Huerion remembered the final, chilling voice in his head:
“Huerion Iberk.”
That face, twisted with despair, broken with tears.
“I’ll never let you go.”
Like a river that never truly stops flowing, the Camelot Hall banquet returned to its calm surface.
The disturbance caused by the mysterious woman was soon smoothed over, and the Coming-of-Age celebration continued with its brilliant splendor.
But the stone thrown into the water left ripples.
Everyone pretended to ignore it, yet their whispers betrayed them. Their gazes kept flickering toward the one who had shaken the hall: the black-haired woman.
“Who is that lady?”
“Haven’t you heard? They say she’s the master of Phoebe Trading Company.”
“Phoebe? Ah, so that’s why she appeared with the Duke!”
The nobles could not contain their curiosity. They whispered endlessly, words sticky with envy and malice, like ants swarming sugar.
Their attention was wholly fixed on the woman standing at the center of the hall — tall, elegant, and mysterious.
“She’s with Duke Eugene Russell, of all people.”
“Yes, and he has never had a single scandal, nor even accepted a seat in the imperial council.”
The whispers grew bolder: this was not just about her. It was about him.
Eugene Russell.
- Nephew of the Emperor.
- Duke of Russell Duchy.
- A man who controlled vast wealth and trade across the western continent.
- Second only to the Emperor in power.
And tonight, the infamous unmarried Duke had brought a woman of marriageable age as his partner.
What could be more tantalizing?
To Iris de Abecherene, this was both unsettling and fascinating.
Even the elder noblewomen around her whispered excitedly:
“How strange — the cold Duke finally brings a flower to his side.”
“A black flower, perhaps. A black rose.”
Iris knew Eugene well enough. Once, she had tried to approach him at the height of her own fame as the empire’s most beautiful woman — and he had cut her down without hesitation.
Now, he stood beside another woman.
So this is his taste? That kind of woman?
Jealousy flickered in Iris’s heart.
But she quickly reminded herself: she already had the empire’s most sought-after man — Huerion Iberk, young Duke beloved by the Emperor himself.
Still, she couldn’t help but think bitterly:
Even that dead wench was pretty, wasn’t she…?
Iris smiled sweetly and redirected the conversation.
“Well then, I think Lady Clotilde has the best chance of winning the Crown of Roses this year.”
The noble ladies eagerly picked up the topic, gossiping about the contenders for the crown.
Iris leaned back, satisfied. She couldn’t stand it when another woman stole the spotlight. Now the focus was shifting again, just as she wanted.
Her gaze drifted to the grand stage at the center of the hall, where the Crown of Roses sat on display — a dazzling circlet made of hundreds of red diamonds, shaped like a rose.
It was awarded each year to the most beautiful debutante of the season.
Six years ago, that crown had rested on Iris’s own head.
***
“Duke Iberk, what do you think?” one lady asked Huerion.
But his answer didn’t come.
Iris turned to him. He was staring blankly, lost in thought, as if trapped in a dream.
“Leon?”
“Leon!”
Finally, he blinked and looked at her, expression hazy before turning cold.
“Oh… were you talking to me?”
“You’re being asked a question. Don’t leave the lady embarrassed,” Iris chided gently, gripping his shoulder.
He quickly apologized to the noblewoman with practiced grace.
But Iris’s eyes followed his. She saw exactly who he had been staring at:
That woman.
The mysterious black-haired guest.
Iris’s eyes narrowed.
What is she?
The woman moved calmly through the hall, speaking politely when approached, even charming the Emperor’s former nurse — a woman notorious for cutting down young ladies with sharp-tongued insults.
This wasn’t just luck. She had grace. Presence.
But what unsettled Iris most was the memory of earlier — when Huerion had chased after the woman in such desperation.
He had later brushed it off, claiming he mistook her for someone else. But Iris knew.
She knew who he had mistaken her for.
So… you still haven’t forgotten that dead wench?
Her perfect smile cracked, twisting slightly.
She tugged at Huerion’s sleeve.
“Leon. We need to talk.”
“Talk?” He gave her a polite smile. But under the table, his hand pushed hers away, cold and firm.
“Later. We’re in the middle of a banquet.”
And then, with a lover’s perfect tenderness, he tucked her hair behind her ear — a scene so picture-perfect that the watching ladies gasped in admiration.
To them, he looked the ideal fiancé.
To Iris, he felt miles away.
She bit her lip in silence as their jealous whispers washed over her.
“His Imperial Majesty, the shining sun of the Empire, enters!”
The hall’s great central doors opened wide.
Everyone rose and bowed as the Emperor entered.
Step… limp… step… limp.
Heavy footsteps fell on the soft carpet.
“Raise your heads.”
The voice was deep, commanding.
The Emperor of Arendt, Karolus, appeared. A man in his fifties with hair streaked white, his large frame still powerful despite a limp. His body bore the weight of years of battles and victories.
Unlike his short-lived ancestors, he had ruled long and well, overseeing an age of prosperity.
Even now, his presence was overwhelming. Many nobles struggled just to stand before him without trembling.
It was said that any debutante who could meet the Emperor’s eyes and greet him steadily was destined to be a great head of house.
