The training hall was a masterpiece of Verlone architecture — soaring white ceilings, pale marble floors polished to a mirror's gleam, and reinforced walls designed to absorb strikes from blades, kinetic rounds, and even more exotic weapons. Only the finest materials for the Verlone bloodline. Light filtered in through tall, narrow windows, bathing the hall in a sterile brilliance that seemed to sharpen every edge, every movement.

  Aria de Verlone moved fluidly, twisting like flowers in the wind. Her platinum hair was braided tightly against her scalp, accentuating the sharp angles of her face — the high cheekbones, the pointed chin, the delicate, aristocratic nose. Her skin, flawless and pale, seemed almost to glow under the light, unmarred by any imperfection, a testament to generations of careful Verlone breeding. Only her vivid emerald eyes betrayed the life burning within — bright, eager, and fierce. She was the embodiment of Verlone perfection, sculpted not only by blood but by will.

  Three opponents circled her, clad in light training armor, their weapons dull-edged for safety — though in House Verlone, even training could draw blood. Aria’s boots kissed the marble with feather-light grace. She smiled — a slight, mischievous thing — as she shifted her stance, one hand loose by her side, the other poised in readiness.

  Standing near the training ground, Virelia de Verlone watched, arms crossed over her chest, the long emerald cape of her office draping elegantly behind her. Her face, beautiful in its own right, was a mask of iron. Only her eyes moved, sharp and assessing.

  The first attacker lunged. Aria pivoted on her heel, slipping past the thrust with an almost lazy sidestep. Her palm struck the side of the man’s neck in a snap of precise, coiled energy, sending him sprawling. Before the others could react, she flowed into motion, a seamless blend of grace and ruthlessness.

  The second came from behind — Aria twisted low, sweeping the legs out from under her opponent, and as he fell, she rose into a spin that carried her blade — a slim, training saber — up under the third’s guard. A hiss of air; a gasp; the tip rested just under her opponent’s chin.

  "Point," came Virelia’s cool voice from the side.

  Aria lowered her blade, breathing lightly. A sheen of sweat clung to her brow, but her expression was radiant, proud. She turned her face upward to the balcony.

  "Was that good enough, Auntie?" she teased, a lilting tone in her voice.

  Virelia’s lips twitched — the barest flicker of amusement, gone almost as soon as it appeared. She descended the steps to the floor below, her boots striking the marble with quiet, measured steps.

  "Good enough?" Virelia said, voice smooth and level. "You tell me, Third Daughter."

  Aria straightened, setting the training saber down gently on a rack. She approached Virelia with an easy, familiar grace. Unlike many in House Verlone, she was not afraid to be close to the woman many whispered about with fear. To Aria, Virelia was — and would always be — "Auntie," her mentor, her shield.

  "You were slow on the second pivot," Virelia continued, circling her, voice low so that only Aria could hear. "Your right foot slipped half a centimeter. Against someone stronger, that would have cost you your life."

  Aria tilted her head up, emerald eyes dancing. "Only half a centimeter? I must be improving."

  Virelia’s hand ghosted over Aria’s braid, a gesture so quick and so subtle it could have been mistaken for a casual touch. Yet it was an expression of the rare tenderness Virelia reserved for no one else.

  "You are improving," Virelia said at last. "But there are no medals for second place in battle. Only graves."

  The other trainees were already dispersing under the silent orders of the Praetorians. Aria watched them go, then looked up again at Virelia.

  "You’re too hard on me," she said lightly, looping an arm through Virelia’s with a familiar boldness. "One day, I might actually be good."

  "You already are," Virelia murmured — low, too low for anyone but Aria to hear. Then, back to her customary iron: "But there is always better."

  The two walked off the training floor together, their contrasting natures — the young, bright flame and the cold, enduring steel — moving in perfect harmony.

  The golden light of the late afternoon streamed through the tall, arched windows as Aria and Virelia walked along the upper galleries of the Verlone estate. Below, the final touches of the night’s grand celebration were being set: crystalline chandeliers polished to perfect sheen, tables laden with rare fruits and delicacies, performers practicing in the courtyard gardens.

  Aria, her platinum hair shining like a halo under the sun, leaned toward her aunt, her violet eyes bright with excitement.

  "Auntie," she said in a low, conspiratorial tone, "he’s coming tonight, isn’t he? Dante Saint?"

  Virelia nodded, her expression composed and measured as always.

  "The Emperor’s envoy," she confirmed.

  Aria nearly bounced on her toes. "A man from the Inner Ring itself. Someone who’s seen Valence! Who's walked the streets of the Imperial Capital!" Her voice lowered, filled with a rare awe. "They say the Inner Ring holds the most beautiful — and the most dangerous — worlds in the galaxy. And that Valence outshines every jewel we've ever seen."

  She clasped her hands behind her back, trying to school her excitement into something more dignified, but her radiant smile betrayed her youth.

  Virelia’s gaze remained steady. She let Aria dream for a few heartbeats longer before speaking.

  "Yes," she said at last, "he’s seen things we have not. He’s walked in places most of us will never tread. And that alone makes him dangerous."

  Aria blinked, the shift in tone catching her. "Dangerous? But why? Just because he’s traveled?"

  Virelia’s lips curved in a faint, almost sorrowful smile. She turned, leaning slightly against the carved stone balustrade that overlooked the estate.

  "Think, Aria. The Emperor does not discard Imperial Blademasters lightly. To send one away — whether to exile him quietly, or to use him as pressure — is a deliberate, layered move. A Blademaster represents absolute lethality. A whisper from the throne to remind the Ducal Houses where true power lies."

  Aria frowned slightly, thoughtful now.

  "So... he’s not here just to attend our ball."

  "No envoy ever is," Virelia said, her voice cool as mountain stone. "And you must learn to see beyond the surface, child. The presence of an Imperial Blademaster, even one with a disgraced public record, shifts the entire balance of the court. Every word he says, every silence he allows, every move he makes will mean something. Because he will represent the Emperor."

  Aria bit her lip, glancing again toward the distant landing pads gleaming under the fading sun.

  "But he's not... a threat to us, is he?" she asked, softer now.

  Virelia’s gaze sharpened, though she reached out and gently brushed a strand of Aria’s hair back from her face — a rare moment of tenderness.

  "A Blademaster is always a threat," she said. "Even when they smile. Especially when they smile."

  Aria straightened, confidence flaring back into her posture.

  "But you’ve defeated one of the Imperial ones before," she said, voice firm. "If things turn... ugly, you’ll defeat this one too."

  Virelia let a small smile touch her lips — a shield against the deeper, colder truths she often would not burden Aria with. Outwardly, she exuded calm, composed certainty, sheltering the young woman with the aura of invincibility she had long cultivated. Inwardly, though, a faint thread of unease wound through her mind.

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  Every Blademaster was a monster, each one a storm bottled into flesh. And while the Ducal Blademasters were a cut above the rest, the Blademasters of the Imperial House were at least equal to them. Defeating one of them once had cost her dearly. Facing another one of them would be no easy thing, no matter how undistinguished his record was compared to her. And the greatest strength of the Imperial House was not the skill of its Blademasters, but rather their number. Even after the harrowing Succession War, they still possessed fourteen Blademasters. While each Ducal House only possessed three. Even with the four Ducal Houses together, they only possessed twelve Blademasters. Only if they rallied minor Noble Houses, who often possessed one Blademaster and sometimes two, could they even out the numbers. But then the Emperor could always drown them with the Blademasters of the numerous Noble Houses of the Inner Ring he reigned over.

  Still, she would not show her unease here. Not to Aria. Never to Aria.

  Aria smiled brightly, reassured, and turned her gaze once more to the distant skies, no doubt dreaming of whispered tales of star-lit cities and worlds beyond imagining.

  Beside her, Virelia said nothing more. In politics — and in life — dreams could be as deadly as daggers.

  Aria and Virelia parted ways at the grand staircase, their footsteps soft against the polished marble. Virelia, ever the vigilant guardian, disappeared into the deeper halls to prepare for the night's official duties. Aria, left to her own devices, made her way slowly toward her chambers.

  The Verlone estate was a marvel of cultivated grandeur — a place where the finest technology and natural beauty melded together seamlessly. As she walked, Aria’s violet gaze wandered over the pathways that wove through sprawling gardens. Beneath her feet, the marble gleamed with inlaid golden veins, catching the light like frozen rivers of sunlight.

  The gardens themselves were a vision of life and color. Exotic flowers, plucked from worlds far beyond the Core, bloomed in perfectly measured harmony. Silver-threaded vines wrapped around slender, exotic trees whose leaves shimmered between emerald and deep blue, depending on how the light struck them. Green was the dominant theme — a rich, vibrant green that spoke of controlled vitality — but bursts of scarlet, gold, and violet danced throughout, arranged in careful, naturalistic patterns.

  Tiny drones, no larger than hummingbirds, floated discreetly among the foliage, camouflaged as leaves were tending to each plant with microscopic precision. Water features ran clear and glittering, their streams maintained by unseen regulators that made even the rippling of water a curated work of art.

  Servants in understated finery bowed their heads respectfully as Aria passed.

  Clerks and estate bureaucrats — those responsible for managing the immense wealth and daily workings of House Verlone — offered polite nods and murmured greetings.

  Even some of the Elders, ancient figures of political weight and cunning, paused in their conversations to acknowledge her presence, treating her not as a child but as an equal.

  Aria responded with warm, practiced smiles. She knew — because Virelia had taught her — that each interaction was a stone placed carefully upon the path to greater influence.

  Aria might have been the Third Daughter, but she had already cultivated a quiet, formidable following within the House. Her sharp mind and genuine warmth had earned her real respect, even among the schemers. Of course, there was sheltering too. Always, there was sheltering.

  The Elders corrected her gently when she made mistakes in courtly conversation.

  The stewards ensured she was never exposed to the more sordid dealings of the family.

  The bureaucrats shielded her from the uglier realities of the contracts and alliances Verlone maintained.

  But even behind that shelter, they taught her. They saw her potential — and in that, Aria was both cherished and sharpened.

  She took it all in stride as she walked, her thoughts wandering from the beauty of the estate to the night ahead. The ball, the performances, the arrival of the Emperor’s envoys. Aria’s lips curved into a small, secret smile as she turned down a side path lined with flowering trees that sparkled with bioluminescence. Tonight would be the beginning of something new — she could feel it in her blood.

  Perhaps, just perhaps, the Third Daughter of House Verlone would find her first true glimpse of the wider galaxy not in books, nor in lessons... but in the words of the dwellers of the Inner Ring.

  She quickened her pace, the hem of her embroidered dress whispering against the marble, eager to prepare herself for the evening to come.

  Aria pushed open the carved double doors to her chambers and found herself pausing for just a moment. The afternoon light poured through the tall arched windows, painting the room in a warm, golden hue. The polished stone floor reflected it softly, while the silken drapes, the intricate embroidery of the furniture, and the gilded detailing of the walls all seemed to bask in the glow.

  At the center of it all stood her mother, Duchess Velya de Verlone — a figure of effortless authority and grace. Tall, elegant, her golden hair swept into a crown-like arrangement, Velya commanded the space without even needing to speak.

  Surrounding her were several ladies-in-waiting, all members of her innermost circle: women loyal not just to the House, but to Velya personally, trained to serve without ever being indiscreet.

  There was nothing hidden here. Nothing that needed to be.

  “Aria, darling,” the Duchess said, her voice low and rich with affection. She turned, a slight smile gracing her lips. “Come. We were just deciding which gown would best suit you for this evening’s festivities.”

  Aria stepped into the room with a graceful curtsy, smoothing the slight flutter of her heart. Her mother’s presence always stirred something in her — admiration, but also a certain carefulness.

  Where Virelia teased and challenged her like her favored niece, Velya expected poise, composure, and thoughtfulness. Three dresses were laid out on a chaise. One was a cascade of deep emerald satin, understated yet commanding. The next one was made of soft, shimmering silver silk, almost ethereal.

  The last was a daring deep green, its design sleek and modern, edged in the House’s traditional gold.

  As the ladies-in-waiting held up each gown in turn, Aria and her mother conversed lightly.

  “There will be a full opera performance before the banquet,” Velya said, her voice laced with satisfaction. “They've flown in one of the Imperial Ballet troupes as well. Their performance of The Fall of the Valiant is said to be particularly moving. And of course, several concerts after the first course. It will be quite the night.”

  Aria smiled, letting herself enjoy the thought of it — the music, the beauty — but she kept her deeper excitement hidden. She would not speak here of the Emperor’s envoys. Her curiosity about the Inner Ring, about the fabled worlds said to be more magnificent and perilous than anything known outside Imperial space, remained carefully tucked away behind her composed expression.

  Instead, she asked, “Will the Imperial Troupe perform The Swan’s Lament? I remember hearing it was being prepared.”

  Velya inclined her head approvingly. “They will. You remember well. It is a demanding piece — not everyone would appreciate the work it takes to master it.”

  Her blue eyes — mirror-like and unreadable — flicked toward the silver gown.

  “Perhaps the silver, for the first portion of the evening. It will catch the candlelight during the opera. You can change before the final dances.”

  Aria nodded, silently agreeing.

  As the ladies-in-waiting bustled to make final adjustments to the gowns, Velya allowed herself a rare moment of candor. She waved her hand dismissively, sending one of the women away to fetch a box of jewelry, and leaned in slightly closer to Aria.

  Velya’s lips pressed into a thin line, the faintest sign of her irritation. “One of the Elders was most persistent. I permitted three of his requests, to maintain appearances. Among them are Eliza Deme... and Alaric Venn — a singer from the border regions. His voice is notable, I suppose, and there’s some novelty to him being unmodified, but it is all a bit dramatic for our tastes.”

  Aria’s face brightened immediately at the mention of Eliza. She leaned forward slightly, eager, her tone soft and fond. “I went to one of Eliza’s concerts when I was younger,” she said. “It was in the lower districts, not at the high venues, but... I’ve never heard anything like it. There’s a depth to her voice, a rawness that—” Aria hesitated, searching for the right words, but the passion in her eyes made it clear what she meant. “It’s as though every note she sings carries all the weight of her soul. Her pain... her joy... she wears it all so openly. It’s so... human.”

  Velya listened quietly, her gaze softening as she observed her daughter’s enthusiasm. She said nothing for a long moment, as if contemplating the sincerity in Aria’s words. Then, her lips curved into the barest smile, more indulgent than approving. "Rawness appeals to the young," she replied softly, her voice a little distant. "But that does not mean it is always the best way to reach an audience."

  Aria’s excitement didn’t wane, however. She leaned a bit closer to her mother, her eyes still wide with the memory. “But it is the best way. I can’t explain it properly, but when she sings, you can feel everything. Every breath she takes, every hesitation, every note that lingers like a storm just before it breaks. It’s almost... tragic, in a way. She’s not just performing — she’s living every moment, and you can’t help but feel it, too.”

  Velya raised an eyebrow, a quiet glimmer of curiosity flitting through her otherwise unreadable gaze. “Is that so?” She studied her daughter for a long moment, as though assessing the sincerity behind her words. “And what of her... other qualities? Is her talent the only thing that draws your attention, or is there more beneath it?”

  Aria blushed faintly, but she didn’t pull back from her conviction. “She’s... different. She’s not like the others, Mother. Her beauty... it’s unmodified. It’s real. There's something about her that feels...” Aria hesitated, unsure of how to finish. “Pure, even though it’s messy.”

  Her mother’s gaze hardened ever so slightly, a flicker of something darker passing behind her eyes before she quickly masked it with a smile. “I see. Well, you are entitled to your opinions. But remember, my dear, the world of high art is about more than raw emotion and unpolished beauty. It is about refinement, about control. Talent, when left unchecked, is a dangerous thing.”

  Aria nodded, her excitement dimming just a little, but still, she couldn't hide the small spark of rebellion in her heart. “I understand, Mother.”

  Among the highest echelons of Verlone society, perfection was not just expected — it was cultivated. Eliza Deme’s raw, natural beauty, her refusal to conform to the pristine standards Verlones held themselves to, was both alluring and almost... blasphemous.

  Still, Aria remembered the soaring notes, the passion behind Eliza’s voice. She would look forward to hearing her again, even if no one else would admit they would too.

  Velya moved on briskly, selecting a pair of opalescent earrings to match the silver gown.

  “You will shine tonight, my dear,” she said, the warmth returning to her voice. “As you should.”

  Aria curtsied again, letting her heart fill just a little with excitement.

  Soon, she thought, soon the doors would open, the music would rise, and the stories of the Inner Ring would walk among them.

  And perhaps, she would glimpse something even more extraordinary than she had ever imagined.