Chapter 134: Mingling With The Ladies

The group of noblewomen waiting ahead had clearly been watching their approach long before Lady Stormlow and the princess reached them.

By the time the two stopped before them, they were already poised in perfect formation.

The hostess smiled with practiced ease.

“Ladies,” she said fluidly, “may I present Her Royal Highness, the Crown Princess Ilaria of Noctharis.”

Almost in unison, the women dipped into graceful curtsies, their jeweled hairpieces glinting beneath the chandelier light. “Your Royal Highness.”

The greeting came like a soft chorus.

Lady Stormlow turned slightly toward Ilaria, her hand gesturing politely as she began the introductions.

“Your Highness, this is Duchess Valerine of House Halcrest,” she said, indicating a tall woman dressed in deep garnet velvet.

The Duchess carried herself with the confidence of someone long accustomed to influence. Beside her stood a younger woman in midnight green silk.

“The Marchioness Elowyn of Raventhorn.” The Marchioness offered a genteel bow, though her curious gaze darted upward before settling respectfully back on the floor.

“And Countess Mirelda of Greyhaven.” The countess, a delicate woman with silver-threaded hair pinned stylishly above her neck, bent into a slower and reverent curtsy.

The words sounded courteous, but Ilaria could feel the subtle weight behind their stares as they rose from their curtsies. They were observing her every move. Well, she could not blame them for being curious. Much of that mystery, of course, was thanks to her ever-protective in-laws.

Months of rumour had built an understated skepticism around the White Dragon princess hidden within the palace walls. Some had imagined someone fragile, perhaps pale and withdrawn. Others expected a distant royal who spoke little and watched everything.

Instead, they found a young woman standing before them with bright violet eyes and an affable smile.

Ilaria returned their greeting with a graceful nod of her head.

“I’m very pleased to finally meet you,” she said tenderly, meeting their gazes one by one. “Lady Stormlow has been kind enough to guide me through the evening.”

Her voice was measured, yet it cut through the murmurs with quiet clarity. The women nearest them stilled, caught in a pause that felt almost musical. Their surprise was delicate, not rudely so, but the kind of surprise that came when expectations quietly rearranged themselves.

The Marchioness was the first to recover, her fan lifting as she spoke. “The pleasure is ours, Your Highness.”

A hushed murmur of concurrence followed from the others. And though their expressions remained perfectly intact, they began to regard the princess with a newfound warmth. Because the mysterious princess they had imagined for months did not feel distant at all.

She felt… approachable.

So much so that the women quickly fell into a lively exchange, their words whispering like silken folds.

“The journey from the palace must have been quite cold this evening,” the Countess Mirelda remarked, her silver-threaded hair glimmering beneath the chandeliers. “The frost arrived earlier than usual this year.”

“It was a little chilly,” Ilaria admitted with a small laugh. “But the carriage was toasty inside. I hardly noticed the cold until we arrived.”

“And yet you look perfectly untouched by the winter air,” the Duchess Valerine added, her tone approving as she took in the midnight-blue gown. “The colour suits you beautifully.”

“Thank you,” Ilaria replied, dipping her head courteously. “I was worried it might be too dark for the occasion.”

“Oh, not at all,” the Marchioness Elowyn dismissed offhandedly. “Noctharis has always favoured darker shades. Lighter colours tend to disappear under our chandeliers.”

A few restrained chuckles followed.

“I noticed,” Ilaria said with a bright smile. “Everyone looks like pieces on a night sky.”

The Countess laughed. “That is a rather poetic way to describe it, Your Highness.”

“And quite accurate,” the Duchess added. “Stormlow banquets do have a reputation for glittering a little dramatically.”

As the conversation continued, the women grew noticeably more relaxed. Their fans fluttered less defensively, their posture easing as the initial formality melted into something closer to genuine interest.

Ilaria listened as they spoke, occasionally adding a tentative comment or question, careful not to dominate the conversation but amiable in a way that keep the rhythm alive.

Suddenly, a remark about winter pastries turned briefly into a cheerful debate over which confection Stormlow’s kitchens prepared best.

“The honeyed chestnut tarts,” Countess Mirelda insisted firmly.

“The plum pastries,” the Marchioness countered.

Ilaria laughed softly. “Then I suppose I must try both before the night ends.”

“That would be the wisest course, we can always prepare for more,” Lady Stormlow acquiesced.

The small circle shared another ripple of laughter. The atmosphere felt effortless.

Then, as the conversation naturally slowed, the Marchioness Elowyn tilted her head, studying the princess with open curiosity.

“If I may ask, Your Highness,” she began delicately, “do you find life in Noctharis very different from Caelwyn?”

The question slipped into the conversation so mellifluously that it almost felt casual. But the palpable stillness that followed told Ilaria everything she needed to know that this was not merely idle curiosity. Even Lady Stormlow’s attention wandered toward her, inconspicuous and attentive.

Levan had cautioned her to tread attentively even before they stepped into the carriage, and she had not forgotten it. Maybe that is why she was hyperaware. Usually, she seldom has her guard up.

Ilaria understood the question for what it truly was.

Do you miss your home?

Do you wish you were still there?

Or do you belong here now?

She let the silence linger for just a moment, long enough to show that she had considered it. Then her lips curved into a small, thoughtful smile.

“Caelwyn will always be dear to me,” she said with a mild smile.

The women listened eagerly.

“It is the land where I grew up, after all. The gardens, the sea air… those are memories I will always treasure.”

She paused briefly, her gaze drifting across the ballroom before settling back on the women before her.

“But Noctharis is my home now.” Her tone remained controlled, but there was an apparent certainty beneath it.

“My husband belongs to this kingdom,” she continued, her eyes warm. “And so do I.”

The women were speechless in that instant, that for a second, Ilaria thought she might have misspoke something. But then the Duchess Valerine hummed, like she was very pleased.

“Oh,” she said, a hint of approval coloured her facade, “I believe that Noctharis will be very pleased to hear that, Princess.”

The tension that had lingered between them eased immediately. Only then did Ilaria release the breath she had not realized she was holding, disguising it behind a lilting titter.

The Duchess Valerine studied the princess more openly now, lingering thoughtfully over Ilaria’s face.

“Well,” she tilted her head, as if finding something notable, “I must say, Your Highness looks remarkably well.”

The comment seemed simple, but the Marchioness Elowyn gave a knowing hum behind her fan as she regarded the princess tentatively as well. “Remarkably,” she echoed.

“Truly, radiantly well.”

“Exquisite, even.”

“One could hardly believe the palace has ever seen such grace.”

“Indeed, a vision of composure and health,” Countess Mirelda nodded in agreement. “I had heard the palace physicians were excellent. But obviously they are not the only ones ensuring the Crown Princess thrives.”

Ilaria could hardly let the shower of praises sink in as a crease formed between her brows. What do they mean by that?

Before she could respond, though, the Marchioness leaned a little closer, her tone playful. “A princess does not glow like this without someone making certain she is well looked after.”

A soundless ripple of laughter passed through the women. Ilaria did not grasp their full meaning at first, but a rush of heat swept to her cheeks anyway. Are they teasing her?

“I—” she began, momentarily caught off guard.

The Duchess lifted a hand elegantly, saving her from having to answer directly. “Oh, there is no need to be shy, Your Highness,” she said indulgently. “Every lady here understands perfectly well what we are observing.”

The Marchioness gasped, eyes wide. “A husband who treasures his wife!”

A delicate chortle rippled from Countess Mirelda. “It shows in the smallest ways~”

Ilaria lowered her head a bit, her fingers brushing the edge of her sleeve as her blush deepened. Ah… so that was what they meant. Was it even proper to speak so openly of her husband’s care? She hesitated, then decided it was not needed.

“Well… His Highness is very considerate of me,” she offered instead.

The reaction from the women was hilarious. One of them gave a delighted sigh as if they could see right through her.

“Considerate?” the Marchioness repeated, batting her lashes in amusement. “My dear Princess, the entire ballroom watched him carry you through the courtyard as though you were made of glass.”

The Countess affirmed speaking in a dramatic whisper. “And the way he looks at you.”

“And the way he held you.”

The Duchess chimed in, squinting her eyes teasingly. “It is not often that the Crown Prince forgets an entire crowd exists.”

Ilaria’s blush spread all the way to the tips of her ears now. “I think you are all exaggerating a little.”

“Oh, not at all,” Lady Stormlow said from beside her. Her countenance glinted with merriment. “In fact, Stormlow’s courtyard has never been so hushed.”

The women laughed again.

The Marchioness leaned toward the others, lowering her voice just enough to feel conspiratorial.

“You see?” she said. “The rumors were wrong after all.”

“What rumors?” Ilaria asked before she could stop herself.

The Duchess waved the matter away with an elegant flick of her hand.

“Oh, the usual nonsense that surrounds royal marriages,” she droned. “Cold alliances. Political arrangements. People like to spread rumours simply because seeing is believing.”

Her gaze returned to Ilaria, gentle yet appraising. “But after tonight, I doubt anyone will believe those stories any longer.”

“I certainly hope not,” another voice suddenly said smoothly from behind them, carrying a note of challenge that made the gathered women stiffen for a heartbeat.

The circle shifted instinctively as its members turned.

A woman stepped forward from the nearby crowd with unhurried elegance, her dark gown trimmed with silver that caught the chandelier light with every movement. Her posture was flawless, her expression composed in a way that suggested long familiarity with courtly attention.

Ilaria’s eyes widened imperceptibly, a tingling tension knotting in her chest. She recognized the deep wine-red hair, mindfully styled into a sleek twist, and the piercing deep-blue orbs that had once met her husband with a familiarity that made her stomach knot.

The newcomer inclined her head in a poised bow. “Your Royal Highness.”

A hush seemed to settle over the small gathering.

Lady Stormlow’s expression did not change upon seeing who it was, but the way she took a tiny step closer to the princess did not go unnoticed. The two houses — Stormlow and Dorovian — had long stood as twin pillars of Noctharis’ military strength, their alliances and rivalries woven tacitly through generations.

Though outwardly loyal to the crown, whispers of their past competitions and personal entanglements still lingered like shadows over every banquet and council. And tonight, it seemed, that old tension had once again resurfaced.

“Lady Seraphine,” the hostess greeted, her voice dignified yet edged with the faintest caution.

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