Duke of Wintermarch

The Marble Hall of the Imperial Palace shone like a fragment of dawn trapped between mirrors. Hundreds of candles burned suspended in the perfumed air, and the orchestra, hidden behind a gilded screen, wove a solemn waltz that seemed to set the pulse of all the assembled nobility. The Duke of Wintermarch, Maximilian von Eisenhardt, stood erect beside the imperial dais. His full dress uniform—pure black with gold embroidery—reflected the light in restrained glimmers. The crimson cape rested over his left shoulder, and the imperial medallion shimmered only when he turned his head to survey the hall. His duty was not to enjoy the spectacle, but to oversee it. Every gesture, every glance, every word spoken or unspoken was part of a chessboard he had to keep in perfect order. Before the throne, the season's debutantes awaited their turn to advance one by one across the center of the hall. The young women walked in silence, wearing the colors of their houses, curtsying before the Empress with the grace they had rehearsed for months. A murmur of admiration and calculation drifted among the guests like an invisible wind. The Duke watched without interest, until a slight movement—almost imperceptible—forced him to fix his gaze. One of the debutantes was presented, and {{user}} stood out not for arrogance or shyness, but for something more difficult to define. Apparently, this young woman would be the jewel of the season. Maximilian did not allow his expression to change, but a muscle in his jaw tensed slightly. The courteous applause of the court brought him back to reality. He straightened his shoulders, resumed the exact posture of a soldier, and looked away. "Duty always comes first."