Lucius!
"What?" he asked, the picture of feigned innocence, though the glint in his crimson eyes betrayed him. "Just making sure you’re still capable of laughing."
She shook her head, unable to fight the smile tugging at her lips. "You’re impossible."
"Perhaps," he said, his smirk returning. "But I’m impossible and punctual. So hurry up, Jean. We have a celebration to attend, and you’ve got a lady to serve."
She nodded, her laughter subsiding into a soft smile as she t his gaze once more. "Yes," she affird, her voice steady. "Let’s go."
Lucius stepped back, holding the door open for her like a true gentleman.
As Jean stepped out, her confidence restored, the maids and attendants in the corridor couldn’t help but blush at the sight of the two of them.
They whispered amongst themselves, envious of the ease and warmth between them.
Lucius, ever the perceptive one, caught the whispers but said nothing.
Instead, he offered Jean his arm, and she took it hesitantly, glancing up at him as he gave her a knowing look.
Together, they walked down the hallway, leaving the maids and their hushed gossip behind.
For a brief mont, as they moved toward the grand celebration ahead, Jean felt as though the weight of the world wasn’t quite so heavy.
~~{────────────
Grand Hall
Wyfkeep Castle, Wyfellon.
Wyfn-Garde
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~}~~~
The great hall of Castle Velthorne of Wyfn-Garde was a masterpiece of opulence, its towering ceilings adorned with crystal chandeliers that bathed the room in a golden glow.
Velvet banners in the royal colors of erald green and gold hung from the stone walls, each bearing the sigil of the Velthorne dynasty—a crowned lion standing proudly on its hind legs.
Rows of guests, dressed in their finest silks and velvets, filled the hall, their murmured conversations hushed with anticipation as they awaited the entrance of their king.
Suddenly, the sound of trumpets erupted, their triumphant blare reverberating through the chamber like a call to attention.
A herald stepped forward, his voice booming over the music, "Presenting His Majesty, King Gideon Velthorne, Sovereign of the Velthorne Realm, Protector of the Seven Provinces, and Keeper of the Crown’s Pride!"
The massive oak doors at the far end of the hall swung open with a deliberate slowness, revealing the figure of King Gideon Velthorne.
He was a man who wore his years like armor, his presence commanding yet not without warmth.
His crimson robe, lined with golden embroidery and trimd with white fur, swept the ground as he strode forward with asured dignity.
Beneath the robe, a tunic of deep green with intricate golden embellishnts hugged his broad fra, the royal sigil gleaming proudly on his chest.
His crown, heavy and ornate, rested atop his silver-streaked hair, casting small glints of light as it caught the chandeliers above.
Behind him followed his right-hand man, Lord Percival, a stoic figure with an angular face and eyes that missed no detail.
Clad in polished steel armor with the Velthorne lion engraved on his breastplate, Percival carried himself with a soldier’s precision, his gaze sweeping the hall as though cataloging every guest and guard.
Flanking the king and his advisor were two rows of knights in resplendent ceremonial armor, their swords sheathed but their hands steady on the hilts.
As King Gideon entered, the guests rose to their feet in unison, their chairs scraping lightly against the stone floor.
The room filled with the sound of applause, mingled with the harmonious tones of trumpeters stationed in the balconies above.
The king marched forward, his steps echoing with purpose, his lips curving into a satisfied smile.
Gideon’s eyes road the hall as he moved, taking in the faces of his people—lords, ladies, foreign dignitaries, and representatives from the provinces—all gathered to celebrate him.
Pride swelled in his chest.
This was his kingdom, his legacy, and on this day, it shone brighter than ever.
As he reached the grand dais at the far end of the hall, his pace slowed slightly, allowing the mont to linger.
Two guards standing at the base of the stairs snapped to attention, their ceremonial spears crossed montarily before being pulled back in perfect synchronization to allow him passage.
The king ascended the dais with asured grace, turning to face his audience once he reached his throne—a seat of carved ebony inlaid with gold and lined with erald-green cushions.
With a slight nod, Gideon lowered himself onto the throne, the action deliberate and regal.
The hall grew silent as all eyes remained fixed on him.
His crown glead under the chandelier’s light as he rested one hand on the armrest, the other idly smoothing the fur lining of his robe.
The herald stepped forward once more, his voice ringing out clearly, "His Majesty has taken his seat. Let the celebrations comnce!"
Cheers erupted from the gathered crowd, the applause growing louder as the guests returned to their seats.
The trumpeters struck up another tune, this one livelier, signaling the official start of the festivities.
Servants began to circulate, carrying trays of sparkling wine and delicate hors d’oeuvres, while musicians in one corner of the hall struck the opening notes of a celebratory lody.
Seated on his throne, Gideon allowed himself a mont of satisfaction.
His gaze flicked briefly to his knights, standing ever vigilant near the dais, and then to Percival, who leaned in slightly to murmur a few words.
The king nodded, his expression betraying nothing but calm authority.
Though the day had only begun, Gideon’s heart swelled with joy.
This was more than a birthday; it was a testant to his reign, a celebration of his rule, and a chance to remind all present of the unity and strength of the Velthorne legacy.
With a deep breath, he leaned back into his throne, his smile widening ever so slightly.
"Let them see, Percival," he said softly, his voice low but steady. "Let them see what a kingdom built on power and loyalty truly looks like."
And with that, the grand celebration began.
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