[Lavinia’s POV]
[Everheart Banquet Hall—Seconds After the Silence]
It lasted for only a mont.
A flicker.
That glacial coldness in Osric’s eyes—sharp, unfamiliar—locked with mine like winter testing the waters of spring.
And then... it vanished.
In the next breath, his gaze ward. The frost lted. And he smiled—faintly, politely. Almost too quickly. Almost like it had never happened.
But I saw it.
I know I saw it.
...Right?
"Did I imagine that?" I muttered under my breath, blinking as if my lashes could scrub away uncertainty.
Applause rippled across the banquet hall like a perfectly rehearsed overture. Polished nobles clapped—delicate gloves muffling sound into elegance, fans fluttering like painted butterflies.The orchestra struck up a note—light, regal, charmingly harmless.
But my heart was still stuck on that one cold breath.
Was I the only one who noticed?
Osric walked forward, every step asured, noble, and formal. His expression was the kind painted onto portraits of young heirs—calm, princely, and slightly bored. And then he stopped before us and bowed low.
"Greetings to His Majesty... and Your Highness," he said with a grace that made it sound like he’d been greeting rulers since the cradle.
Papa scoffed like Osric had insulted the sun. But I smiled, choosing to act like everything was perfectly normal. "Happy birthday, Osric."
He smiled—wider this ti. "Thank you, Lavi—"
Papa’s eyes narrowed with the slow, ancient force of imperial thunderclouds gathering over a battlefield.
Osric faltered mid-word. "—I an... Your Highness."
I raised an eyebrow. Close call.
From the side, Grand Duke Regis was already smiling like he’d just witnessed his favorite court cody. With a flourish worthy of a stage actor, he stepped toward the center of the dais and raised his jeweled hand.
"Honored guests," he called, his voice smooth and magnified, "Lords and Ladies of the Empire... Thank you for joining us on this magnificent occasion."
He gestured to Osric beside him with a proud, sweeping motion—like unveiling a rare tapestry or an antique weapon. "Today marks my son’s sixteenth year—his coming-of-age as heir of House Everheart."
A fresh round of applause rose from the crowd, this ti warr and more sincere.
Regis continued, clearly loving every second. "As tradition demands, he will begin his noble duties imdiately—assisting in estate affairs, overseeing Everheart land councils..."
(Osric stood tall beside him, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else.)
"...and of course," Regis added dramatically, "he will now lead the Everheart knights as their official First Commander-in-Training!"
The crowd gasped and clapped. The crowd cheered louder—everyone rising to toast his new title, his bright future, and possibly his cheekbones.
Golden goblets clinked. Fans fluttered harder. Girls tittered like he’d just proposed to all of them with his smile.
And ?
I clapped along politely. A perfect princess. A vision in violet. And then, Grand Duke Regis stepped up beside his son. His voice oozed smug pride like honey sliding off a dagger.
"My son..." he declared, resting a firm hand on Osric’s shoulder, "a celebration should begin as all great ones do—with elegance, tradition... and your first official dance."
Then he turned slowly—so slowly—toward us. More specifically, toward Papa. And smiled like a man holding a winning card and a vendetta.
"...With Princess Lavinia."
Oh.
Oh no.
Papa twitched.
No. That’s not the right word.
Papa glitched. Like a royal statue malfunctioning under extre emotional pressure. I could see the vein in his temple begin to pulse. His jaw clenched, his fists tightened, and I swear the entire Everheart floor braced itself for impact.
But then—Grandpa Gregor, standing near him with serene calm, raised a single brow.
That was it. Just a brow.
And miraculously, Papa didn’t punch Regis.
Yet.
Instead, he folded his arms so tightly across his chest it looked like he was trying to beco a wall.
anwhile, Osric turned to with a princely composure I hadn’t seen before. The frost from earlier? Gone. Warmth had returned, like he’d dipped in sunlight before this mont.
He extended his hand toward with a courteous bow.
"Your Highness..." he said, voice smooth and laced with just enough charm to make nearby debutantes faint. "May I have this dance?"
I blinked.
Then smiled back, matching his formality with a touch of self-deprecating chaos. "If I step on your foot, please bear it nobly."
Osric actually laughed—a soft, genuine chuckle that earned another round of sighs from the girls behind us. "I’ll consider it an honor, Your Highness."
I placed my hand in his and let him lead down the few short steps onto the marble floor of the grand banquet hall. The crowd parted like silk curtains, opening up a space where the golden chandeliers shimred above us like stars holding their breath.
The orchestra adjusted. Strings trembled.
And then—music.
Soft, elegant, sweeping.
We took position in the center of the room. Osric bowed. I curtsied. Eyes watched from every direction like hawks judging a romantic play.
And then we moved.
Step.
Step.
Turn.
And—dear heavens—I didn’t trip.
Osric was a graceful dancer, his steps sure, confident, and unshaken even when I nearly hesitated on a spin.
"You’re doing fine," he murmured under his breath, lips barely moving. "Not a single toe crushed so far."
I grinned. "There’s still ti."
He spun gently, and as I twirled back into his hold, I caught the audience’s reaction—
They gasped.
Literal gasps.
Like soone had dumped stardust on the floor.
Nobles leaned forward.
A few girls clutched their hearts.
Lady Evelyne, I swear, wiped a tear, and Theon looked at her with all the love sparkles. Even the chandeliers seed to glow a little brighter in approval.
"Oh no," I whispered with a smile. "We’re aesthetically pleasing."
Osric smirked. "It’s dangerous, I know."
"Papa’s going to have a diplomatic breakdown."
"Should we call for Sir Ravick to diate?"
"Too late. He’s already counting weapons in his head."
Osric chuckled, twirling again before stepping in closer for the second part of the dance—slower, more fluid.
For a mont, we were silent.
Just steps. Just music. Just... the two of us.
But there was sothing about the way he held himself. The way his smile stayed fixed, but the corners of his eyes tightened. Like he was keeping sothing hidden. Sothing heavy.
"You okay?" I asked, low and casual, like a secret slipping through silk.
He looked at .
Really looked.
And the smile stayed.
But the silence answered louder than words.
"I am now," he said eventually.
And that?
That was... almost worse than a lie. The final spin ca. We turned once—twice—and stopped with practiced grace.
Applause erupted like fireworks—cheers, clinks, whispers, and stunned sighs rippling across the room like musical notes from a royal dream.
I smiled politely, glancing around with that graceful "yes-I’m-royalty" nod I’d perfected... and then—
Sothing shifted.
A gasp—sharp and sudden—echoed from the left side of the ballroom.
Another followed.
Then hush.
An eerie, flawless hush. The kind of silence that didn’t feel polite—it felt profound.
I blinked, confused. "Huh...? What’s wrong with them?"
I turned to ask Osric—Only to find he wasn’t beside .
He was kneeling.
One knee pressed to the polished marble floor, his head bowed low. In his hand, he gripped the hilt of a sword I hadn’t even realized he’d drawn—sleek, silver, ceremonial.
Its blade shimred in the golden light—etched with the sigil of House Everheart, rune-ink glowing faintly like it had been awakened by purpose.
"Osric?" I whispered, blinking hard, heart thudding in my ears. "What... what are you doing?"
He didn’t look up. Instead, he lowered the blade... slowly... and laid it at my feet. The entire ballroom inhaled as one.
From the upper dais, I heard a chair scrape—then thunderous, sharp footsteps. Papa. Of course.
He was descending fast, expression carved from fury and confusion. Grand Duke Regis, Grandpa Gregor and other followed in his wake like a tidal court crash.
But then—
Osric’s voice rang out. Low. Steady. And sharp with sothing terrifyingly powerful: devotion.
"Before the Empire and the blood of my house—"
His head rose.
His eyes t mine.
Gone was the soft charm, the elegant heir trained to smile and bow.What looked back at now?
Was sothing ancient. Fierce. Real.
"—I vow myself in service to Her Highness, Crown Princess Lavinia Devereux or Elarion Empire."
A collective gasp.
Not court-scandal gasp. No—sacred-oath, royal-lore kind of gasp. The kind that made courtiers rember legends. Prophecies. Power.
My breath hitched.
Osric pressed his sword lower—hilt to the floor, blade angled to . A knight’s offer. A vow.
"To protect her, even from shadows unseen. To follow her voice, even when the winds rebel.To shield her heart... even if it breaks mine."
The marble beneath us almost trembled with shifting gowns, startled nobles, and shocked hearts.
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t flinch.
"From this day forward, I, Osric of Everheart—heir to my house—pledge fealty not to crown,not to law, not to lineage...but to her."
Silence.
Not a single breath moved the room. Even the orchestra was frozen—bows still mid-air, flutes paused like statues.
I was frozen too.
Osric... had just offered his life to .
Papa’s voice ca next—quiet. Dangerous.
A blade hidden in calm.
"You." He stepped forward beside , eyes like forged steel. "What exactly do you think you’re doing?"
Grandpa gregor staggered down the final step, face pale. "Osric—this is not a ga. You know what an oath in front of a royal ans, don’t you?"
Osric turned his head slightly, and the edge in his voice was as sharp as the sword he’d just laid down."Yes, Grandpa. I know exactly what it ans."
Regis scowled. "Then don’t speak as if it’s a—"
"It ans," Osric cut in, calm and clear, "that I offer my life. My future. My duty. To her. It ans I take her safety as my cause, her honor as my shield, and her na as my command."
The room was still reeling.
Papa’s eye twitched so hard, even the floor flinched. But before he could thunder out another decree, I took a step forward, clutching my hands to my chest.
"Then... why?" I asked softly. "Why would you do this, Osric?"
He looked up—his gaze softer now, but no less intense. No less real.
"Because, Your Highness," he said, voice laced with emotion, "I would stand before any blade drawn against you. Not because I must. But because I want to."
And just like that—he wasn’t just Osric Everheart anymore.
Not the noble heir. Not the princely figure with impeccable posture and polite smiles. Not any main lead of the Novel.
He was sothing else.
Soone else.
A vow wrapped in skin.
A storm behind steady eyes.
I stood there—heart stamring against the tightness in my ribs—as the world spun softly around . The nobles stared. The orchestra held its breath. Even Papa went quiet, like the world had tilted one degree too far to remain still.
But in all that silence, only one question scread in my mind.
Why?
Why is this happening?
Osric was never ant to swear any kind of oath to .
What changed?
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