The Butler of Suncrest [Part-2]

"It is," he whispered, his voice low, with that singular softness that conveyed more than words might. "Still… my own gardens may envy this one. But this—" He kept his gaze on the pond before them, where the water rippled with a life of its own, shining in soft curves that reflected the lanterns above, "—this place has a soul."

They crossed the thin wooden bridge that curved gracefully over the pond. Every plank creaked beneath their feet, sending a small shiver of noise into the quiet. Below them, koi fish swam like liquid gold, turning and winding through lazy loops, their movement a quiet dance just under water. Lantern light played on the water, casting lengthened shadows that blended with the gentle rustle of leaves above, creating a chorus of light, living sound.

Ravor, striding a little ahead, stopped for an instant, looking back. His eyes gentled, a spark of pleasure flashing through them, but he did not utter a word. To him, silence was reverence, weighed and controlled—a respect for the wonder in those who followed. It was a recognition that there were moments too delicate to be spoken, and he gave them the room to absorb it completely.

The way ahead broadened to show the centre of the estate. The Suncrest mansion loomed before them, a creamy sentinel awash in the light of magical lamps. Light ran along the borders of carved pillars and balconies, shining off gold details, rendering the stone almost liquid against the darkness of night. Music drifted on open windows, a soft shower of strings and woodwinds, blending with low laughter and the rhythmic thud of entering carriages. All the notes and echoes braided into the air, telling a portrait of refinement, luxury, and precise craftsmanship.

Nobles walked through the courtyard in layered silks and sharply cut coats, their steps fluid, measured. Women glimmered like jewels, laughter a rehearsed tune that floated on the night air, while men exchanged compliments with the precision of sword duels, words sharp but elegant. Each inclination of the head, each brush of hand against sleeve, was a precisely choreographed statement of presence and standing, a living stage of civility and aspiration.

Victor's gaze roamed across the gathering, a quiet amusement glinting in his eyes. So, we're not the first to arrive. Good. Less attention. He felt no need to intervene yet; for now, he could observe, let the currents of the evening flow around them, and let Ania's wonder linger a little longer.

A wry smile pulled at his lips. His eyes scanned the room with crisp intensity, seeing past their cordial manner to the implied hierarchy hidden beneath. Each step he took held a quiet power—not the sort that commanded notice, but one that took it automatically. It was a presence that didn't boom, yet seemed to fill the room as if the room had waited for him all along.

Ravor took them to the front door, where double oaken doors loomed like guards, each of them carved with elaborate precision featuring the Suncrest crest: a rising sun surrounded by thorns. He stopped, facing them with a restrained calm that spoke of both respect and pragmatism. "Please, this way," he murmured, but with an undercurrent of formality that made the phrase ring out. "Tonight, the banquet is hosted in the Grand Aurelia Hall, in commemoration of the Suncrest family's patronage… and your arrival, my prince."

Victor nodded, the simple motion having gravitas. "Understood."

He glanced at his guards before entering. They gave him subtle bows, trained, unflinching, though their gaze never wavered. Politics was not a warfront, but this high level of watchfulness was no less required—one misstep in word, one slip in demeanor, could slice deeper than any sword. But their watchfulness was quiet, a shadow of protection that secured his authority.

Then he proceeded forward. The great hall welcomed him at once, light spilling across his form as if to draw him into a carefully built world of admiration and wonder.

As Victor and Ania walked in, the hall opened itself up to them in all its rich splendor, a cathedral of warm brilliance. Crystalline chandeliers dangled high overhead, dispersing threads of gold across polished marble floors, snagging every movement in glinting reflections. The air was abuzz with life—a heady mix of warmth, candle wax, roses, and fine wine. Long banquet tables lined the room, covered in silver linens and set with porcelain plates and crystal goblets, filled with food so exquisite it looked almost painted rather than cooked. Somewhere above, the soft interweaving of violins and flutes was filling the air with a rhythm that one could not help but notice, but which calmed the senses, every note a whisper of elegance.

Servants glided through the throng like phantoms, expertly balancing trays of shimmering wine and fragile hors d'oeuvres. Feet were unerring, faces serenely tranquil, movements so unbroken they glided. Maids in flowing uniforms swooped into practiced curtsies, hair and fabric gleaming in the soft light, as part of the living tapestry of refinement and beauty.

Victor's gaze ran over the nobles gathered before him. They stood in tight, thoughtful clusters, whispering behind fans, sharing wine sips with urbane insouciance. Under the surface of their mannered polish, he sensed the undertow—curiosity, envy, quiet judgments—the subtle threads of comparison that bound each one to the next. Eyes alighted on him and Ania, were shifted away almost at once, but he sensed their pressure nonetheless.

At his side, Ania's fingers closed around his with a light, tense pressure, a brief tremor hinting at the tension she struggled to suppress. He sensed the warning in that slight touch of her hand, loud and unmistakable without a word. Drawing nearer, he let his voice caress the shell of her ear—low, smooth, unflinching. "Don't mind their looks," he whispered, his voice a soft protection. "You don't owe them a thing. You walk with me—never under me."

Her breath caught, a gentle hitch that betrayed more than she meant. A gentle heat spread across her cheeks, like sunlight warming frost, and for a fleeting, shining moment, her eyes glistened with a curious combination of pride and relief. The tension that had settled on her shoulders all evening seemed to release, falling away with the quiet ease of a shadow departing at dawn. She leaned forward ever so slightly, lips opening wide enough to release a small, delicate whisper, almost drowned out by the soft rise of music and the hum of quiet voices surrounding them. "I know," she whispered, her voice hesitant but unshaken, as if telling him and herself as much as speaking, a simple claim that she could keep this moment from tipping.".

Ravor pivoted with that calm authority that demanded attention without commanding it, turning to fully face them as they moved into the heart of the grand hall. The murmurs of the crowd faded almost instinctively, as if the very air recognized the shift in their presence. His movements were calculated, measured, each step weighted with the patina of practiced elegance, but tempered with the humility of a man who knew honor and restraint. He descended into a bow that seemed to draw the room itself into the stillness of reverence, the subtle beauty of his form saying everything before a word escaped his mouth. When he finally spoke, the voice was gentle but firm, the tone of his words conveying respect that could not be imitated.

"My prince. My princess…"

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