Guests entering the ball hosted by Ariadne De Mare marveled at the decor; the venue had been transformed into an ethereal sanctuary, as if crafted for forest fairies. A hired orchestra played sweet, melodic strings without pause, casting an enchantment that made the grand hall feel like a gateway to another world.
Alfonso, who had arrived earlier than protocol dictated for a guest of his standing, stood in the waiting room attached to the hall. He gazed at his debutante partner with genuine astonishment. Ariadne appeared as if she were the queen of that very forest, glowing with a soft, radiant grace that belied the fact that this was only her debutante ball.
“You look truly beautiful. As elegant as Queen Guinevere from the legends.”
Even Ariadne, who had remained unmoved by the effusive praises of Sancha and her maids, felt her cheeks flush at his words.
“Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
“It isn’t a performance. You are truly beautiful.”
Their quiet moment was shattered by the arrival of an uninvited guest. Zanobi swaggered into the room, his posture bloated with the self-importance of a man who fully intended to escort the debutante as her partner.
“What is this?”
Zanobi’s bellicose tone grated against the atmosphere. Having assumed he would be the one to claim the role, he had arrived dressed entirely in white. When he spotted Prince Alfonso—who was also dressed in white—the color drained from his face, replaced instantly by defensive aggression.
“Where did you pick up this pretty-faced gigolo?”
The hostility was palpable from the very first breath.
“Don’t you know that a man’s worth is measured by his competence? Why cast your eyes elsewhere when you have a capable knight like your brother right here?”
He framed it as a joke, but the words were barbed with deep-seated insecurity. Though he projected bravado, Zanobi was reeling from his own perceived inadequacy, lashing out at the world to soothe his bitterness. His narrow eyes scanned the room and settled on Ariadne’s attire. While she was breathtaking, he found the target he needed.
“Hey, didn’t I tell you not to wear high shoes?”
Ariadne had opted for heels of two and a half dito—nearly nine centimeters—to give her gown’s train the perfect drape.
“You really are stubborn. You never listen to a word your brother says, do you?”
Ariadne looked at him with icy disbelief. When she showed no sign of cowering, Zanobi stepped into her personal space, lowering his voice into a menacing hiss.
“Go change your shoes while I’m still asking nicely.”
As Zanobi’s face loomed close, his height advantage narrowed by the heels Ariadne wore, a low, sharp voice sliced through the tension.
“She does not need to change them, as you will not be entering with her.”
“Who the hell are you?”
Zanobi, who had been trying to pretend Alfonso was beneath his notice, finally exploded. Having spent his life on a rural estate, he did not recognize the Prince and harbored a visceral, instinctive hatred for men who carried themselves with Alfonso’s effortless grace.
Zanobi raised a fist, driven by the misguided assumption that he could settle the matter by beating up a ‘gigolo.’ But as he moved to strike, relying on the crude fighting techniques he so often boasted about, Alfonso’s ceremonial sword cleared its scabbard with the speed of a striking viper, the tip coming to rest perfectly against Zanobi’s throat.
“Do not do anything foolish.”
Zanobi froze, helplessly subdued. Yet, he refused to credit the Prince’s superior skill or his own lack of discipline; he pointed an accusatory finger at the blade.
“Y-you! Who are you! Are you a madman?! Shouldn’t you have challenged me to a formal duel before drawing your steel? Who could possibly defend against a blade when you’re brandishing it like a maniac?!”
Engaging in a private skirmish without a formal request—specifically, threatening a noble by drawing a sword without warning—was a grave violation of the law.
Alfonso’s face was heavy with solemnity, his expression etched with a dark, simmering anger. When it became clear he had no intention of answering Zanobi’s prying questions about his identity, Ariadne decided it was time to provide a gentle nudge.
“Brother Zanobi, introduce yourself. This is Prince Alfonso De Carlo, the Little Sun of the Kingdom.”
A duel, after all, was an affair conducted between equals. When a commoner dared to challenge a noble, that noble was well within his rights to give the upstart a sound thrashing and send him packing, provided he spared his life.
Alfonso was royalty; Zanobi sat at the very bottom of the minor nobility. A duel between them was an impossibility. Zanobi now found himself in a position where he could be unilaterally carved up by Alfonso until crippled, or dragged to the tribunal to face charges of insulting royalty—or worse, treason.
“Eek!”
Zanobi jumped back in fright, stumbling and nearly falling as he struck a decorative tree branch behind him. Alfonso did not bother to pursue the fleeing man with his sword. Without being told, Zanobi immediately flattened himself against the floor to pay his respects.
“Z-Zanobi De Rossi of Taranto greets the Little Sun of the Kingdom…!”
Ordinarily, one should greet a royal by placing one knee on the ground while keeping the other upright, but he scrambled onto all fours, curled up like a terrified frog. He trembled before the Prince, begging desperately.
“I had no idea you were the Prince…!”
Alfonso remained incensed. He asked, his voice tight with suppressed irritation.
“If I were not a Prince, would you not have reflected on the way you behaved?”
“P-pardon?”
“You threatened a blameless, virtuous lady and immediately raised your fist against a stranger. If the target of your behavior hadn’t been a Prince, would you have bothered to apologize at all?”
Zanobi seemed to have lost his tongue. In truth, he could only have answered in the affirmative. He was apologizing now solely because of the Prince’s status; had the target been a commoner, he likely would have unleashed something far worse than a fist.
Ariadne suppressed the laughter bubbling up inside her, but Prince Alfonso looked deeply displeased.
“Start by apologizing to Lady De Mare.”
Even under the Prince’s order, Zanobi seemed to find it bruising to his pride to apologize to Ariadne. He stood up from his prostrate position and, with a twisted expression, spat out the words as if chewing on grit.
“Sorry about that.”
His face betrayed his thoughts; he looked as though he were struggling to keep from adding, *’It’s not my fault—it only happened because you’re tall.’*
Ariadne smiled brightly and asked, “What are you sorry for?”
Zanobi was struck dumb. In reality, he felt no true remorse. After a long, agonizing pause, he rummaged through his small brain and offered an apology for the only thing he felt was his greatest error.
“I’m sorry for shouting and acting scary…”
Ariadne corrected him sharply.
“You don’t seem to have a grasp on the situation at all. If you don’t understand, memorize this: whether someone wears high heels has nothing to do with you. If you don’t like what someone is wearing or doing, keep it to yourself—don’t let it out of your mouth.”
Then, as if she had just remembered, she added one more thing.
“And do not drop the honorifics upon a first meeting.”
Having said this, Ariadne provided a final, polite guidance.
“Now, why don’t you apologize properly, following the five Ws and one H.”
Zanobi stood frozen, looking dazed as if his brain had stalled. When he failed to answer for over thirty seconds, Alfonso coldly dismissed him.
“I hope you have learned something from today’s events. You may leave.”
While it was a gracious act of mercy, Alfonso did not seem to be bestowing a favor so much as he simply wished to no longer share space with a man like Zanobi.
“I am humbled and honored, Your Highness!”
Zanobi scrambled to his feet, fleeing the waiting room in a panic.
Alfonso’s foul mood, however, did not dissipate with Zanobi’s departure. Ariadne, relieved to see the man gone, decided to tease him.
“Why are you still so sullen? If anyone has a right to be angry, it’s me.”
Alfonso stared at her blankly. Then, his boyish features darkened with a gravity that felt out of place for his youth.
“Ariadne. You aren’t being treated like that at home, are you?”
His eyes were filled with such genuine concern that he reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered there for a heartbeat before pulling away, as if against his better judgment.
“Don’t put up with it. You are ‘Ariadne the Amazing,’ aren’t you? You deserve far more respect than that.”
Ariadne was struck silent by his intensity. In truth, she hadn’t been suffering under anyone’s thumb lately, but she was rattled by the way Alfonso looked at her—as if he saw the scars of a life he couldn’t fathom, having grown up surrounded by nothing but affection.
As she stood there, momentarily dazed, the Prince feared he had overstepped.
“Ah… um, was that style intentional? Did I ruin it by brushing it back?”
Ariadne glanced at the wall mirror. The delicate strand Anna had carefully teased out was now tucked neatly behind her ear, thanks to his touch.
“Pfft!”
Seeing him so flustered, Ariadne couldn’t resist a prank; she reached out and tousled his hair. The perfectly oiled royal coiffure was instantly reduced to a natural, ruffled mess.
Alfonso gasped and lunged to ruin her hair in retaliation, but Ariadne, having anticipated the move, darted away a beat early.
The two dissolved into laughter.
Their reprieve was cut short by a servant from the De Mare family, who hurried in to announce that their moment had arrived.
“Cardinal Del Mare is delivering his opening remarks to the guests. It will conclude momentarily; please be ready to enter as soon as the music signals.”
Alfonso and Ariadne scrambled to smooth their hair and straighten their attire, composing themselves into the roles they were meant to play.
“Please welcome my second daughter, the debutante of the day.”
*Clap, clap, clap, clap!*
The Cardinal, utterly unaware that the Prince was his own daughter’s escort, made no mention of the royal presence in his address. He spoke only of his daughter. Alfonso, unbothered, stepped into his role, offering his arm to the star of the evening.
“Shall we, my lady?”
Ariadne beamed, rested her hand on his arm, and nodded. Dressed in dazzling white, they took their first steps into the main hall as the orchestra swelled.
“Looking at her now, the second daughter is truly beautiful, isn’t she?”
“The man beside her is quite striking, too. Who is that?”
“Could that be Prince Alfonso?”
A ripple of shock went through the crowd. As the guests realized the Prince was escorting the second daughter of the De Mare family, the room erupted in hushed frenzy. Whispers flew: that no one expected him to go this far, that the De Mare family must be pouring more resources into their second daughter than their eldest, and that this alliance was surely the fruit of a private friendship between Queen Marguerite and the girl, rather than any doing of the Cardinal.
Isabella, standing amidst the throng, finally realized who was at Ariadne’s side. Her grip tightened on her fan until the frame nearly snapped.
*How dare she!*
Ariadne had been acting so docile and hidden away at home; it was a mystery when, or how, she had managed to charm the Prince.
1. The Debutante Ball
Standing beside Isabella, Baroness Camellia De Castiglione whispered into her ear, a faint, taunting smile playing on her lips.
“Isabella, doesn’t the title of ‘San Carlo’s Finest Talent’ pass to your younger sister now? Your parents must be so pleased that both sisters are so outstanding.”
Though couched in polite praise, Camellia’s intent was transparent: she aimed to turn Isabella’s stomach. It was a perfectly placed strike, one that left Isabella with no retort.
Ignoring the girl’s trembling shock, the ball continued its fluid pace.
The debutante and her partner were to traverse the blue carpet laid out in the center of the hall, ascend the stage at the far end, greet the guests, listen to a brief address from Cardinal Del Mare, toast with fruit wine, and then lead the first waltz.
As Alfonso helped Ariadne onto the final steps of the stage, the heavy silence of the hall was shattered.
“A congratulatory message from His Majesty the King has arrived—!”
An official sent from the royal palace announced in a booming voice that the King’s envoy had come to deliver a royal message.
Ariadne and Alfonso exchanged a look of pure confusion from the dais. Ariadne had already received everything she could have possibly expected from the royal house, from the morning hydrangeas to the prince’s presence himself. She mouthed a silent question to Alfonso.
“What is going on?”
Alfonso shook his head, equally perplexed.
“I don’t know.”
The fact that the Prince was here was a detail his parents were not privy to. Worried about a leak in their carefully kept secret, Alfonso scanned the group of men accompanying the envoy.
The royal herald blew a horn to command the room’s attention. At the piercing sound, the guests hurriedly knelt, offering the same deference to the envoy as they would to the King himself.
Ariadne quickly dropped to one knee and bowed her head. Save for Cardinal Del Mare and Prince Alfonso, who merely offered a slight, acknowledging nod, every guest in the hall knelt.
The King’s envoy entered the main hall with measured steps. He was a handsome man with reddish-brown hair, draped in brilliant, cream-colored attire: Count Cesare.