Wearing high ivory heels, Marin walked with extreme caution, one hand clutching Yulia's.
*Twist an ankle now, and it's goodbye to walking for the foreseeable future.*
At last, they reached the waiting room adjacent to the arena—the reception hall.
Two men were already inside.
"You... are truly beautiful today."
Zeromian, resplendent in a ceremonial uniform of white and silver, gazed at her as though mesmerized.
His long, molten-silver hair was combed neatly back. Behind elegant spectacles, his deep-set eyes gave him a scholarly, intelligent air.
"Lord Zeromian—you are even more beautiful."
Marin offered the compliment with complete sincerity.
Zeromian's earlobes flushed pink. He looked away.
Now Marin's gaze turned to the Duke, who stood leaning on his cane with effortless majesty.
He wore a dress uniform of black and gold, his dark hair slicked back with pomade. A high, open forehead. Thick, long lashes. Porcelain-white skin and scarlet lips. A straight, aristocratic nose—features more beautiful than many women could claim.
"Lord Gerald, you look wonderful today."
"..."
No response came from the Duke. He could not see what stood before him.
The awkward silence stretched.
Marin moved closer and extended her hand first.
"Shall we go?"
He felt for her wrist—a habit now—then slid his grip down to her palm.
Watching their easy familiarity, Zeromian's expression soured. He spoke through gritted teeth:
"You don't have to try so hard."
"I'm sorry?"
"It's all pretend anyway."
Marin flinched but fought to keep her composure.
"Are you *still* going on about this?"
"Should I also pretend to believe?"
While Zeromian grumbled, Marin hurried to insert herself between them.
"Wait—don't quarrel."
"I'm not going to quarrel with such a tiresome man."
"Don't worry, my dear. I don't quarrel with callous types myself."
*Haah. Yes. This is definitely a quarrel.*
It was like watching two enormous dogs—one white, one black—snarling at each other. Exhausting.
At that moment, the Duke's head turned toward the door.
"Come in."
Butler Sebas opened the waiting room door.
"It's time, Your Grace."
"Let's go."
The Duke placed Marin's arm through his, causing her to take his elbow naturally. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she looked up at him.
He leaned close and whispered:
"Your heels are high, aren't they?"
*How did he know?*
*No—enough questions. This man simply knows everything.*
"Butler. We proceed."
"Yes, Your Grace."
As Sebas opened the great doors, the Duke and Marin moved forward together.
Zeromian apparently sensed it was inappropriate to interfere at this moment. He followed behind them, his expression distinctly displeased.
---
## — The Arena —
The doors of the Duke's Castle Arena opened wide.
The vast hall—capable of holding hundreds of guests—was legendary for its ceiling: a masterwork painted by the great artist Seriondzho himself, completed just before his death.
A beautiful sea rendered in crushed blue coral. Angels born from powdered pearls. A radiant sun crafted from molten gold.
Art connoisseurs traveled to the Duke's castle simply to witness this painting.
But the arena itself opened only for weddings of the Duke's direct bloodline—or for receptions of the utmost importance.
Today, after a long closure, its doors welcomed guests once more.
"My *God*—did you see those champagne pyramids? They're all O'Hare glass."
O'Hare crystal was considered by the nobility to be unobtainable, even for vast sums. And here, glasses crafted by the master himself stood stacked in glittering towers.
"And the wine—*Bullia!*"
The Emperor's favorite vintage. Only one hundred bottles were produced each year. And there was one on *every* table.
"And the paintings on the walls—aren't those Seriondzho originals?"
One nobleman, overwhelmed, looked ready to faint.
The reception—prepared in a single month—proved more elegant and opulent than any that had come before. A reminder, once again, of the Western Duke's staggering wealth.
The guests clustered in groups, chattering amongst themselves, but their gazes kept drifting toward the entrance.
"Have you heard the rumors?"
A plump lady hid her mouth behind her fan and whispered to her thin companion.
"The indecent ones?"
"Yes. What kind of *enchantress* could possibly have snared our Duke?"
"Don't even start. The moment His Grace announced he was seeking a bride, beauties would have lined up across the continent."
"They say her house is ruined. She never made her debut. And her *age*..."
"How did such a girl ever meet His Grace?"
The thin lady couldn't help but click her fan against her palm.
"Unfortunately, His Grace has been... unwell lately..."
The plump lady retrieved a handkerchief and dabbed at the dry corner of her eye.
"And where was his capable assistant? How did he allow such a person to attach herself?"
"He's been in the South."
"It all fits together *perfectly.*"
Nearby, several young ladies overheard. They exchanged glances and smiled knowingly.
At that moment, the majordomo at the entrance raised his voice:
"His Grace, Duke Gerald von Vines—and his bride, Lady Marin Shuvenz, daughter of Viscount Shuvenz!"
The instant the Duke entered the arena, every whisper died.
Walking arm in arm with his bride, he looked nothing like a man suffering from an eye injury—save for the elegant cane in his hand and the fact that his eyes remained closed.
As they approached, the nobles parted like water and bowed.
Gerald stopped in the center of the hall. Slowly, he turned his head as though surveying the room.
Though his eyes were shut, some nobles felt his gaze brush against theirs. They flinched.
This was his first official appearance since the injury. The younger nobles—who had secretly underestimated him—now felt the full weight of his presence pressing down upon them.
"Allow me to formally introduce her."
His voice carried effortlessly through the hall.
"My fiancée—Marin Shuvenz. She is dear to me. I ask that you all treat her as you would treat me."
Every word resonated with quiet, immense power.
Marin lowered her eyes, feigning modesty—and hiding her stunned expression.
*"Dear to me," he says.*
*Who writes these lines for him?*
If Olive had been present, she wouldn't have been surprised. But if the Duke had prepared this himself—that *was* surprising.
Even for the sake of maintaining their ruse, he was entirely too skilled at lying.
Beneath the hail of stares, she raised her head.
Some looked with curiosity. Some with mockery. Some with cold appraisal.
The gazes varied.
"I am Marin of Viscount Shuvenz's house. Thank you all for coming." She smiled gracefully. "I wish everyone a pleasant evening."
The orchestra began to play.
Soft music filled the hall.
Under the weight of so many prying eyes, Marin forced her smile to hold.
*Just imagine the gold coins. Think of the payment waiting at the end of this.*
"Your Grace—to see you so healthy, and on your engagement no less—congratulations."
A gray-haired count with a magnificent mustache approached and bowed deeply.
"Count Mandrea. Thank you."
The Count, pleased at being remembered, smiled—then his expression sobered.
"And regarding Countess Adria... my deepest condolences..."
"Today is a joyous day. Let us speak only of joyous things."
"Oh—forgive me."
Count Mandrea retreated with the air of a man who had overstepped.
Behind him, a long line of nobles had already formed, each waiting to pay their respects.
Marin stood beside the Duke, accepting endless congratulations, smiling until her face ached.
"I'll go wet my throat."
At the Duke's words, the gathered nobles reluctantly dispersed.
He guided Marin toward a table laden with refreshments.
"Stay here."
"And you, Lord Gerald?"
"I'll go listen to the remaining congratulations. If I don't receive them all, they'll hound me to the bitter end."
"Then I should also—"
When Marin moved to follow, the Duke leaned toward her ear and whispered:
"That was an order."
"...Yes, sir."
*An order must be obeyed.*
*Still—expressing concern so awkwardly is a talent in itself.*
Marin watched him walk away, then smiled despite herself.
*Nothing to be done about it, I suppose.*