Reborn As Papa Silva-Chapter 105: Silver Engagement (1)

Know your audience. Know yourself. Know your position.

And if it's a lower one—mask your intentions.

Swallow your frustrations. Wait for the right moment.

Be prepared to wait for an opportunity that may never come—because only then will you have a chance to achieve something.

— Number 1 Bullshitter on The 48 Laws of Power by Robert Greene

—

Saturday, September 7, 1619

House Silva, Ballroom

The evening sun painted the horizon in a mesmerizing swirl of warm hues—yellow, orange, and red blending together in a breathtaking display.

As dusk neared, signaling the approach of twilight, the last rays of sunshine spilled through the grand glass windows of Castle Silva, illuminating the historic ballroom.

Nobles, along with select friends and high-society acquaintances, mingled in their finest suits and dresses. They sipped wine, indulged in hors d'oeuvres and other appetizers, and engaged in idle chatter while awaiting the start of the evening's event—the engagement ceremony of House Silva's young lord, Nozel, and his mysterious fiancée, whose identity remained a secret to almost everyone present.

Soft yet elegant music drifted through the air, played by a trio positioned in a distant corner. The refined melody added rhythm and serenity to the undercurrent of conversation.

Yet not everyone was at peace.

Near the snack table, a tanned and bulky young man in an expensive-looking black suit fidgeted with his collar, chewing crudely on an assortment of starters. Unbothered by the growing number of disapproving stares aimed in his direction, he continued to eat with his bare hands, stuffing his mouth while yanking at his tie with the other.

Beside him stood a young man of similar height, though with a slender, clean-cut appearance. His flawless, closed-eyed smile never wavered, but it was clear he had seen enough.

Without breaking his composure, the young man finally spoke. "Yami... use a plate and cutlery. And leave your tie alone. Alright?"

Yami Sukehiro paused mid-bite, then clicked his tongue and shot the long-haired man a look.

"Can it, Morgen. You knew exactly what you were getting into when you dragged me here. I told you—me and these fancy events don't mix."

Morgen Faust exhaled a weary sigh.

This event had three tiers of guests—standard invitees, VIPs, and Guests of Honor. He wasn't entirely sure what his parents had done to get into House Silva's good graces, but shortly after arriving in Kiten with his squad, he received a summons. His parents ordered both him and his brother to return for this occasion, one where House Faust would be attending as VIPs.

If they had been mere standard invitees, skipping the event wouldn't have been a problem. Nacht, as the house heir, might have needed an excuse, but being stationed in Kiten would've been reason enough. However, as VIP guests—invited by a royal house, no less—attendance wasn't optional. It was an obligation.

House Silva hadn't hosted an event of this scale in over a decade. Failing to show up would be an unmistakable insult.

So, with no time to even settle into his new quarters, Morgen had gone straight to his captain.

Julius approved the trip without issue, and after some effort convincing his brother, Morgen was ready to leave. But then, an idea struck him.

VIPs were granted a plus-one.

According to his parents, theirs would go unused. And since his best friend—who would otherwise be left to his own devices—was sure to be miserable without him and Nacht around, Morgen somehow also managed to drag Yami out of the border town and back to the capital.

It had taken some work.

Now, watching Yami stand among nobility, deliberately making a spectacle of himself, Morgen knew exactly what his friend was doing. Yami wasn't clueless. He wasn't some uncultured brute who didn't know how to use tableware or eat properly. He was doing it on purpose.

This was his revenge.

The same nobles who would typically sneer, look down on him, or spit in his direction simply for existing were now forced to treat him like air.

They couldn't rebuke him, couldn't scold him, couldn't make a scene—not here, not in a royal house. They had to endure it.

And Yami was relishing every second of their frustration.

Morgen sighed and let it be.

His twin brother, however, wasn't so kind.

Nacht, his hair still dyed blonde and styled unkempt over his head like a street punk—yet somehow managing to pull off an aristocratic look in his navy blue suit—elbowed Yami hard in the ribcage, nearly making the foreigner choke on the shrimp he had just stuffed into his mouth.

"Ack..." Yami shot Nacht a deathly glare. "The hell was that for, you piece of shit?"

Nacht sneered in distaste. "Don't act like an idiot. You know what it's for... mind your manners."

Yami clicked his tongue again. "What's with this good-boy act all of a sudden, you damn delinquent? Don't tell me to be some goody two-shoes when you're looking like that."

Nacht bit down on his lip and said nothing. He could restore his hair to its original color. He could style himself to look clean-cut, like his brother. But he didn't.

He wouldn't.

He never wanted anyone to mistake him for Morgen—or worse, mistake Morgen for him. He never wanted his bright, saintly, perfect brother to ever become synonymous with his own filth.

Nacht was trying to be better, to be someone worthy of standing by his brother's side. But he would never allow himself to become the reason Morgen's light was dimmed or tainted.

There had to be a clear distinction between them. There had to be no doubt about who the good twin was.

Yami, still wearing his sneer, winced inwardly as he picked up on the change in Nacht's ki.

He recognized the emotions immediately—self-deprecation, self-loathing, and above all, guilt. Guilt toward Morgen.

It was the same emotion Nacht had radiated like a beacon the day he arrived at the Grey Deer base, all but begging Julius to take him into the squad, while Morgen looked on—surprised but happy.

Happy that his brother, his kind brother—the brother he had always believed in—had found his way back. Happy that they would finally get the chance to be warriors of justice together.

But Yami had sensed it back then, and he could sense it now—that immense guilt buried beneath Nacht's actions. Like he had done something irreparable, something that had wronged Morgen beyond forgiveness. And now, he was atoning.

Yami could feel it. He could see it, plain as day. But he never brought it up. Not to Nacht. Not to Morgen.

Since his first days in Clover, Yami had been aware of his buddy's complicated feelings toward his twin. Nacht might have acted like a hooligan, throwing Morgen the finger whenever he pestered him to be better, but his ki never lied.

Yami had felt the joy Nacht always radiated when facing his brother—just like the joy Morgen radiated in Nacht's presence.

Their love for each other was mutual. Undeniable. They were each other's most precious person.

In a way, it reminded Yami of himself and Ichika.

She was his bottom line. His one and only (true) family. And from what he had seen, Nacht, as an elder brother, felt the same way about Morgen.

That was why Yami had chosen to shoulder Ichika's sins. Why he took the blame and left his homeland.

Because his love for his sister had become tangled with guilt. Guilt that he hadn't been able to stay with her. Guilt that he hadn't been brave enough to take her with him. Guilt that he hadn't stayed in Hino to help her through the hell their good-for-nothing father had left behind—so she wouldn't have to live a lie.

Yami didn't know what had caused Nacht's love for his brother to become overshadowed by guilt, to be corrupted by whatever sin weighed on his soul.

And despite his curiosity, he never asked. He never pushed.

Because that's not what buddies do.

So Yami stayed silent.

Yami merely grabbed a plate and tongs, slowly loading his plate. He was no longer in a hurry to scarf everything down, no longer throwing mocking glances at any nobles studying him, no longer tugging on his collar or tie despite the suffocating tightness.

He simply loaded his plate and ate slowly with a fork and knife.

Morgen's eternal smile seemed to brighten further, while Nacht's features softened—just a tad.

The Faust heir snorted. "Heh, look at you, buffoon. Saying you don't like it here, but you can't keep your hands off the food."

Yami chuckled, unfazed by the jab. "What can I say? You classy folk sure know how to eat."

Nacht nodded as he took a sip of wine. "And drink too."

Morgen watched the interaction with a smile before leaning in and whispering, "Brother, do you know why we're on the VIP list anyway?"

Nacht nearly stiffened before forcing himself to meet his brother's gaze, careful not to seem distant.

He sighed in relief. This time, when he looked at Morgen, he didn't see the shadow of his brother's cold, dying body, his corpse—the one he had held in that strange dream that may have been a glimpse into the future.

Not letting anything show on his face, Nacht crossed his arms and shook his head. "Like I told you before, Morgen... after I left our house to join the Magic Knights with you, I haven't been in any contact with our parents. I kind of put the whole inheritance thing on hold..."

Truthfully, Nacht had no idea how or why his parents—who always preferred to stay low-key—would even accept VIP invitations from House Silva. He was curious, but he didn't ask, lest it be tied to some secret that would drag him back into their house's forbidden studies and magic.

Nacht wanted no part of that. So even when he returned home this morning, he had tried to avoid them, keeping their interactions to a minimum.

Fortunately, their parents had been terribly busy, running around doing who knew what, making it easy to keep his distance.

For Nacht, that worked to his benefit.

For Morgen, who was curious—not just about that but something else—it wasn't as easy to ignore.

He fought the urge to clench his fists, lowering his eyes to the floor.

Mother seemed unwell to me... she seemed sad... perhaps I'm overthinking it...

While Morgen was lost in thought and Yami and Nacht started bickering again, on the other side of the grand hall, other unexpected guests were drawing attention.

Zara, clad in a long purple suit trimmed with golden embroidery and leaning on an expensive-looking cane, rubbed his forehead in exasperation.

"Zora... can you please leave your collar alone?" he sighed.

It seemed Yami Sukehiro wasn't the only one struggling with the tightness around his neck.

Zora Ideale dropped his hand from his collar, his face scrunching up in displeasure as he ground his teeth.

"But Dad, it's so damn annoying."

"Language..." Zara muttered, though he couldn't bring himself to truly scold his son. He himself didn't appreciate the suffocation.

Zara couldn't comprehend how nobles went around everywhere in such strangling, stuck-up attire. He was very tempted to unbutton a few cuffs and remove his belt, but he resisted.

Instead, he simply repeated his words, now more for himself than his son. "Zora, I am a vassal of this House, so my appearance—as well as yours—affects the Silvas' reputation. Just bear with it for a few hours."

Zora nearly snorted, but he held back.

For all the resentment he held toward nobility, his gratitude toward House Silva was undeniable. They had saved his father, given him a job—one where he was treated with respect, like a human, an equal, not forced to grovel like a servant.

So he obliged.

Still, he frowned at the stares. The whispers. The aristocrats gossiping just loud enough for him to hear.

"Isn't that redhead that peasant Magic Knight from the Orcas?"

"Former Magic Knight. He's a cripple now."

"Really? Good riddance. But what's he doing here, dirtying the space—"

"Shush! Are you out of your mind?! He's a royal tutor. Lord Silva, Prince Solid, and Princess Nebra's tutor. Just ignore him."

"Huh?! That uncultured, uneducated peasant swine is a royal tutor?! What is Lord Silva thinking—"

"If you don't silence yourself right now, I'm leaving. I won't be seen with you."

"Alright, alright, relax. I'll ignore the trash..."

And just like that, their gazes pried away, their focus shifting to some other meaningless subject.

Zora wasn't paying attention to them anymore.

His eyes were on his father.

Zara outwardly seemed unbothered, unfazed. But Zora noticed the slight tremble in his right leg, the way his grip tightened ever so slightly around his cane. He could feel the weight of it—the quiet, sinking depression his father tried to hide.

A dark light flickered in Zora's blue eyes, a promise of retribution.

Just you wait... One day, all of you fancy bastards who look down on or abuse those less fortunate than you... will get what's coming to you.

After I cleanse the Magic Knights and root out all the fakes... I'm coming for your asses.

Before his thoughts could spiral deeper, the room abruptly dimmed.

Everyone froze as the lights refocused, casting a spotlight at the front of the ballroom.

The beam illuminated a lectern podium standing off to the side beneath a grand glass staircase, its steps covered in an expensive-looking ruby-red rug.

At the podium stood a tall, balding old man with gray hair, a monocle perched on one eye, and white gloves neatly fitted over his hands. His butler's suit was pristine as he nodded politely before speaking into a microphone-like magic tool sprouting from the lectern, his voice amplified across the hall.

"Greetings, ladies and gentlemen of high society and respected pillars of our kingdom. It is time to welcome the hosts and guests of honor. I politely request that you quiet down and direct your attention to the staircase."

The effect was immediate.

All gossip ceased. Every guest snapped their heads toward the staircase, where two grand, arched silver doors—inscribed with intricate floral patterns—stood bathed in the focused light.

For a moment, silence reigned.

Then, the doors swung open.

Silence stretched across the ballroom, seconds dragging into eternity.

Then—footsteps.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Steady. Measured. Growing louder as the source stepped out from the pitch-black doorway into the spotlight.

And then—stillness.

A collective inhale, sharp and stunned.

Sebastian and Acier.

Arm in arm.

Crowns perched atop their heads—Sebastian's a circular coronet, Acier's resembling a tiara—both adorned with soft, regal smiles as they descended the grand staircase.

Watching Sebastian guide his wife down with the gentle care of a devoted husband nearly sent the noble spectators into shock.

Others, however, were fixated on Acier.

She had not been seen by the aristocracy since her supposed recovery. Rumors from Raque painted her return to health as miraculous, yet seeing her now—radiant, strong, a picture of vitality—was something else entirely.

This was not a woman who had been on her deathbed mere weeks ago.

This was a vision of perfection.

Sebastian's attire was a long silver suit, its jacket falling just above his kneecaps, trimmed with golden embroidery in elegant floral patterns. Jewel-studded cuffs glimmered under the light, and a prominent sapphire brooch rested at his chest. A blue fur mantle draped around his shoulders, adding to his noble presence.

Acier matched him in a silver dress, its steel-trimmed edges glinting under the chandeliers, eagle motifs embroidered into the fabric. Her hair fell straight down her back, long and unbound.

The spotlight followed their descent, illuminating their every step.

As they reached the podium, Alfred gave a polite nod and stepped back from the lectern.

For a moment, silence reigned once more.

Acier turned her gaze toward the elongated table where the guests of honor sat.

Only one person was there.

Amara.

At her age, walking up and down the staircase wasn't ideal, so she had taken her seat ahead of time.

She met her daughter's eyes and gave her a single nod of acknowledgment.

Acier's lips curled into a soft smile before she turned to her husband.

Sebastian smiled back, then straightened and spoke into the mic.

"Greetings to all respected members of this kingdom, as well as any friends or family. If you don't know me, I'm Sebastian, this is my wife, Acier, and naturally, we will be overseeing this event as the masters of ceremonies for our son's special day."

A few polite chuckles rippled through the crowd.

Acier, beaming, parted her lips to speak next.

"We would like to sincerely thank you all for taking time out of your undoubtedly busy lives to attend this event and celebrate alongside us as our son takes his next step in life's journey."

Whether Acier's gratitude was genuine or not, the attendees wasted no time in responding.

Glasses were raised in grand displays of loyalty, praise, and humility—each noble vying for the Silvas' attention, hoping to secure a place in their good graces.

"It is our greatest honor to be invited to such a joyous occasion!" a bloated noble lord declared.

"What could possibly be more important than Prince Nozel's engagement?" another chimed in, unwilling to be outdone.

"Congratulations on your return to health, Duchess Silva!" a noble lady attempted a different approach.

And then the floodgates opened.

"You look absolutely stunning!"

"You and Lord Silva are truly a match made in heaven!"

"I could pass away with joy now, having set foot into Castle Silva. Truly, this old life of mine has become complete!"

"Gratitude to the Prince and Princess in advance!"

The wave of flattery continued, growing more extravagant with each passing second.

Yami nearly cringed but muttered to himself, "Kinda crazy to think about it... Ponytail Jr. suddenly getting hitched and all..."

Nacht sighed, exasperated. "Please don't call him that. And he's getting engaged, not married," he corrected.

Morgen smiled. "I don't think Nozel is the type to do something like this recklessly. If he's gone this far, he must be certain she's the one. They're essentially as good as married."

Yami smirked. "I really wonder who's the broad capable of melting his icy heart."

Morgen wondered too.

Nacht, however, already knew.

He had met her once.

But he said nothing.

How was he supposed to explain that his parents had been secretly meeting with House Silva—without revealing why?

Some secrets were best left untouched.

So he mirrored their curiosity with a thoughtful nod.

Yami, though seemingly distracted, instantly picked up on the deceit in Nacht's ki.

But, as before, he asked no questions.

And, as before, he pretended he had noticed nothing.

As the excessive praise finally died down, Sebastian, his smile unwavering, gestured toward the grand doors.

"Now, for the rest of the hosts. Everyone, please give our children a warm welcome."

The attendees turned their attention to the staircase, footsteps echoing once more as the next group stepped out of the shadows.

And once they did, the room froze.

Nebra descended first, her hair tied into a neat bun atop her head. She wore a short silver-white dress and carried her baby sister, Noelle, securely in her arms. Noelle was dressed similarly but in softer fabrics, with dress slippers instead of heels and a white pacifier tied around her neck.

To Nebra's right was Solid, dressed in a suit reminiscent of their father's—though simpler in design and embroidery. His right arm was wrapped in an expensive-looking navy-blue fabric that shimmered under the light as he moved.

It was like bandage wrap, the way it folded around his fingers, at the same time it seemed like a kind of brace.

It was peculiar, but didn't attract too much attention.

The sight of those three made sense.

It was the fourth figure that sent murmurs rippling through the crowd.

A girl, similar in height to Nebra, standing on her left with long pink hair. She wore a silver dress that fell just above her ankles, the same color scheme as House Silva's.

And the nobles took notice.

"Hey, who's that girl...?"

"I have no clue."

"Maybe she's related to Prince Nozel's fiancée?" someone speculated.

"That makes sense—no, wait, why would Lord Silva introduce all of them as his children then?!"

"Perhaps as a gesture of familiarity, affection, and kindness—"

"This is no mere gesture! She's wearing House Silva's colors!"

Silence.

As if moving as one, the crowd turned toward Sebastian and Acier, their expressions demanding answers.

Then they stiffened.

Sebastian and Acier were still smiling, but their warmth had vanished. These were no longer gentle, indulgent smiles. They were sharp, challenging.

Daring anyone to keep talking.

To push further.

To cause a scene.

Gulp.

As one, the nobles swallowed their questions, forcing strained smiles onto their faces.

And then—

Clap! Clap! Clap!

Thunderous applause filled the hall as the children continued their descent.

Vanessa, lifting her dress slightly as she neared the end of the staircase, let out a soft sigh of relief. The oppressive and suffocating dark stares of judgment had vanished.

She lifted her gaze toward the podium, where Sebastian and Acier watched her with warm, unwavering encouragement.

And just like that, the tension in her frame melted away.

She thought back to their earlier conversation.

—

Approximately 15 Minutes Ago

"Vanessa, is something wrong?"

Vanessa Enoteca sat in the guest room alongside the Silvas, waiting for their turn to be called. At Acier's voice, she jerked upright, her body tense. The duchess leaned casually against the doorway, Noelle nestled in her arms, scrutinizing Vanessa with lavender eyes—lighter than her own, but just as piercing.

Vanessa nearly jumped in her seat. She forced a shaky smile and shook her head. "O-of course not, Miss—I-I mean, Mother. E-everything's just fine!"

Her words held no conviction.

Solid and Nebra exchanged worried glances, while Acier frowned.

She was about to demand the truth—ready to pry into whatever was troubling the girl—when her husband stepped past her.

Sebastian's ocean-blue eyes locked onto Vanessa's frame, pinning her in place. She stiffened, nearly trembling, as he finally spoke.

"No one will mess with you. No one will object to you."

Vanessa's breath hitched.

Then, without a care for dust or wrinkles, Sebastian crouched down on one knee, lowering himself to her eye level.

"I have a good idea of what's on your mind," he murmured.

Vanessa swallowed hard. "W-what do you mean, F-Father?"

Sebastian sighed. "Back in the day, I felt the same way. When I first started dating your mother and was invited to events like these, I worried my presence would reflect poorly on her—that people would ridicule or judge her because of me."

Vanessa's throat tightened. Solid and Nebra perked up, listening closely.

Acier, standing behind them, studied Sebastian's back with an unreadable expression.

Sebastian chuckled. "Your mother told me I was being stupid. Very few people are bold enough to openly ridicule a member of House Silva." He left out the part where a scandal could change that. It wasn't important right now.

His gaze softened. "No one will dare try anything with you. Not unless they have a death wish. You are Dorothy's sister, our daughter, a part of this family. And it would mean everything—not just to Dorothy, but to us—for you to step down those stairs with your brother and sisters as our child."

Vanessa trembled. Her eyes burned red, and before she could wipe them, Sebastian did it for her, his touch gentle.

"You don't have to force yourself," he continued. "But take a little time to think about it. We can delay our arrival for another half-hour or so—"

"No!"

Vanessa cut him off so suddenly that Sebastian blinked in surprise. Then, despite the tremor in her voice, she smiled—a shaky, but determined smile.

"I-I want to do it. I-I want to walk down with the others."

Sebastian paused, then grinned. "That's great."

Acier's expression softened into something warm and loving. Solid and Nebra exchanged sly smiles.

And with that, Sebastian and Acier left first to greet the guests.

—

Present

Offering their parents a nod, the children turned to join their grandmother at the main table—only to freeze.

"Baboo!"

The entire hall stiffened. Nobles rubbed their eyes, thinking they had seen wrong. Others dug into their ears, convinced they had misheard. But—

"Baboo!"

It happened again.

Noelle squirmed in Nebra's arms, stretching out her pudgy hands, her lavender eyes locked onto Sebastian with unwavering need.

"Baboo! Aga, Baboo!"

No, there was no mistaking it. The youngest princess was calling for her father—mid-ceremony—and to top it off, she had dubbed him Baboo.

The nobility felt as though they had witnessed something extraordinary.

Sebastian blinked. Acier stifled a laugh. Nebra, holding Noelle, leaned down and whispered, "Not now, Noelle. Dad needs to oversee—"

"Baboo! Baboo! Baboo!"

Noelle was not having it. Her mind was made up. And her mind wanted her father.

Sebastian exhaled, taking in his youngest's quivering lips and dampening eyes, clear warning signs of an impending meltdown. He held out his arms in surrender.

"Hand her to me, Nebra."

Nebra hesitated, then sighed, awkwardly stomping toward the podium in her heels. With little ceremony, she deposited Noelle into Sebastian's arms before turning on her heel and walking away.

Sebastian cast Noelle a quiet, questioning look. She said nothing. Just smiled and nuzzled her forehead against his shoulder.

A wry smile tugged at his lips as he adjusted his hold, rhythmically patting her back. Then, like nothing had happened, he leaned toward the mic.

"Next up, let us welcome the—ugh!"

Sebastian's head yanked downward. A sharp, unexpected tug at his scalp made him wince.

Everyone blinked.

The Silva Princess had grabbed a fistful of her father's hair, her tiny fingers curling tight.

Then, as if that wasn't enough, she reached up—snatched his coronet clean off his head—

—and promptly shoved it into her mouth.

The hall collectively lost its mind.

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The nobility's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.

Yami wheezed, dangerously close to breaking into a monstrous fit of laughter, only for Morgen and Nacht to clamp his jaw shut, muffling the sound.

As for Sebastian, he remained frozen, staring at his daughter from an unnatural angle as she happily chewed on his coronet.

His gaze flicked to the binky tied around her neck.

He sighed inwardly.

If you want to stuff something in your mouth, shouldn't it be that...?

Well... I guess it makes sense why you wouldn't...

—

Half an Hour Ago

Noelle's Nursery

"Aga!"

Noelle scowled, clenching her tiny fists before spitting in Sebastian's face.

Sebastian sighed. Without a word, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped himself clean. Then, for what felt like the hundredth time, he repeated, "Noelle, sweetie. No Aga. Aga won't be coming with us."

Noelle's eyes reddened, her lips quivering. "Baboo..."

Sebastian felt a headache coming on. He also felt his heart melting at the sight of her pitiful gaze. But he remained firm.

"No Aga. And that's final. You can play with him all you like after your brother's ceremony."

The first streaks of tears welled in her eyes. Her little chest hitched.

Sebastian felt something akin to dread.

Noelle was about to have an episode.

The first one he'd ever have to deal with.

He was helpless.

Bringing Aga to the ceremony wasn't an option. The thing's existence alone would raise too many questions.

Aga was a piece of technology this world had never seen.

It wasn't something Sebastian could simply gloss over. Nobles would demand to know how it was made, where it came from, and more.

They'd want one.

They'd want to take Aga apart, study him, replicate him.

For Noelle's sake—for everyone's sake—Aga had to remain a secret. Save from their most trusted friends and family.

That was the truth.

But how could he explain that to a baby?

Noelle took a deep breath, preparing to wail—

Sebastian desperately started rocking her, shushing softly, but her tiny frame trembled in his arms, her cry inevitable.

Aga, all 61 cm of his chubby glory, stood by Sebastian's leg, blinking his digital eyelids. The Baymax-knockoff puppet scratched his round head with a flabby finger, his LED eyes morphing into a pair of :, as if he had an idea.

Then—

Aga began to glow.

Sebastian froze.

Noelle, still hiccuping in her father's arms, blinked through watery eyes, watching in fascination.

Aga's form shifted. His shell morphed, restructuring itself into—

—a binky with a chain.

A white pacifier with a blue strap.

The pacifier floated upward, gently wrapping around Noelle's neck like a perfectly fitted necklace.

Noelle stared at it. Then she giggled, her lips stretching into a broad, triumphant grin.

And if babies could look smug, she definitely shot Sebastian that look.

Sebastian blinked.

Then sighed, forcing a tired smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"...Good for you."

—

Present

And that was why Noelle opted to suck on Sebastian's crown instead of her binky.

Or at least, that's what Sebastian thought.

Because her binky was Aga. And Aga wasn't just a chew toy—he was her friend. Her best friend.

And she wouldn't suck on her best friend.

Sebastian's coronet, however?

That seemed like the perfect thing to shove into her mouth.

Sebastian grimaced, feeling stuck between a rock and a hard place.

Thankfully, his wife came to his rescue. Kind of.

Acier placed a gentle hand on Noelle's head, ruffling her soft hair. The distraction worked—Noelle's wide, round eyes flicked up to her mother.

Acier smiled sweetly. "Honey, can you let go of Daddy's hair? He needs to focus."

Noelle blinked.

Then smiled.

Her tiny hands released Sebastian's silver-and-blue-trimmed locks without protest.

And that was it.

Acier didn't ask her to let go of the coronet.

And Noelle certainly didn't offer it back to her father.

Sebastian, straightening his head, let out a long, petty sigh.

Whatever. It's covered in slob now. I don't even want to wear that thing anymore.

And that was how the four-century-old House Silva Ducal Coronet came to be treated as disposable trash by its own Patriarch.

Sebastian continued rocking Noelle, who rested her chin on his shoulder, merrily nibbling away at the tarnished crown.

Meanwhile, Acier leaned into the lectern, picking up where her husband left off.

"Now, for the first guests. Please welcome the representatives from House Vermillion."

All eyes turned toward the grand staircase as five figures stepped into view.

Well—four figures walked.

The fifth was sitting on top of his brother's head.

At the center were Ignatius and Amber, arms linked, both clad in regal red—his suit, her dress—embroidered with golden lions. Matching coronets adorned their heads, and, like Sebastian, Ignatius wore a red fur mantle draped over his shoulders.

To Ignatius' right stood Fuegoleon, dressed in a simpler version of his father's suit. He bore no fur mantle, no coronet—only a magic stone worn as a pendant, the crimson markings around his eyes, and the fiery diamond-star brand on his forehead.

And sitting directly on top of his head, gripping him by the ears, was his baby brother, Leopold.

Leopold sported a wide, toothy grin, clad in an adorable plain-red baby suit. His tiny feet weren't in proper dress shoes, but rather multi-layered socks that nearly formed a boot.

To Amber's left stood Mereoleona, arms crossed, gaze sharp, looking thoroughly bored in her long red dress.

Among the crowd, Yami shuddered.

"Damn it," he muttered. "Why is that she-beast here? We gotta warn everyone—wild animal on the loose—"

"Silence, Yami."

Morgen's voice was curt.

Yami stiffened. It wasn't often Morgen used that tone. And when he did, there was no winning against him.

With a dramatic sigh, Yami slumped back, retreating further into the crowd, hoping the lioness wouldn't notice him. If she did, she'd challenge (force) him into a fight out of nowhere.

Thankfully, Mereoleona seemed to be behaving.

Alongside the rest of the main Vermillion household, she veered left, following them toward the grand table.

Florian's family was next—not needing an introduction. They were still Vermillions, after all.

Unlike the deep reds of his brother's household, Florian's family leaned toward dark orange.

Florian and Aurelia wore smaller coronets—ones fit for a marquess and marchioness. Florian, notably, wore no fur mantle.

Mimosa, clad in a small orange dress, sat comfortably in her father's arms, while Kirsch—flourishing a feather fan and flicking his dangling earrings—descended the staircase with dramatic flare.

A swirl of cherry blossoms spun around him.

A handful of guests, afflicted with mild allergies, sneezed in an awkward rhythm.

Aurelia's brow twitched. Again. And again. Her face darkened further by the second.

Fortunately, Kirsch's spotlight didn't last long—his mother all but dragged him away to the table.

Acier cracked a wry smile before leaning in to speak again, this time with a more somber tone.

"Please, everyone, give our guests from the clergy their well-deserved respect."

From the staircase emerged Anslem Veritas, Cardinal of Saint Luminous Basilica, guiding and steadying the Pope, Benedictus, as they descended.

Like Amara before him, the Pope had been offered a seat at the table immediately. And unlike Amara, he refused—choosing instead to follow the proper etiquette for arrival.

Anslem wore the finest tunic he possessed.

Benedictus, however, sported the full Holy Regalia.

Sebastian's gaze narrowed slightly, tracking the Pope's slow descent.

As if sensing him, Benedictus turned and offered a kind, benevolent smile.

Sebastian mirrored it—genuinely.

Whatever personal issues he had with the one who had toyed with his fate—whatever grievances he held toward faith itself—none of it changed the undeniable truth.

The help Benedictus had provided him and Nathaniel had been indispensable.

It had been everything.

And for that, Benedictus was someone worthy of respect.

Sebastian dipped his head—polite, measured.

And the rest of the room followed.

Everyone who wasn't of royal blood or seated at the main table gave the Pope and the Cardinal a deep, pious bow.

Of course—Yami was the outlier.

But this time, neither Morgen nor Nacht called him out for it.

They understood.

Yami came from a land of different faiths, different beliefs. They weren't going to force theirs upon him. Especially not for a mere bow.

Standing silently, eyes lowered—that was already as much respect as they could ask of him.

Neither Anslem nor Benedictus seemed to mind.

They moved toward the grand table without pause, taking their seats.

Sebastian, watching, let a soft smile play on his lips, before he spoke up.

"Next, let us welcome our leaders among the Magic Knights. Lord Wizard King, and the Captain of the White Snake."

Descending the grand staircase came Conrad Leto, arm linked with his wife, Lovilia.

Conrad wore his ever-present Wizard King attire, while Lovilia's long, flowery yellow dress seemed to brighten the entire hall. Her orange hair was woven into a braided bun, and the pronounced emerald earrings she wore complemented her sharp green eyes.

Unlike the Pope, Conrad was greeted with a three-finger magic light salute—a show of admiration and respect from the gathered crowd.

Conrad let out a wry smile.

A week ago, half these people hated his guts.

They had wished him gone—buried in a ditch, dead in some nameless place, forgotten.

Some royalists had taken their elitism so far that they even... even...

The thought alone soured his mood.

Knowing now what could have happened—what almost happened—to his former squad, his wife, his unborn child—it stirred something rotten inside him.

A cloud of darkness festered in his chest.

Gripped at his soul.

Filled him with despair, betrayal, anger.

His jaw tightened—he nearly ground his teeth—but then, his gaze caught Sebastian's.

The storm eased.

Conrad's smile was barely there, but it was genuine. A silent acknowledgment that this kingdom wasn't as helpless as it seemed.

Sebastian, however, only blinked in confusion.

Their shared smile suddenly felt... complicated.

Why does he look so thankful? Sebastian thought. Did I do something good recently...?

Oh—has he finally dropped his suspicions of me? Is this him thanking me for supporting his bill?

Feeling like he understood, Sebastian smiled back, mouthing a casual:

Don't mention it.

Conrad sweatdropped.

Somewhere, something had gone very wrong in translation.

But rather than correct it—and risk causing a scene—he simply escorted his wife to the main table.

As they took their seats, Acier leaned into the mic.

"All rise for His Majesty, and Lord Kira."

The royal family's turn.

From the shadows stepped Augustus, adorned in imperial regalia, his every movement deliberate, imposing.

Beside him, his pale-skinned, ever-indifferent nephew, Damnatio Kira, walked in lockstep—draped in the Chairman of the Magic Parliament robes, with House Kira's emblem pinned in plain display.

This was no ordinary descent.

In the far corner, the trio of musicians struck up a powerful instrumental tune, heightening the weight of the moment.

Augustus, twirling his mustache, spun his royal scepter. From its tip, a fanfare of light fireworks erupted.

His smug satisfaction deepened tenfold as the entire hall bowed before him.

Even Yami.

Unlike the deferential bows given to Pope Benedictus—a sign of respect for him—this bow was an acknowledgment of the throne itself.

Not necessarily him.

Of course, Augustus, blissfully unaware, took it all at face value.

He was very pleased.

He would have been even happier if Conrad had bowed too, but...

Well.

He'd spare his 'best friend' this one time.

They were both kings, after all.

Besides, Sebastian and Ignatius had inclined their heads. That alone already had him over the moon.

So much so that he even overlooked Yami's lackluster effort.

With no reason to dwell on any outliers, Augustus made his way to the grand table alongside Damnatio, basking in his moment.

As he finally took his seat, Acier and Sebastian exchanged a glance.

Then, she smiled.

A silent, wordless nod.

Sebastian's features softened as he spoke into the mic again. Gentle, yet more powerful than any announcement he had made before.

"Now. For the time we've all been waiting for. Please welcome the celebrants of this ceremony. Our son, Nozel Silva, and his betrothed, Dorothy Unsworth."

The crowd blinked in unison.

Unsworth? We've never heard any nobility by that name—

Dun! Dun! Dun!

They were cut off by the powerful music orchestrated by the band.

The light fixated on the staircase, its movement now accompanied by the deep resonance of the organ.

House Silva's servants and vassals marched out of the doors, positioning themselves in two perfect lines along the staircase, standing upright as though forming a sacred passage.

The music softened, shifting into something melodic and romantic.

And then they stepped out.

Nozel and Dorothy, arms linked, all eyes enchanted and fixated on them.

Nozel's silver hair was tied neatly into a bun atop his head. His suit—more elaborate than even his father's—was a masterpiece of blue and silver trims, excessive diamonds, eagles, and floral embroidery, all blending seamlessly rather than overwhelming the design.

At the center of his collar rested a light-purple magic stone—the Witch Queen's stone—its subtle glow a focal point. A short fur mantle draped over his shoulders, while the tailored cut of his suit highlighted his athletic frame.

And he wore a smile.

A soft, uncharacteristically fond, and happy smile.

Yami blinked. Then blinked again. Had he accidentally drunk too much back at the smack bar? Even pinching himself didn't change what he was seeing.

Nozel Silva was smiling. And his attention was fully on the young woman beside him.

Dorothy's layered silver dress, lined with gold trims, cascaded down to obscure her legs entirely. She undoubtedly wore heels, as her petite frame had gained several inches. Her lips, full and painted with glossy pink lipstick, curled subtly as she met Nozel's gaze.

Her violet hair—matching Nozel's eyes—was swept into a high bun. Long white gloves adorned her arms, the necklace Sebastian had gifted her just yesterday glittering at her throat. Simple, nearly unnoticeable star-shaped earrings completed the look.

A faint flush dusted her cheeks as they descended the stairs together.

Sebastian nearly sighed in relief.

Thank god she's not sleepwalking! Metatron, maybe you're not completely bad.

He sent up an inward prayer of thanks, while Acier's eyes turned heart-shaped as she watched them. She seemed ready to pounce, barely restraining a squeal like an overly excited schoolgirl.

As Nozel and Dorothy reached the ballroom floor, murmurs swelled through the nobility before erupting into outright demands.

Who is this nobody?

Realization struck the sharper minds among them.

House Silva had kept Dorothy's identity under wraps for so long because—if they were right—she wasn't a noble.

Nozel Silva, a royal, the future Lord of House Silva, Duke of the Clover Kingdom, had chosen to marry someone of lower status.

Well, nearly everyone was of lower status than Nozel—but this? He wanted to marry someone not even of noble blood?

It was unforgivable.

The opportune noblewomen who had spent their lives trying to court and seduce Nozel—dreaming of becoming a duchess, elevating their families—saw red.

Losing to one of their own would have been one thing.

But to some outsider?

Unforgivable. Absolutely unforgivable.

They were about to riot.

Not just the scorned noblewomen—but their parents, the noble lords, the noble ladies. Yet none dared.

Because from the main table—where House Vermillion sat in quiet amusement, where the Church remained impassive, where Conrad, Lovilia, Damnatio, and even Augustus loomed—unfriendly smiles were being shot in their direction.

And from Sebastian and Acier themselves, those same sharp, knowing smiles.

Almost all of the kingdom's highest authorities—its elites, its ruling powers, its most influential figures—were watching them. Measuring them up.

Their smiles dared them to speak.

Dared them to protest.

As long as they were ready to face the consequences.

Very harsh consequences.

Gulp.

The noble dissenters swallowed their pride, lowered their gazes, and—weakly—applauded.

Clap! Clap! Clap!

Then came the exaggerated praises.

"O-oh, Prince Nozel, a-and P-Princess Dorothy, was it? T-truly a match made in heaven!"

"Y-yes, those exotic eyes of yours are so mesmerizing! So enchanting! I've never seen such a color before!"

"Congratulations to Prince Nozel and House Silva for the wonderful addition to your esteemed family!"

Compliment after compliment rang through the ballroom.

At the main table, Augustus snorted in derision.

Is it the place of trash like you lot to judge royalty?

Augustus was a petty man. He kept scores. He held grudges.

And he recognized most of the fools sizing up Dorothy with barely veiled hostility.

They were the same ones who had opposed Conrad's bill—his bill—nearly depriving him of all the respect and praise he was currently receiving from the kingdom's masses.

So, as far as Augustus was concerned, he would rather see the position of Duchess Silva fall into the hands of a lowborn commoner, a peasant, even a foreigner—anyone over these vultures still awaiting an excuse to be executed.

And that was how, through some weird stroke of fate, Dorothy Unsworth found herself backed by the most bigoted and classist man in the Clover Kingdom.

As the forced praise died down, Nozel and Dorothy stepped forward.

The crowd parted, respectfully making way as they moved to the ballroom's center.

A gentle yet stately melody rose from the band as they took their positions.

Acier spoke softly into the mic.

"Please observe this couple's display of noble elegance as they demonstrate the Pavane."

It was time to dance.

—

Author's Notes:

[1] We've finally made it. The final arc of this volume.

I'll do my best to make it a fitting conclusion—one that brings us back to the very foundation this story was built on.

Aristocratic life. Power plays. Politics.

[2] As always, feel free to join the Discord: https://discord.gg/s3MME8X8ar