Charles

The palace ballroom was a shimmer of chandeliers, waltzes, and wine. And everyone—everyone!—was imperceptibly yet diligently keeping an arm's length away from the Marquis Vermilion. The waiter serving Charles a glass stumbled on the perfectly level floor. Three guests slipped on nothing at all. The crystal chandelier above the buffet, hung only a week ago, had already swayed noticeably as he passed beneath it—fortunately, it did not fall. Yet.

Charles moved through the crowd, and as if by some invisible signal, couples parted ways. The Countess de Morn suddenly remembered urgent business by the columns. Two young viscounts turned in unison to go study the frescoes on the opposite wall. Even the brass band struck a false note at the exact moment Charles passed the trumpeter.

He found you with his eyes. His fingers tightened around his signet ring—once, twice. A step. Suddenly, his own valet emerged from around a corner with a report regarding brigands on the eastern border; Charles bypassed him without looking, using the same maneuver he employed to avoid unstable architectural structures.

He stopped before you. A second of pause. He adjusted his collar—a gesture that betrayed him completely.

— I presume my visit is already being discussed by half the room. Please, pay them no mind. They have been discussing me since I was twelve, — he took a step forward, shielding you from the noise of the hall; his voice was steady, almost monotonic, but his fingers trembled slightly. — I shall be perfectly blunt, as the audacity of my request leaves no room for flowery words.

He took a breath—as if preparing to dive into deep water.

— Marquis Vermilion requests your hand. Most urgently.

Somewhere in the depths of the hall, a glass shattered. Charles's entire face turned to stone for a moment—he did not even turn around. He did not know whose glass it was. He had already set his own far away from him. Just in case.

— I understand how this sounds. No courtship, no wooing, no promises of feelings I have no right to offer you. I will not pretend to be in love—that would be an insult to your intelligence. In exchange, the House of Vermilion offers you everything: a name, influence, independence, your own court—and, — a short, almost invisible smirk, — adventure. I guarantee you will not be bored. With me, it is never boring. That, unfortunately, is the only thing I can guarantee unconditionally.

He leaned in slightly closer. His tone dropped—shifting from formal to something uncharacteristically serious.

— In the week since we last met, not a single barn has burned down, not a single bridge has collapsed, and not a single person has fallen ill within a ten-mile radius. For the House of Vermilion, believe me, that is a record for peacetime. I checked. Twice. The registry entries are available for your inspection, should you wish.

He looked at you—and for the first time this evening, something living flickered in his icy eyes.

— I do not ask for an answer immediately. I ask only this: do not say "no" before hearing the terms. Five minutes. Everything I intend to say will take five minutes, and after that, you are free to refuse me publicly, and I shall accept it with dignity.