’So... what should I do?’
The question flickered through Alice’s mind just as something pressed faintly against her chest.
Ah.
Her fingers brushed familiar lacquered wood.
The fan.
The one Julies had repaired for her—its ribs reinforced, its surface polished smooth again after being cracked during training. Without thinking too deeply, she slipped it free from her bosom.
’...This will do.’
—Zt!
The sharp, crisp sound of the fan snapping open cut cleanly through the gentle music of the hall.
Several nearby conversations faltered.
"...Gasp!"
Amelia, who happened to meet Alice’s gaze at that exact moment, sucked in a breath. For just an instant, a ripple of killing intent leaked from Alice’s eyes—thin, cold, and honed by battle rather than etiquette.
For a mage like Amelia, standing this close, it was overwhelming. Her shoulders stiffened before she even realized why.
"...Alice, it’s fine," Amelia said quickly, lowering her voice. "Don’t say anything more."
The words were soft.
Grounding.
And somehow, that was enough.
The sharp edge inside Alice eased. Her grip on the fan relaxed by a fraction.
"...Understood," Alice replied quietly.
Truth be told, she wanted to snap at someone—
the prince for his careless smile,
the murmuring nobles for their idle curiosity,
even the saint for daring to step forward so boldly.
But—
—Do not ignore Lady Amelia’s advice.
It may sound like I’m praising my fiancée, but she is experienced in social gatherings. It will surely help you.
Julies’ words echoed clearly in her mind.
Amelia’s advice.
Julies’ advice.
Together, they stayed her hand.
Instead of speaking, Alice lifted the fan higher, covering the lower half of her face. Only her eyes remained visible—sharp, unyielding, impossible to ignore.
And in those eyes, she let everything pour out.
Direct resentment toward the prince himself, who had allowed this situation to unfold.
A subtle, cutting anger toward the nobles content to watch from the sidelines, whispering like vultures circling a carcass.
And finally—
A clear, unmistakable warning aimed straight at the commoner saint who had overstepped her place.
’Go on,’ her gaze seemed to say.
’Let’s see if you still dare accept that dance invitation.’
She said nothing.
She didn’t need to.
The message crossed the space between them effortlessly.
Silence stretched.
Then—
"I’m sorry."
The saint’s voice was small. Tight.
She didn’t take the offered hand.
Instead, she gently—but firmly—pushed it away.
A ripple spread through the hall.
Whispers followed immediately, restrained but buzzing.
"Did you see that...?" "She refused the prince...?" "No, she was made to refuse..."
The prince’s hand lingered in the air for a moment before he withdrew it, his smile stiffening just slightly.
"...It seems I was too forward," he said smoothly, bowing his head. "My apologies."
The words were polite.
His eyes were not.
Alice watched him through the fan, unblinking.
’Good,’ she thought coolly.
’You noticed.’
Amelia leaned closer, whispering from behind her sleeve, "You handled that well. Very well."
"...Did I?" Alice murmured.
"Yes," Amelia said without hesitation. "You spoke without speaking. That’s how it’s done here."
The music resumed, cautious at first, then flowing once more.
The tension didn’t vanish—but it settled, sinking beneath layers of etiquette and forced smiles.
Alice lowered her fan just slightly.
Her eyes met Julies’ across the hall.
For a brief moment—
He smiled.
Not teasing.
Not amused.
Just... relieved.
Alice huffed quietly and snapped the fan shut.
’Next time,’ she thought,
’I’ll make them think twice before putting me in that position at all.’
The hall slowly returned to its earlier rhythm, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
As if a silent clash of wills hadn’t just unfolded beneath chandeliers and polite applause.
Alice exhaled through her nose and lowered the fan completely, holding it loosely at her side. Her shoulders were still tense, but no longer rigid.
"...That was exhausting," she muttered.
Amelia let out a quiet, relieved laugh. "You caused a small storm without spilling a single word. The nobles will be talking about this for weeks."
"I didn’t intend to," Alice replied flatly. "I just didn’t want to lose."
"That," Amelia said gently, "is exactly why you won."
Nearby, the saint had already retreated behind her attendants, her head lowered. She avoided looking in Alice’s direction, fingers clenched tightly at her skirt. Whatever confidence she’d gathered moments ago had crumbled entirely.
The prince, on the other hand, regained his composure with practiced ease. He exchanged a few words with the nobles around him, laughter following soon after, but his gaze drifted back to Alice more than once.
Measuring.
Reassessing.
’He won’t forget this,’ Alice thought.
----
"So that’s why the palace was in chaos."
"Well," Amelia replied dryly, folding her arms, "it’s not every day a Crown Prince humiliates himself in public."
The words barely covered what had actually happened.
The Crown Prince had asked another woman to dance—
openly—
publicly—
while his fiancée stood only a few steps away.
And then—
He’d been rejected.
In front of the entire ballroom.
Not a subtle dismissal.
Not a polite deflection.
A clean, unmistakable rejection that left him standing there alone while the orchestra awkwardly continued playing.
Nobles lived for scandal.
And this?
This wasn’t just gossip—it was a social explosion.
It spread from the upper nobility to the lower halls, then down the servant corridors, into kitchens, guard posts, and stables. By the time Amelia and I reached the side passage near the garden wing, everyone had their own version of the story.
Amelia and I both let out heavy sighs.
"At this point," I muttered, "I’m almost afraid to ask."
She shot me a tired look. "Good. Because I don’t know what’s going on inside that idiot’s head either."
We walked in silence for a few steps.
Then I asked anyway.
"What exactly happened while I was gone?"
Amelia clicked her tongue. "He ignored Lady Alice. Completely. Walked past her like she didn’t exist. Then went straight to that saint girl and asked her to dance."
"And?"
"And she turned him down."
"...In public?"
"Yes. In front of everyone."
"...Wow."
"That’s putting it mildly."
We turned into a quieter corridor, the noise of servants fading behind us.
"The only reason it didn’t turn into a disaster," Amelia continued, "is because Alice didn’t react the way everyone expected."
I raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"
"She didn’t cry. Didn’t shout. Didn’t storm out. Didn’t slap him. Didn’t make a scene."
That surprised me.
If this were the old Alice, the ballroom would’ve turned into a war zone.
"She just lifted her fan," Amelia said, mimicking the motion, "covered her mouth, and stayed perfectly still. Calm posture. Perfect etiquette."
"...And her expression?"
Amelia hesitated. "They said her eyes looked... sad. Not angry. Just... quiet."
That alone changed everything.