The dinner had gone cold. Not the delicacies themselves, which still arrived warm on enchanted trays, but the atmosphere.
An invisible fog hung in the hall—woven from restrained expectations and unspoken tension. The heirs spoke less. They watched more.
And Lígia… remained silent.
But when the conversation shifted—when words brushed the edge of what ought not to be spoken—Lígia moved.
It was Elira who opened the subject, with the ease of someone testing poisons in delicate doses.
"There are rumors," said the golden princess, turning her glass between her fingers, "that certain external groups are questioning the lineage rituals of House d'Argêntea. Some call the Awakening... an archaic excess."
Neran Ferrosin furrowed his brow.
"Or a tool for concentrated power. There are nobles who no longer wish to be bound by blood."
Eliron Verdanel simply smiled. The kind of smile that already knows where the conversation is headed.
Then Lígia raised her gaze—slowly. Like a blade being drawn from its sheath.
"Idiots."
The word dropped like a stone onto the polished lake of etiquette.
Elira raised a brow.
Neran leaned in slightly.
Eliron stopped smiling.
"With all due respect," Lígia said, her voice firm as marble under diffused light, "anyone who dares question the Awakening of a bloodline without having enough blood themselves to recognize the power it unleashes... is a fool. And fools, when they touch sacred rituals, provoke only one thing."
Caelion observed silently.
"And what exactly is that response?" Elira asked, as if dancing on delicate ground.
Lígia held her gaze. And then... the change came.
It was subtle, at first.
The air thickened. The light above the table dimmed slightly, as if the crystals lost some of their luster. A coldness crept into the corners of the hall, and the shadows at the edges seemed... to align.
The wine in Eliron's goblet rippled, though no one had touched it.
Caelion's jaw tightened discreetly.
And then Lígia spoke—not as an heir, nor as a guest—but as someone rooted in the heart of an ancient House.
"A response from the Carmesim lineage. From those who carry both curse and gift. House d'Argêntea does not need to shout to be heard. We open our eyes... and the Empire remembers."
A cold heat expanded from her core. Lígia's aura spilled forth, enveloping the table.
It did not suffocate—but it demanded space. There was a kind of presence there that did not come from rituals or meditation. It was instinctive.
Dominion.
The other heirs felt it before they could name it.
Caelion's gaze sharpened, fingers laced tighter.
Neran... leaned back, almost imperceptibly.
Elira held back a breath—and something flickered in her eyes.
And Eliron… didn't smile. He simply... paused.
As if the air around Lígia had become ice beneath sunlight.
It wasn't common spellwork. Not raw magical pressure.
It was the beginning of something.
And they all knew what it meant.
Not even Dorian had managed to form a vampiric dominion... after years.
She... Lígia didn't even realize.
Elira broke the silence with a controlled voice.
"Impressive, Lady Lígia. Few can manifest... such presence. Even fewer without effort."
"I didn't make an effort," Lígia said, raising her glass with ease. "I simply spoke for my House."
The aura receded like a curtain at the end of a performance.
But the hall did not return to normal.
Not really.
Because something had changed.
The heirs now looked at Lígia with a different kind of attention.
Not just as a newly awakened young noble.
But as a factor.
A pivot.
A piece on the board no one expected to move the others.
Lígia didn't seem to notice.
She sat with a light expression, her gaze drifting toward the golden stained glass. Her fingers played with the rim of her goblet, and her lips curled slightly.
Internally, she muttered,
"System, do you remember that meme? The one with the cat wearing armor made of silver spoons, calling itself the 'Defender of the Kitchen Kingdom'?"
The system purred from the back of her mind.
"How could I forget?"
Lígia stifled a giggle.
"Would it be inappropriate to make a magically enchanted version of that spoon helmet and wear it here?"
"It would be tragic. The Empire isn't ready for that level of taste."
Meanwhile, the real strategists at the table weren't laughing.
Caelion Sun watched Lígia with the kind of focus reserved for pieces one assumed decorative… until they moved on their own.
The memory of the dominion still vibrated in the deeper corners of his senses.
Not even Dorian... not even him.
Caelion was not a man easily impressed.
But what Lígia had done… was not ordinary.
To dominate one's aura enough to manifest bloodborne presence—without technique, without conscious effort.
It was a feat many trained decades for, and still failed to reach.
She doesn't know what she did. But she did it.
And that made her even more dangerous.
Beside him, Elira Sun held her porcelain smile. But behind her eyes, a thousand gears turned—analyzing, measuring, calculating.
It was natural. Instinctive.
The golden princess looked at Lígia like someone examining a rare flower—too beautiful to exist in the wild, but whose roots might just crack stone.
Is she a threat... ?
Meanwhile, Neran Ferrosin rested his fingers on the edge of his plate, eyes fixed on an enchanted flower floating in a ruby-watered jug.
But he wasn't seeing the flower.
He inhaled slowly.
It was instinctive. That's what bothers me. Not her strength... but what she didn't mean to show, and still made us see.
Across the table, Eliron Verdanel rested his fingers against his lips, half-charmed, half-intrigued.
That's rare.
Oh, little Carmesim... you think you're just playing the game, when you've already clawed a line across the board.
His breath was slow. His smile, still mild.
But inside, a decision was already forming.
And in the middle of it all, Lígia muttered silently,
"I know I'm not supposed to say this here, but... is there lavender soap in this world that doesn't taste like grandma's perfume?"
The system replied indulgently,
"You just dominated the room with an ancestral manifestation, and now you want to talk about bath products?"
"My skin is still my priority. Magic doesn't moisturize."
She twirled the goblet, fascinated by how the light caught its edges.
Knock knock.
A quiet sound, barely perceptible to untrained ears.
But Lígia felt it before she heard it.
Vael.
He approached from behind, bowed slightly beside her chair, and murmured in a low, polished tone just for her:
"Miss... the ceremonial dinner is concluded."
Ah… music.
Outwardly, Lígia didn't move a muscle.
Her expression remained flawless: neutral, slightly bored, impeccably composed.
But inside?
Praise the Crimson Moon, the system, and the holographic cat who tolerates me — this social torture is finally over.
If I had to hear one more word about forges, bloodlines, or blue borders, I'd throw myself into a wine barrel and fake magical possession.
She inhaled with poise, set her goblet near the edge of the table, and then… she coughed.
Softly.
Maybe a throat tickle. Maybe a signal.
But everyone—everyone—looked.
And she rose.
Still holding her goblet, eyes scanning the room with the solemnity of someone holding not just glass, but the weight of an ancestral crest.
Her silhouette, cast by the tall candlelight, looked like a figure carved from another age. Sovereign in posture.
She spoke.
"I thank you all for your presence. For your words. And above all, for your attention."
Respectful silence.
Lígia continued, her voice clear and steady.
"House d'Argêntea is not known merely by name—but by duty. For millennia, we have kept watch over the North. We have stood where walls faltered. We have guarded the veil between what is seen... and what should not be. We honored pacts... even when the Empire forgot them."
Caelion's eyes remained fixed on her.
Elira was no longer smiling.
"As the second heir of the new generation of House d'Argêntea… I reaffirm our commitment. Our presence is not shadow. It is sentinel. And our lineage was never meant as salon decoration—but as foundation before the fall."
A brief pause. Just one.
Then her tone changed.
The smile returned to her lips—subtle, polite, perfectly false.
"This dinner has been, without question, an enriching experience."
Enriching like a bankrupt dragon's ledger, she thought.
"To hear the heirs of the Houses is always an honor. I sincerely thank you for your time this evening."
Translation: thank you for coming to pretend civility while circling one another like jeweled predators in a velvet slaughterhouse.
"I hope our exchanges continue… fruitfully."
She raised her glass in a silent toast—no extra wine required.
The heirs replied with measured nods. Polite. Controlled.
Each in their mask.
But none of them looked at Lígia the same way anymore.
She bowed slightly, her movement measured to the millimeter.
And inside, as she followed Vael toward the side doors, one last triumphant thought rose, quiet and certain:
Good. Now they respect me… or they fear me. Either will do.