Celi

Hannes’ Gentlemen Club in Mitras

April 2, 1813

Eren Benedict Jaeger, the thirteenth Marquess of Shiganshina, slowly lifted his head from his folded arms.

Oh, heavens above. One could scarcely imagine a more pitiable state.

Ladies used to claim him the most beautiful man in all of Paradis, some even said angels had a hand in his creation (though that was likely said in the heat of the ballrooms, where the air was heavy with flattery). Now, though, his brown hair was a mess of curls, his emerald eyes bloodshot. A bruise marked one, still fresh (a fight, perhaps?). As for his scent? One need not be particularly astute to discern that the Marquess had not met with a bath in several days.

It was not that the Marquess had neglected personal hygiene, though, he was a man of exacting standards in that regard. But rather that his twenty-eighth birthday had unfolded with such enthusiasm and recklessness that now, as he lifted his head, it seemed the full consequence of the evening’s excesses had come to call. 

A small sniff, a look around to his surroundings and the realisation of his current location was the least surprising aspect of this debacle.

The room was littered with glasses and bottles. Cigarette smoke hung in the air, as rancid as the stench that wafted through Mitras’ streets on the hottest of summer days. And, of course, his friends, scattered about the room, seemed to be in a state not dissimilar to his own—or perhaps worse. Some appeared so still, that Eren wondered for a moment if they were still alive altogether.

Yet, despite the ruin so clearly evident in their appearances, everyone seemed more than alive and oddly content. 

As had been duly noted,  the Marquess had reached his twenty-eight years, and as tradition demanded, he had celebrated with his closest companions. There had been no lack of drink, no shortage of jokes. After three days of aimless wandering around the city, they had found themselves at Hannes’, the most fashionable of men’s clubs. 

Right. 

Hannes’ club, one of his favourite places since he was merely an earl heir to a marquess.

That’s where he was.

After all the party and drinking.

After he had fled from his mother’s ultimatum.

Just after promising her that as soon as the Season arrived, he would finally begin in earnest to fulfill his duty as the Marquess of Shiganshina. 

Drat it!

Eren looked down at his hands. They’d finally stopped shaking.

It had taken only—what? A dozen brandies and soda? Two dozen of ratafias? Three bottles, perhaps?

No matter. He had celebrated as any man in his position would. After all, he believed he had earned it. With April’s arrival and the Season looming, it was all but certain his mother would soon thrust him squarely onto the Marriage Mart. Naturally, he would be little more than a prey for the mamas who knew perfectly well that he was both available, and, to add insult to injury, possessed of a rather fine title and fortune.

Drat it! (Again.)

Eren shook his head, trying to rid himself of the troubling image of being swarmed by eager female hunters. But no amount of brandy or soda could quite drown the nightmare lodged in his mind. The truth was inescapable: sooner or later he was about to be thrust into matrimony and no clever footwork would see him free of it. Not when the formidable Lady Carla, the Dowager Marchioness of Shiganshina, was his mother, and had made it abundantly clear that she expected to see him married and with children. All at the earliest possible opportunity, naturally.

“More.” Eren raised a hand, signaling the barmaid. “Another.”

Then he lifted his gaze and fully realised his nearest friend was still, astonishingly, breathing. Thank God for small mercies!

“For a long moment I thought you were dead,” said Lord Jean Kirchstein, son of the third Earl of Trost, eyeing him from across the table. “I was wondering how to manage the task of delivering your body to your lady mother.”

“Not another word about her.” The marquess shut his eyes, wincing as a treacherous sliver of light cut through. “I’ll have more than my fill of her from April to July. I can already feel it approaching.” He sighed, petulant. “A little respite, if you please.”

Kirchstein chuckled. “She’s truly determined to secure you a wife, isn’t she?”

Eren tossed his head back in irritation. Not the wisest of moves. “Yes, yes, that is the prevailing sentiment.” He touched his temple, wincing. Drat, how it throbbed. “That I am nearly thirty, that I ought to cease my... frivolities, that the title is already mine, that I need a wife, that I need to produce an heir”—he made a gesture with his hand—“and a great many other things”

“Well, if I were in your position, the notion of a wife and making heirs would hardly strike fear in my heart. In truth, I find it rather a pleasant task.”

The marquess grumbled, his tone as sour as his expression, “We shall see how you fare when it is your turn.”

He was staring at the table as though it held the secrets of the universe, nearly mesmerized, when the raucous shouts of the other gentlemen pierced through his reverie. For a weekday morning, Hannes’s club was undeniably crowded. Were they all, gentlemen,  drowning their sorrows over the opening of the Marriage Mart in drink? Quite likely.

“What are they saying?” Eren asked, resting his chin on his hand. The noise of these sapskulls speaking all at once was enough to make his head throb, and the dizziness clouded his ability to make sense of even half of it.

“Before you dozed off, they were discussing some wager, I believe,” said Kirchstein. “But I don’t believe you—”

The man had barely finished speaking when Eren rose swiftly from his seat. A wager? That was certainly the quickest route to capture his attention.

Oh, it was no secret. Marquess Jaeger was hardly what one might call a walk in the park. Quite the opposite, in fact. He was a disgrace—a complete one. What little was to be said in his favour was overshadowed by his reputation. Twice the size of a rakehell, he was a master at games, soirées, and, of course, drinking. His reputation for gambling had grown so legendary that even the most seasoned men could not match his audacity. 

He had started down this path the moment he set foot in college at the tender age of thirteen, where groups of young scoundrels eagerly swarmed around him. They harassed him for being the son of the Marquess of Shiganshina, at that time, not the wealthiest man in the kingdom, but certainly one with a lineage that stretched back to the mad king who had wed his lady knight. The fools were eager to know if madness ran in the family, and they had Eren, wild and unrefined, to test their theories.

Young Lord Eren, it seemed, was happy to oblige. Instead of letting them win, he fought back with a ferocity that only increased the more they ridiculed him. At first, he lost, and terribly so. Notes of bad behaviour and injuries kept flying home to Crimson Hall. But in time, he surpassed them all, until those ruffians were the ones trailing behind, nursing bruised egos.

It was there, amidst the chaos, that he formed a bond with Jean Kirchstein, and together they began earning the respect of every ruffian on the school grounds. By the end of his first year, being part of the young Lord’s clique had become the very pinnacle of social aspiration. And so they grew—those boys becoming men, and the more they grew, the more they indulged. Horse racing, cockfighting, boxing—nothing was off the table. And jests, so many jests.

It was here, in the heart of these contests, that Eren saw the true potential of his skills: the art of betting. What began with three shillings soon blossomed into ten, then fifteen, then twenty. Rarely did he lose, and with each victory, the Eren Jaeger name became more closely linked to fortunes won and lost in the most notorious ways.

This, of course, drove his parents to utter frustration. They found themselves utterly incapable of controlling the future Marquis of Shiganshina. Eren's behaviour had become so outrageous that, at the age of twenty-one, Lord Grisha had severed his financial support, hoping that the penniless son might finally come to his senses and pull himself together.

Naturally, this only served to stoke the fires of Eren's gambling obsession. The Earl of Crimsonwood, heir to Crimson Hall and the Marquisate of Shiganshina, was, after all, a man who had never met a wager he didn’t like. Wherever there was a betting house, or any chance for a jest, there Eren could be found—his name now synonymous with high stakes and reckless abandon. And there he remained, even a year after the death of the twelfth Marquess, Grisha, who had the misfortune of choking on a piece of meat during dinner. With that untimely demise, Eren found himself finally inheriting the title and the marquisate, though, one might argue, he was little more prepared for it than he had been the day before.

However, being one of the most powerful men in the kingdom—just beneath the Duke of Stohess, the Duke of Yalkel, and the Great Duke of Sthoess—had done little to straighten him out. The title and influence, it seemed, only served to amplify his habits rather than temper them.

And that day, on Hanne’s club, to further cement his notoriety, still reeling from the night’s excesses, Eren stumbled toward a group of men, all engaged in heated discussion while scribbling in a book. Not just any book, of course—The Betting Book.

“You really must not, not this time,” Kirchstein urged, his voice betraying a trace of something resembling distress. “I’ve heard the ones involved, and I daresay someone is likely to shoot your arse this time.”

“Don’t be ludicrous,” Eren said, brushing it off. “No one is going to shoot me.”

“No, I really mean it, It’s—”

But before he could elaborate further, the voice of Baron Porco Galliard, rang out. “Ah, Marquess Jaeger, my good fellow! We’ve been most eagerly awaiting for you.”

Eren allowed a smile to curl at the corner of his lips. “I am well aware,” he said with a hint of amusement, “that no discussion of wagers is complete without my presence. Now, do tell—what are we about here?”

“Ah, we do hope to make the Season a bit more... stimulating, shall we say?”

Baron Galliard chuckled and the men around him shared in the mirth as if some secret understanding had passed between them. The marquess, for his part, felt a rush—like the sudden clarity of a man who has just been sober for the first time in years. He felt as though he might, if called upon, run a marathon, or at least entertain the idea of doing so, however preposterous it might be.

“Come now,” he urged, “do indulge me.”

“I’ve heard that your mother is engaged in some little enterprise of her own, if you can call it that.” Baron Galliard drew out a journal, and showed it around as if it were a sacred document. “And, would you believe it, they’ve already christened her the diamond of the season—before the season has even begun!”

The men exchanged looks of genuine surprise, while Eren merely raised an eyebrow. What was all this about? He was, quite frankly, in the dark.

“So?” he asked, his voice cautious.

“Seduce her!” Galliard cried, his voice carrying a touch of too much enthusiasm. 

The rest of the gentlemen, clearly delighted by the prospect of some mischief, eagerly echoed the sentiment, as if they had just proposed an entirely reasonable course of action.

Eren, for his part, was positively appalled. Yes, appalled!

He was no saint, of course. A gambler, a drinker, a son who had spent years disappointing his parents. But a seducer of virgins? That was a line he had no intention of crossing, not for all the gilded invitations in the world. His reputation, questionable as it was, had never stooped so low. He might have doubted whether “gentleman” was the proper title for him, but this? Never. He should not, could not, would not, besmirch an innocent debutante.

“I will not be deflowering a debutante,” he said, as succinctly as though he’d just declared a preference for tea over brandy.

Galliard’s laughter rang out, the sound of it almost absurd in its mockery. “Oh, come now! She’s not even one!”

The marquess shook his head in solemn refusal. “I’m not interested. I won’t bed a virgin, I say.”

The group of men chuckled, no doubt imagining something far more salacious than what Eren had in mind, and somewhere beneath his unease, a flicker of anger stirred.

Before he could voice it, however, Kirchstein interceded, his tone almost pleading. “Let’s be off, now. Your mother will be the death of me if you’re not back to your house before the Parliament sessions start.”

As the Marquess and the son of the Earl of Trost prepared to make their exit, Galliard’s voice rose once more, dripping with mischief.

“Fine, if you won’t take her to your bed, at least steal a kiss! Or tell me you don’t even want to press lips?”

Well, that did seem rather more sensible.

Eren pivoted sharply, leaving Kirchstein to grumble behind him, no doubt about something far less entertaining. 

“Write my damn name down,” he said with no small amount of exasperation. “I, Eren Jaeger, the Marquess of Shiganshina, will steal a kiss from the so-called Diamond of the Season, and to prove it, I’ll ask for a token of her love and show it to all of you.”

A wave of applause surged through the crowd, the kind of noise that followed the most ridiculous and ill-advised bets, which this undoubtedly was. Baron Galliard, not one to waste a moment, scribbled it all down in the betting book, his penmanship as showy as the occasion. For added legitimacy, he had no less than five witnesses sign it, including the ever-dutiful Lord Connie Springer, the Earl of Ragakko, Sir Mylius Zeramuski, and Mr. Marlowe Freudenberg—each one, no doubt, silently wondering what had possessed the marquess to act so.

To celebrate the spectacle, Hannes immediately poured more brandy and ratafia, and Eren, in a timely escape from his headache, chose to lose himself in yet more drink and merriment. The Parliament sessions could very much wait.

“And what’s that grim expression for?” the marquess asked, as he caught sight of Kirchstein once more. “Has someone died?”

“Well, you,” he replied, grimly. “Either when the season ends, or sooner.”

“Are you suggesting it for the alcohol?” He looked at his glass. “Nonsense”—Eren dismissed it with a wave—“it does nothing to me, and I can quit at any time.”

Jean shook his head. “No, no, it’s not the drink. It’s your spectacular idiocy, Shiganshina. You’ve just sealed your fate in Hannes’s betting book. How... charmingly pathetic. But coming from you, it is not surprising at all.”

“Oh, do be reasonable; it’s only a kiss. A kiss and a few words that will prove I remain the favourite at the betting-table. Just that, Jeanbo.”

Kirchstein’s eyes twitched a little bit at the mention of his childhood nickname, but he pressed on with the matter at hand. “Indeed, provided, of course, that the so-called diamond of the season is not, alas, the Duke of Stohess’s niece.”

Eren  blinked. The sentence struck him like a draught under a door. “What did you just say?”

“That this girl—your wager—is the Duke of Stohess’ niece, you simpleton, little halfwit.”

The young Marquess of Shiganshina felt  old, familiar chills coursing through his body. Threats from the formidable Duke—Levi Ackerman—loomed suddenly in his mind. The memory was precise. The most dreadful reprimands. The sort that makes one consider distant shores.

“If you meddle in my affairs again,” the Duke had said in his most even tone, “if you even cross me, you imbecile, I will shoot you. I will shoot you to death, and then I shall leave the country. Do not suppose I am speaking idly. Do not ever dare to cross my way again!”

“Why, pray tell, did you not tell me of this earlier?” Eren inquired, his voice carrying the faintest note of unease, though he rather conspicuously cloaked it with a trace of petulance. A talent, truly.. “You could have, at the very least, told me sooner!”

“I’ve been attempting to tell you for some time, you blockhead, dolt! But nooooo, you simply couldn’t resist a foolish wager, could you? Now, go ahead—try to undo it. You’ll become the very joke of the entire club.”

Of course, Kirchstein was correct. Undoing the situation would surely make him the subject of ridicule.

It was no secret that the Duke of Stohess harboured a profound distaste for Eren. A distaste that could scarcely be described by the word ‘hatred’, for it was far too mild for what the Duke felt. The tale behind their animosity was not widely known, though it involved a bet, a prank gone awry, and Eren’s unfortunate participation.

Yet, what truly made Eren uneasy was not the Duke’s well-known ire, but the Duke’s reputation. The man was a distant cousin to both the King and the Princess Regent, which might have explained his manner, but the tales of his unrelenting success—whether in evading debts or winning every bet—told a more alarming story. It was said that he had even taken the lives of two men without consequence, and, truth be told, Eren found it entirely plausible that he might very well be the third in line if he dared to cross that invisible line.

It seemed the situation had already spun rather far out of its carefully designed circle, even before it had even begun.

“You’re positively shitting on your breeches, aren’t you?” Kirchstein remarked rather amused. “Now, what, pray tell, do you intend to do about it? Enlighten me, marquess.”

Eren, despite the considerable quantity of alcohol sloshing about his system, managed to marshal a thought or two. Retreat? Certainly not. He wasn’t one for running from a wager. To flee the city or feign some sickness, however tempting, seemed more the province of cowards.

At that precise moment, a barmaid passed by with a tray laden with glasses of brandy. Eren seized one and dispatched the beverage through his throat in a single motion. Then he blinked, as if clearing his mind of fog, and turned to Jean.

“Well,” he began, “it’s only a kiss, isn’t it? What could possibly go wrong? The Duke need not be privy to this.” He had made his declaration with such certainty that, for a fleeting moment, even he seemed convinced.

Jean said nothing, merely raised an eyebrow. What more could the son of an earl do in the presence of a marquess—especially one who had just received his title at the peak of Shiganshina’s coffers? Precisely nothing, he could only watch from afar.

And thus, the fate of the thirteenth Marquess of Shiganshina was sealed.

Meanwhile at St. Maria Palace.

The streets of Mitras were a most impressive sight—if one enjoyed the spectacle of endless carriages blocking the way. Miraculously, the Duke of Stohess’s procession had avoided the chaos. One would credit the duke’s peculiar obsession with punctuality, for he had insisted they depart two hours before the masses began to clog the thoroughfares.

Miss Mikasa Ackerman, still ensconced in her seat, gazed at the city outside with a certain detached air. She sighed, a sound more of resignation than anything else. If the choice were hers, she’d be miles away, back at Ackerman Cottage in Green Meadows—the only place that had ever truly felt like home, with parents who, at least in her memory, had loved her. But those parents were gone now, and so was her sense of belonging. 

Now, the only family she had left was her brother, whose doubtful eyes met hers from across the carriage, while beside him sat the man responsible for their presence here: the Duke of Stohess himself. Or their uncle, indeed, though the man in question seemed more a figure of imposed obligation than a true family member. 

“It would be most becoming if you smiled,” said the man in a voice that could have frozen a room full of candles.

Mikasa blinked, the very picture of polite confusion. “Pardon?”

“Debutantes,” the duke continued, “they smile, you see. It’s a tradition, or perhaps a requirement, when presented before the Princess Regent. A smile, in their case, signifies a most joyous day, or something of the sort. Gratitude, I dare to say.” He seemed to find the idea of smiling almost as absurd as his own suggestion. “You might try it.”

Through the entirety of his speech, the duke’s attention remained elsewhere. Mikasa blinked again, this time with just a touch more irritation, though it was skillfully concealed.

“At twenty-three, I think I am hardly a debutante, Your Grace,” she replied, her tone laced with a subtle but unmistakable bite. Falco, ever the attentive brother, noticed it immediately and furrowed his brow in the sort of regret reserved for moments when one regrets having spoken. Nonetheless, she continued, “I’ve been reminded of this, as you so kindly pointed out, since the moment I entered your esteemed care.”

“Well, it’s hard to overlook, you see.” The duke’s gaze remained fixed ahead—why, in heaven’s name, did he insist on not looking at them? “I still cannot fathom that my brother had never made the proper introductions. But, as family and tutor of both of you, it is my duty. No doubt about it. And no, I assure you, it does not weigh on me at all.”

Mikasa, however, wasn’t quite so certain about the last part. The duke’s manner gave every impression that he regarded them more as an inconvenience than anything else.

“My lord father did have a particular fondness for the country life,” she said, carefully fanning herself with slow, measured movements—just as she had been taught in the last months. “He raised us to appreciate the quiet, far from the busy bustle of the ton. In fact, we are just in time to turn the carriage around, Your Grace. We could simply pretend this... event never occurred. My brother and I could return to our beloved cottage.”

“Mikasa…” Falco began, his voice heavy with trembling concern.

The duke’s grey eyes  finally settled upon her—so very much like hers, in some odd, unflattering way. “Young lady,” he said, coldly, “we have discussed this many times already. You and your brother shall be introduced to society. You will find a suitable husband, and Mr. Falco, for his part, will learn how to take up my title. I thought we had an agreement.”

She shook her head. “I must remind you, Your Grace, that an agreement is a matter of mutual consent. I, for one, do not recall ever agreeing to be thrust into society, nor to have a husband ‘found’ for me.”

The Duke’s expression hardened, but there was a flicker of something—perhaps surprise—beneath that well-practiced air of superiority. He had clearly expected more acquiescence.

“I am your guardian, Miss Mikasa,” he said. “You will do as you are told.”

‘Mr. Falco, Miss Mikasa,’ the duke had said, as if the names alone might cause his throat to tighten. Clearly, familiarity was a foreign concept to him. Mikasa raised an eyebrow, the barest indication of amusement tugging at her lips, but she kept her countenance. First, she had matters to address. Afterwards, she might indulge herself in the amusement of the duke’s evident emotional restraint.

“I daresay, Your Grace, that if you intend to treat us as mere wards, you might find that I am not so easily... directed.” She paused, allowing her words to settle like dust in the still air. “As for my brother,” she continued with a glance at Falco, who looked torn between dread and curiosity, “he’s quite capable of making his own decisions, I believe.”

The Duke sighed deeply. “You will not find the world outside so accommodating, Mikasa. This is the way things are. You are a lady, and as such, your duty is clear.” He shifted on his seat. “You shall find yourself a husband, a man with both title and wealth, for you’ll soon discover that these things matter more than one might care to admit. Naturally, I will take your fondness for the countryside into account, ensuring your chosen groom is one who possesses at least a modicum of empathy for nature.” He glanced at her then, as if the notion of empathy were an afterthought. “Now, if you would be so kind as to behave yourself. We are nearly at our raucous destination and I find myself with a growing headache.”

And so, the duke turned his gaze to look at nothing at all—not even his nephews. A moment of silent detachment, as if the world’s concerns might be beneath his notice.

Oh, how it must irk Mikasa! The very idea that such a man could be her uncle, how absurd! Were it not for the family tree book, she would have suspected them of playing some cruel joke. A cold, tyrannical figure like him could not possibly be related to her dear and beloved father. And her father! How dare he leave such a will, commanding his brother, the Duke, to take charge of his children? Men, always so intent on remaking the world in their own image!

Mikasa, poor thing, had been worn thin by this struggle. She had fought against it from the very day after her parents’ funeral. She had refused, time and again, to allow the duke to choose a husband for her. And yes, of course, she wished to marry—but not on these terms. Not with this man pulling the strings.

One could call her naïve, even foolish, though she had little enough of either to spare. But she did long for a union based on affection, understanding, and comfort—qualities, it seemed, far beyond the reach of titles, wealth, or bloodlines.

Good heavens. Why must her parents have left her to face this fate alone? At twenty-three, she was hardly the naïve debutante of society’s dreams, yet here she was, to be presented before the Princess Regent, her every move scrutinised as though she were some rare specimen. The Duke of Stohess’s exotic niece—how they would gawk! If only she could flee back to the quiet countryside, where the world felt a little more… manageable.

But those were just girlish dreams, and it would be better to set them aside.

Soon the carriage came to a halt at the palace gates. The footmen assisted those who required a hand in disembarking. Mikasa, in her flawless gown and feathers, every detail in perfect accordance with the Princess Regent’s demands, was attended to with particular care. The duke was given the same courtesy as well, for he had one lame leg and two fingers conspicuously absent.

As to the cause of his condition, speculation ran rife. There were whispers of a horse accident, a bad one. Some, more fanciful, claimed he had once fought a war for reasons of the heart—a notion both ludicrous and tragic given such a man. But the truth was as elusive as the duke himself. Even his nephews, eager as they were to uncover the mystery, had no more insight than the rest of society. Mikasa, for her part, knew only what her parents had chosen to tell her: nothing. 

“Come now, it won’t be as dreadful as you imagine,” Falco said by her side, taking her hand with a reassuring smile. He, too, was to be presented to the society as the duke’s heir in the absence of more male kin. “At the very least, you’ll find a fine gentleman and a home. You’ve always desired a home, my dear Mikasa, and I daresay that desire shall soon be fulfilled.”

Mikasa’s smile was faint, hardly more than a curve of the lips. “Oh, Falco, why would I need a home when I already have you and our little cottage?”

A cottage that had already been placed on the market, for it hardly was the sort of residence befitting a duke’s station. 

“Rest assured, by the end of the season, you’ll be in love—just as so many have already succumbed to your charms. As for myself, I’ll be content with the notion of nephews. It will be nothing short of splendid, you’ll see, dear sister.”

Mikasa merely nodded, the polite gesture masking her thoughts. The duke’s tiresome theatrics were slowly eroding her brother’s mind, a fact she could not help but notice. Ah, the allure of being the next Duke of Stohess, surely, that explained it all. How could it not?

Suddenly, a voice bellowed with something that could scarcely be described as anything less than boisterous. “This way, this way!” 

The duke exhaled deeply, his patience visibly thinning.

With little regard for the bustling crowd, a woman made her way into St. Maria Palace—home of kings and queens—adorned with all its usual pomp. She wore a silver gown, a shade so pale it seemed almost to glow against her sun-touched skin. The dress seemed to be the epitome of fashion, and it suited her well, just as her brown hair styled in an elegant updo. She was the one and only, the self-appointed matchmaker of the season: the Dowager Marchioness of Shiganshina, lady Carla. And, God’s heavens, Mikasa’s chaperone for the Season.

It wasn’t as though Mikasa had requested it; indeed, the Marchioness had rather insisted upon it. 

Lady Carla had arrived at Rosemoon Castle in Stohess for Christmas with a manner most conspicuous, shouting as though her words were hardly heard. Upon spotting Mikasa, her eyes widened, and she declared herself utterly fascinated, as though she had stumbled upon a creature as rare as a peacock.  It was only when the duke mentioned Mikasa’s impending introduction that the woman wasted no time in making herself known, yet again.

“Well, surely I might serve as her chaperone,” she had declared. “Let us be sensible, duke. You have no taste for parties, I have more than a little for them, and your niece—well, she will need guidance, will she not?”"

And given that her dear uncle had deemed Mikasa’s opinion of little consequence, she would now find herself under the chaperonage of such a lady at the upcoming dances and soirées. It had been that simple.

Yet, not that this was a hardship. With her uncle now sidelined, Mikasa might even find the Marchioness’ somewhat... unconventional views a touch more useful in her quest to secure a suitable match. How delightfully convenient, truly.

“Lady Carla,” Mikasa said, curtsying with a grace she’d been rehearsing with little enthusiasm. “It’s a pleasure to see you once more.”

“Oh, quite, my dear,” Lady Carla replied. “I nearly didn’t, you know. The traffic, and these wretched Mitras streets—one could be forgiven for thinking they were designed to make one late.” She gave a quick flutter of her fan. “But here I am, nonetheless, prepared for all the excitement the season promises. And you, my dear, are already the diamond of the moment, I daresay.”

The notion of being the ‘diamond of the season’ or, ‘diamond of the first waters,’ was a term Mikasa had encountered but never quite grasped. The concept seemed, at best, vague; at worst, entirely absurd. What she understood, however, was that such a title was inherently presumptuous—and that was a quality she, for one, had never cultivated. Still, in the present company, with all the expectations in the air, she couldn’t summon much to say in protest. Better to remain silent than to draw attention to the ridiculousness of it all.

“Now, do come along, dear,” the Dowager Marchioness chirped, guiding Mikasa by the arm. “Our places are already assigned.”

And so, they made their way inside, the Duke trailing behind with Falco at his heels. 

The grand hall was an exercise in opulence, with golden decorations that seemed to swell and rise, making everything else look small by comparison. As they moved through the galleries, Mikasa’s eyes skimmed over the portraits of long-dead monarchs. There was the kingdom’s first reigning queen, the one whispered about for taking her sworn shield as her lover (and rumoured to have had fathered her children). Further along, the queen-wife of the mad king, whose reign had been more her affair than his, as the state of his mind had made such things unavoidable. And, of course, there was the current king, so much like his predecessor in madness that his daughter, Princess Historia Reiss, now sat upon the throne as regent.

But Mikasa couldn’t see anymore as they reached the doors of the queen’s hall. The introductions had begun, and a line of debutantes, all in white and feathers, were already waiting alongside their companions.

She and her chaperone fell into place, arm in arm, while whispers passed like letters in a secret exchange. With every new entrant, the doors opened, revealing yet another young lady eager to make her entrance.

“We have an invitation for tonight,” Lady Carla murmured. “The Inventions Ball, hosted by none other than Sir Hange. Quite the spectacle, I assure you. The first ball of the season.”

“Ah,” Mikasa said as a response.

“I daresay the Duke will be there,” continued the Dowager Marchioness, her words unflagging, “since Sir Hange is so very dear to him. But fear not, my dear, we shall have the whole of the season to ourselves.”

“Ah,” she repeated, the syllable now dripping with something less than eagerness. Realising her tone, she quickly corrected herself, offering, “I am quite positively excited, my lady.”

Lady Carla gave a small, refined sound that passed for delight. “Oh, Miss Mikasa, you and I shall be the best of friends.” She inched closer, her hand tightening on Mikasa’s arm. “And you mustn’t fret. I shall not allow you to choose poorly. One’s husband, after all, is a decision one must endure for the rest of one’s life.”

“I suppose you are pleased with your choice, my lady?” Mikasa ventured.

The Dowager Marchioness exhaled a soft, knowing sigh. “Oh, yes, I did well, my dear. Not a single regret. Now, when you find yourself in the same position, I do hope you’ll feel just as content in many years’ time.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “And fret not, I shall not be as demanding as your uncle, hmm? That, my dear, shall remain between us.”

Mikasa’s interest piqued, her brow arched in subtle surprise. “Are you suggesting you might disregard some of the rules he set for me ?”

The Dowager’s lips curved upward into a sly smile, her answer swift yet brimming with unspoken promises. “You could say that.” Then she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod before her gaze turned calculating. “But come, there are gentlemen tonight I would be delighted to introduce you to. Perhaps you’ll even meet the marquess.”

“Oh? The Marquess?” Mikasa blinked, her gaze a little too direct. “That means it—your son, my lady? Really?” 

The notion had, surprisingly, not occurred to her. The Dowager Marchioness would, of course, seize the opportunity to introduce her own son. But now that Mikasa thought about it, hadn’t Uncle Levi made some offhand remark about the Marquess of Shiganshina? Something about keeping one’s distance?

She studied her chaperone, trying to unravel the lady’s intentions with little success. “Can I truly get close to him?” she asked, her confusion plain.

The Dowager Marchioness smiled, a tight, knowing sort of smile, and, without a word, gestured towards the approaching moment. “Miss Mikasa, it’s almost your turn. Stand up straight, and simply be yourself.”

That, it seemed, was the limit of their conversation. The announcer by the door tapped his cane, and the words rang out, introducing Mikasa to society at large. “Miss Mikasa Ackerman, presented by the Right Honourable, the Dowager Marchioness Jaeger!”