The morning in the rose garden had left Mireille with Walter's profile lingering in her mind ever since. That face, clouded with emotions she couldn't quite sort through. The way he'd bowed and apologized—"I apologize for my rudeness"—before hurrying out of the garden. She still didn't fully understand what it had all meant. (But tonight is the soirée. I can't afford to dwell on such things.) Mireille switched gears in front of the mirror. The grand ballroom in the western wing of the royal palace—a step down in formality from the throne room, making it a somewhat more relaxed gathering, though still a formal affair with over sixty nobles in attendance. She understood that the invitation had come as part of the process of selecting a marriage candidate for House Salyes. Socializing. Information gathering. And an opportunity to make an impression. Her dress was a deep navy blue. Not too flashy, not too plain. Her lustrous black bob fell to her shoulders, and the strange pattern on her left wrist was barely visible beneath her sleeve cuff. Mireille confirmed it, then pulled on her longer gloves. Everything was ready. The moment she opened the ballroom doors, a wave of candlelight and perfume washed over her. Chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, their golden light reflecting off the marble floor. An orchestra played soft melodies, and several couples were already dancing. Tall potted plants lined the walls at regular intervals, and nobles clustered in their shadows, deep in conversation. Mireille noticed something odd the moment she entered the hall. A shadow. Or rather—a figure as pale as a shadow, with silver hair, was following three steps behind her at an angle. It was Walter Firtina. "[serious]…Your Highness, you're attending tonight as well," "[serious]I have escort duties," "My escort, you mean?" "[serious]That's correct," That was all he said. Mireille kept her eyes forward and thought for a moment. (…Escort. Now that I think about it, he appeared suddenly in the night corridor before too. It seems he intends to stay close from the start tonight.) Being shadowed by an escort at a social gathering was rather inconvenient. She wanted to speak with the nobles, but if the First Prince was standing behind her, they'd be intimidated. That became reality sooner than expected. The moment Mireille tried to approach a young man from a marquis family—someone she'd seen at the Holy Light Academy—Walter stepped forward. "[cold]I must ask that you not approach her," His voice was low. Restrained, but carrying an irresistible pressure. The marquis's son's face went pale. "I-I apologize," he stammered, bowing hastily before hurrying away. Mireille stopped in her tracks. (…That was, admittedly, too much.) She turned around. Walter's expression was cool. His ice-blue eyes followed the departing man's back for a moment, then turned to her. The white scar on his left cheek caught the chandelier's light. "[serious]Is there something displeasing you?" "…No," Mireille turned forward without another word. She was displeased. Very displeased. But arguing here would only attract more onlookers. (I'll speak to him later, somewhere quiet.) The countess who tried to approach next also noticed Walter's presence and merely nodded before leaving. The viscount's daughter across the room caught sight of them, then looked away and walked in another direction. Before long, a conspicuous empty space had formed around Mireille. By the wall of the hall, a group in jade-colored dresses stood gathered. The regular attendees of the social salon hosted by Queen Katarina—the Emerald Salon. Their eyes kept glancing this way, their lips moving. The sound didn't reach her, but she could imagine the content well enough. Something like "A fallen noble monopolizing the prince's escort" or similar gossip. Mireille maintained her expression and let out a small breath. (I see. This is not a laughable situation.) Her cheeks felt slightly warm. Not embarrassment, exactly—more like confusion transforming into heat. Then she saw a familiar chestnut-colored head approaching from the opposite side of the hall. Leon. He was dressed in his formal attire as Crown Prince—a white dress uniform with gold trim—and the ear cuff on his left ear reflected the candlelight. His expression was calm, but his eyes weren't smiling. He clearly understood the situation. "[sarcastic]Walter. May I have a word?" "[serious]What is it, brother?" "[serious]We need to talk. Come with me," His voice was gentle, but it left no room for refusal. Walter glanced at Mireille once, then silently followed Leon. Watching the two of them leave through a side door, Mireille felt some of the tension drain from her. (That was a relief…) But in the next moment, she recognized the situation anew. She was alone in the middle of the ballroom. Nobles surrounded her, and no matter which way she looked, there were eyes on her. The ladies of the Emerald Salon were huddling together, still whispering about something, seizing their chance. (…This is uncomfortable in its own way.) Mireille straightened her posture and took a glass of wine. She didn't intend to drink it, but holding it made her look less idle. The soirée continued. --- As the night deepened, people gradually left the hall. Leon returned about an hour later. Walter did not. Leon came to Mireille's side and whispered, "I've calmed my brother down for now." He added, "Though what he's actually thinking… I can't entirely say," with a somewhat apologetic expression. "[gentle]If Miss Mireille was made uncomfortable, I apologize," "[serious]No, it's fine. I simply wish to speak with someone. Not with you, Your Highness, but with Prince Walter," Leon looked slightly surprised. "[surprised]With Walter?" "[serious]There must be a reason for his actions. It's faster to hear the reason than to stop him outright," Leon was silent for a while, then slowly nodded. "[gentle]…You face Walter quite honestly, don't you? Most people find him frightening," "[serious]I do find him frightening. But I don't believe a frightening person lacks reasons for their actions," Leon laughed softly. He said nothing more after that. When the soirée reached its closing hour, Mireille left the hall. --- The moonlit corridor was quiet again tonight. White moonlight streamed through the glass ceiling, painting geometric patterns on the polished stone floor. Rose shadows swayed. The hundred-twenty-meter corridor became an entirely different place at night. When Mireille entered the corridor, he was there. Looking out the window. His silver hair, bathed in moonlight, gleamed pale white. A tall frame of one hundred eighty-five centimeters. The white scar on his left cheek. Still in his formal evening wear—a deep navy suit nearly black—he stood as if unable to go anywhere. It was Walter. "[serious]…Your Highness," He didn't turn around. "[serious]You came," "[serious]I was just passing through. But—may I speak with you for a moment?" There was silence. Not a long one, but a dense silence. "[serious]…Please do," Mireille stood beside him. She looked out the window as well. The moon hung high. Stars were visible too. The night view of the royal capital Fonteluce spread out below the hills. "[serious]I don't intend to apologize for what happened tonight," Walter seemed to move slightly. "[serious]I simply wanted to hear why you act that way. If Your Highness felt nothing, you wouldn't move like that," A long silence. Walter's profile moved slightly in the moonlight. His ice-blue eyes shifted from the window to—some undefined point. "[whispers]…There was someone I couldn't protect," His voice was low. Even lower than usual. "It was when I was fifteen. Someone close to me was surrounded by multiple people at a social gathering. I was there, but I couldn't move. I misread the situation and simply stood there. That alone was enough to wound that person deeply," Mireille said nothing. She simply listened. "Since then, I haven't been able to leave someone alone in a place where people gather. I just can't," "[serious]But driving others away—" "I know," Something unusual mixed into Walter's voice. Not self-mockery, exactly—something tired, resigned, yet unable to fully resign itself. Something complex. "I know it's excessive. Yet I can't help it. Every time you try to speak with someone, I find myself questioning whether that man is trustworthy. Every person who approaches makes me wonder if there's hostility in their eyes. …My reason tells me it's excessive," Mireille looked at his profile. Sharp eyes. A white scar. The face of someone who had carried that memory for twelve years since he was fifteen. (He's clumsy. But—this person is telling the truth.) "[gentle]Your Highness," "[gentle]I can stand alone. Even if I falter, I have the strength to rise again," Walter turned to face her. "[gentle]But if you're beside me—that too is the truth. It gives me strength," Walter's expression changed in the moonlight. Surprise. His ice-blue eyes widened in a way that was rare for him. Then—slowly, as if the hardness were melting away, he gave a small nod. "…I see," This "I see" was entirely different from before. --- The two walked slowly through the corridor together. There was little conversation. But the silence wasn't heavy. Moonlight illuminated their path, and rose shadows swayed. "[serious]From now on, I will respect your will," His words were blunt. But that was Walter. "[gentle]Thank you," "…However," "[serious]However?" "[serious]If I judge something to be dangerous, you will comply," Mireille laughed softly. "[gentle]…Is there room for negotiation?" "[serious]There is not," An immediate answer. Mireille laughed again, a bit more openly this time. "[gentle]Very well. That's acceptable," When they reached the end of the corridor, where it branched toward the eastern wing's quarters and the western wing, the two stopped. Walter gave a slight bow. "[serious]Good night, Mireille," He had called her by her given name—not her surname—for the first time. Mireille noticed it for a moment, then nodded naturally. "[gentle]Good night, Your Highness," Walter's back receded into the distance. His silver hair dissolved into the moonlight. Mireille remained where she was, unmoving for a while. (…Someone he couldn't protect.) She didn't know what fifteen-year-old Walter had witnessed, or who had been wounded. But it had shaped him into who he was tonight. That excessive, forceful, clumsy behavior. Something deep in her chest grew warm. A different presence stirred in the corridor beyond. From the shadows of the eastern wing's hallway, chestnut-colored hair was barely visible. Leon. Arms crossed, leaning against the wall, watching her. How much of their exchange had he seen? When their eyes met, Leon's expression grew complex. He raised his hand slightly. He seemed to want to say something, but didn't. He simply turned on his heel and disappeared into the depths of the corridor. Mireille watched his retreating figure and exhaled slowly in the moonlight. Two princes. Each carrying their own weight in their own way. The days ahead in this royal palace seemed to have gained another layer.