White Roses and Red Roses

Another sweltering summer had arrived.

By now, Ilisia had blossomed into a stunning beauty.

Her features had grown even more refined, her manners more graceful.

Even an absentminded smile from her could send boys her age into blushing, heart-fluttering fits of infatuation.

****

“Miss, Sherry hasn’t been feeling well lately, so I’ll be helping you dress today.”

A young maid stood respectfully by Ilisia’s bedside, carefully holding a set of garments.

Ilisia blinked slowly, lifted her arm, and let the maid gently dress her.

“I’ll go see her afterward,” Ilisia said softly.

Sherry had been her personal maid for years—now suddenly bedridden.

Ilisia entered Sherry’s room.

On the bed, Sherry’s face was pale as frost, utterly devoid of color. Her eyes were sunken, dark circles ringed them like bruises, and she lay half-conscious—breathing shallow, eyes barely open.

“Miss…” Sherry whispered weakly.

“Are you alright?” Ilisia asked.

“So… tired… but I can’t sleep,” Sherry exhaled. “They… *cough cough*… they keep disturbing me.”

Ilisia’s brow furrowed.

“Who?”

Sherry said nothing, only shook her head faintly.

Poor girl…

Ilisia studied Sherry for two long seconds, then deliberately chose not to entertain darker thoughts.

Probably just fever dreams from being so unwell.

She reached out and gently patted Sherry’s hand. “Rest well. I’ll have someone bring you some calming honeyed milk.”

Sherry nodded drowsily.

****

Back in her bedroom, Ilisia took a deep breath.

She walked to the mirror and gazed at her reflection—exhausted, yes, but still undeniably radiant.

Slowly, she raised her hand.

*Slap!*

She lightly slapped her own cheeks, then lifted the corners of her mouth.

Instantly, a flawless, picture-perfect smile appeared.

Queen of elegance and poise—once again!

These past few days had nearly drained her dry.

Today was the coming-of-age ceremony of the Southern Warden’s eldest son—a minor event on its own, but it coincided with the Warden’s own birthday.

So the celebration had escalated into a grand martial tournament.

The venue was set within Duke Wenser’s territory: a scenic expanse of open meadow ringed by endless flower fields, conveniently close to the noble families’ estates—making it ideal for large gatherings.

This tournament was so grand that even the king had dispatched the royal convoy to visit Duke Wenser’s lands.

Also in attendance were Crown Prince Damian, heir apparent to the throne, and Princess Heronie, the Holy Saintess who commanded the Church.

“Finally… I’ll meet Prince Damian,” Ilisia murmured to herself.

At that moment, a maid wheeled in a garment rack.

Hanging on it was a white-and-gold velvet gown, meticulously crafted by the duke’s finest tailor.

Golden threads wove intricate patterns across the snow-white silk, blossoming along the hem and sleeves like gilded flowers blooming across fresh snow.

It screamed wealth.

Ilisia inspected the gown with satisfaction, then gave a slight nod. The servants helped her into the ceremonial attire.

Once dressed, she made her way to the main hall.

“Father.”

She greeted Duke Wenser, whose face was etched with fatigue.

The duke nodded, reached out to smooth his daughter’s hair, and managed a faint smile. “You look beautiful.”

Ilisia noticed the deep shadows beneath his eyes and sighed inwardly.

Poor Dad.

The duke had been overwhelmed lately—dealing with uprisings in neighboring territories, buried in paperwork, rarely leaving his study.

And now, the king and the Southern Warden had chosen *his* land to host this extravagant tournament.

Absurd.

The cost of the event was trivial—but the security logistics of gathering so many nobles in one place? A nightmare.

Thankfully, today was the tournament’s final day. After the evening banquet, the nobles would finally return home.

****

In the spectators’ stands, Ilisia and her mother and sisters took their seats right on time.

Sunlight filtered through ornate canopies, glinting off their matching white-and-gold gowns until they shimmered like divine beings descended to earth.

But truthfully, no one was really watching them.

All eyes were on the main event—sword duels, the climax of the tournament.

Young noblemen from various houses would take the stage, including none other than Prince Damian himself.

They wielded blunted training swords, performing the kingdom’s refined “Dawnblade Form”—a style prized for its elegance, perfect for ceremonial sport.

As for the real, lethal swordsmanship?

That was left to common soldiers and monster hunters—brutal, efficient, even vulgar in the eyes of high society.

Nobles despised it.

Ilisia rested her chin in her hand, watching the bouts unfold.

Her eldest brother, Charles Wenser, though diligent in his lessons, simply lacked talent.

Predictably, he was defeated within moments by the son of some minor rural noble.

Ilisia buried her face in her palm.

That country boy wasn’t even skilled—his form was sloppy and reckless.

Yet Charles still lost.

She silently thanked the stars her father hadn’t witnessed this humiliation—or he might’ve collapsed from sheer despair.

Her second brother, Simon Wenser, wasn’t much better.

But his opponent was Cassius—Ilisia’s childhood friend and the undisputed sword prodigy of noble society.

Though Simon lost, he earned a measure of honor in defeat.

Prince Damian, of course, won with effortless grace.

Each victor received a rose—white or red—and would present it to a lady of their choosing in the stands.

Prince Damian held a white rose. Cassius, a crimson one.

Both approached Ilisia—and both offered their flowers to her.

Not just them, either. Several other young nobles came forward with bouquets, though Ilisia didn’t bother memorizing their names.

Still, more roses meant more prestige—always a good thing.

Ilisia maintained her poised smile, accepting each gift with elegant gratitude.

But she’d smiled so much, so artificially, that by the end of the matches, her cheeks ached.

When the prince himself presented his rose, however, her joy was genuine.

Prince Damian’s features weren’t as finely chiseled as Cassius’s—but his regal bearing, paired with hair that gleamed like a golden crown in the sunlight…

When their eyes met, Ilisia’s heart actually skipped a beat.

Regardless, she now had the prince’s favor—and had become the undisputed center of attention.

She deliberately slowed her hand as she took the flower, letting her gaze sweep the crowd.

Pity. Her arch-nemesis Bella was absent today, reportedly unwell.

Ilisia’s eyes dimmed slightly with disappointment—until they landed on the far corner of the stands.

Adrian.

Yes—the reclusive young master who avoided social events like plague had actually shown up… and had been coming every day this week.

Probably assigned by his mother.

For the past few days, Adrian had sat in that corner with the expression of a man attending his own funeral—bored, sour, barely watching the matches.

But today was different.

His face wasn’t as grim.

In fact—he was even smiling?

Ilisia’s eyes narrowed.

Beside him sat a red-haired girl.

They were chatting animatedly, almost… comfortably.

What… is… going… on?!