Fashion Show (1)
After Richard Mausoleum was exiled, the Mausoleum family’s fashion business was reborn under the name Lux.
Some argued that the young head’s ruthless rule shouldn’t be supported and even called for a boycott, but the guests at Lux’s launch party clearly didn’t feel that way.
“Wow… who are all these people? I thought a festival had broken out.”
The three-story Lux was packed with people.
Guests holding invitations waiting to enter, nobles without invitations trying to muscle their way in using connections, ambitious people hoping to get noticed by the powerful figures in line so they could introduce themselves.
Of course, many were simply there to watch. Nobles were always a source of interest and gossip.
“Look—there’s the Margrave’s carriage!”
“The engineers from the Grand Duke’s workshop are here too?”
“All four great houses are here. The Mausoleums, the Ishtars, the Shaklakas, the Kurshe family….”
“Those are the Knights of the Round Table!”
“That’s the carriage His Majesty used! Bow down!”
For the gawkers, the parade of arriving figures alone felt otherworldly.
But what really felt like another world was what greeted those who entered the party.
“What on earth…?”
Visitors wide-eyed stared at the runway.
On a long, lofty catwalk, handsome men and beautiful women strode confidently in outfits cut to fit each body perfectly.
At the end of the runway they struck signature poses that best showcased each garment, then walked off the stage.
“What is this? It’s not a play, not a ballroom… what is it…?”
“It’s called a fashion show.”
“Fash—ion show?”
Guests gaped and watched the dazzling spectacle.
Brilliant lights poured from a giant chandelier artifact to bathe the models.
The models walked the long runway in slightly different outfits each time, so there was never a dull moment.
You found yourself half-expecting: what will they wear next?
“Would you like a cocktail?”
Among the guests, waiters in red vests circulated offering drinks.
They gently shifted the crowd into the atmosphere of a standing reception.
Sharp-eyed people had already realized the aim.
“Mausoleum is trying to make this the center of society.”
For nobles living in Grenium, attending society events was not a matter of refinement but a necessity.
Even the notoriously infamous former Lord Mausoleum never missed the hunting tournaments.
Yet parties and hunts hosted by the Mausoleum family were famously poorly attended—Ishtar and the Church, who disliked the Mausoleums, often scheduled their own events to conflict.
But here would be different. Even if it was a bit of a charade, this place was fundamentally about buying and selling clothes.
“Clever move.”
A witch, her face hidden by a dark veil, murmured.
A few pillar figures, including the witch, had not declined Seymour’s invitation and attended the fashion show.
They were enjoying the show incognito or working the room to build connections with nobles.
But the witch’s attention was fixed entirely on Seymour.
“Struggling to step out from his father’s shadow, hm… he seems to have already surpassed it.”
She narrowed her eyes as she watched Seymour surrounded by nobles in the distance.
Under that handsome face, what expressions and thoughts lay hidden? The witch wanted to know desperately.
“To find a way to expand into other cities….”
In truth, the witch had little interest in expanding territory.
But if this would let her exercise stronger influence in Grenium, she was willing to be Seymour’s ally.
If, however, it was a lie—
If they were being deceived—
Seymour would pay the price.
The witch raised her cocktail in a mock toast toward Seymour.
The translucent cocktail glass reflected Seymour. She downed it in one breath.
“Congratulations, Count Mausoleum.”
“As expected, fashion suits the Mausoleum house!”
I accepted the congratulatory greetings pouring in from all directions with a light laugh.
“Thank you, Viscount Donovan. It’s the first time I’ve seen you since the funeral.”
“Ahaha. I was worried back then, but now even the late count would be at ease!”
“You flatter me. Oh, I hear you’re hosting a hunting tournament soon?”
“The Mausoleums have always been excellent hunters. I’ll invite you, Count—please do attend!”
“I’ll be sure to come.”
More congratulations, well-wishes, and polite society chatter followed.
“Congratulations to the little Radiant Dragon too.”
“Thanks.”
“Haha, you look remarkably pleased today as well.”
“Hmph.”
Those who greeted me also offered a word to Lucis.
Lucis accepted their greetings with a haughty expression as if she were the host of the place.
“Count, would you introduce my son to Herr Hetzling?”
At that, I glanced around.
A group of young gentlemen had gathered around me. All their eyes were on Lucis.
‘Did they come to this boring adult event just to see Lucis?’
Since Lucis’s identity was revealed at the succession ceremony, I had thought the powerful would someday come to covet a connection to her.
But one thing puzzled me.
‘Why are they only the young gentlemen?’
What was with the gender imbalance? It’d be easier to forge ties with peers of the same sex.
Then I realized the answer.
‘Could it be that after Lucis declared “He’s mine,” she went from being an object of admiration to a target for capture?’
I suppressed a sting of emotion.
To think of strategically pursuing a child not even a thousand and three years old? No matter how much noble society treated children’s engagements as political tools, this was excessive.
One saving grace: Lucis showed no interest in the ladies or the young suitors around her.
“Huh?”
She merely glanced around at the sudden focus of attention and turned her eyes to me.
Her indifference—enough to fluster those around her—made her appear less like a count’s daughter and more like an arrogant princess.
The spurned young men looked glum, but that was none of my concern.
“Count.”
“Ah—Lord Ishtar.”
A timely rescuer arrived.
When Irina Ishtar, daughter of a marquis, approached, the nobles awkwardly stepped back and cleared the way.
Irina, perhaps unaware of the situation, exchanged greetings with Lucis with a slightly uneasy expression.
‘The marquis didn’t come…’
I had sent an invitation to the great Ishtar family long ago, but I didn’t expect the marquis himself to attend. The two houses weren’t close enough to support one another at business launches.
‘Instead, he’s sent his daughter to represent him.’
Irina wore the uniform of her order, the Radiant Knights.
Her dazzlingly white uniform was overlaid with a purple surcoat the same shade as her eyes, and many turned away from the fashion show to stare at her.
“Oh… she’s lovely.”
“Aha, thank you.”
Lucis’s blunt compliment made Irina smile shyly.
I looked down at Lucis and asked, “Shall I have her show you around the tailor’s shop?”
“Yes!”
At our words, Irina also smiled brightly.
Irina’s first lesson would be scheduled after Lux’s launch had settled.
“That would be much appreciated.”
I decided to make further use of this effective noble deterrent.
Today’s fashion show invited only those of high rank, wealth, or influence.
It was a closed party composed of a kind of “celebrity” circle.
Needless to say, this was also part of the upmarket strategy.
‘A party’s level is determined not by where the ballroom is or the quality of food, but by the caliber of the guests.’
Therefore, I had instructed the knights at the door to firmly turn away those who showed up without invitations.
But even knights of the great Mausoleum house could not affront everyone.
“Greetings, Count Mausoleum. It’s been a while.”
I forced a smile at a person who had pushed through to the hall without an invitation.
“Saint.”
The Saint of the Twelve Churches.
If the Ishtar family were the Mausoleums’ historic secular rival, the Twelve Churches were their religious rival.
It goes without saying what sort of relationship existed between me, head of the Mausoleum house, and the Saint representing the Twelve Churches.
“……”
There was, however, one relation I hadn’t known about earlier.
The Saint’s grin twisted when he looked at Lucis.
Seeing that aggressive, challenging look, Lucis—
“Hmph.”
She snorted.
As if to say she would tolerate no such nonsense.
“…!”
A spark leapt to the Saint’s eyes.
The Saint of the Twelve Churches, Johannes, was not a devoutly pious man.
Yet he was certainly kind and clever.
‘People need the Church.’
The public needed a rule of heart to believe in and follow.
A refuge for the mind and shelter for the soul, a moral code and a fence of conscience. People needed such things.
‘The Church is necessary. The Saint is necessary too.’
Johannes, lacking any love for the divine or the institution, had nonetheless played the role of Saint out of duty and compassion for people.
‘That is why the Mausoleum family should not exist.’
They were simply evil—useless evil.
Seeing the descendants of evil living comfortable, prosperous lives would shake people’s belief that virtue is rewarded and vice punished.
Johannes, who loathed political engagement by the Church, had always led opposition to the Mausoleums.
But a dragon had descended upon the Mausoleum house.
And in a form that seemed to mock church doctrine: a white-haired, golden-eyed creature whose bloodline mixed the sacred Radiant Dragon with the cursed black dragon.
‘That thing is utterly harmful.’
The Church was thrown into confusion, and its followers were disoriented because of that small being before them.
The Saint twisted his mouth as he looked at Lucis.
“Huh?”
Lucis, perched on Seymour’s chest with her cheek pressed against him, opened her eyes at the sparks the Saint threw.
After briefly exchanging gazes with the Saint, she instead snorted as if she didn’t even need to turn her head.
“Hmph.”
As if to show she would watch nothing so petty.
“…!”
The Saint’s eyes widened. He wanted, even with a glance, to burn that thing to death.
Swoosh.
Seymour swung his shoulder to block the Saint’s gaze.
The Saint’s eyes naturally snapped toward Seymour. The look was as if he could burn anything to embers.
“!!!”
But the Saint involuntarily took a half step back when he met Seymour’s cold, steady stare.
“What’s the matter, Saint?” Seymour asked, leaning down with his bright yellow eyes, his head towering half a head above the Saint.
It was the look of a beast guarding its cub.
Lazy in posture, yet liable at any moment to turn and tear at anyone who threatened its young. The beast bared its fangs.
“Have you come to deliver a declaration of war?”
“A declaration of war…?”
“You looked as if you were about to tear apart the next head of our house.”
The next head? That hatchling?
Before the Saint could spit out anger or shock, something cold settled upon him.
It was the gaze of countless others.
“…!”
The Saint looked around in alarm.
Silence had already fallen over the hall.
Dozens of pairs of yellow eyes were trained on him; the Saint felt a chill run down his spine.
In the darkly lit indoor fashion hall, the Mausoleums, dressed in black suits with black hair, were all staring at the Saint.
Like leopards or snakes hiding in the shadow, their yellow eyes glinted.
“……”
The Saint swallowed nervously.
Seymour smiled and said languidly, “I don’t much mind, personally.”
