"Your Highness," he said, bowing. "Owen Ferrers."
Julian’s dark eyes rested on him for a moment. "Lord Owen. Grand Duke Edmund’s younger son." He inclined his head. "You were announced earlier. Half the room has been looking at you since."
"So I’ve noticed."
"You took it well." Julian glanced briefly across the hall, toward the place where Marianne and her friends had been standing. "Better than most people do the first time."
Owen realized the prince had been watching that entire exchange from across the room. "You saw that?"
"It was difficult not to. Lady Marianne isn’t quiet." Something that was almost a smile touched the corner of Julian’s mouth and then disappeared. "Is this your first gathering here?"
"My first imperial one."
"And what do you think of it?"
Owen thought about it honestly. "It’s a lot of people who already know who I am before I’ve said a word."
Julian looked at him a little more closely. "Yes," he said. "That’s usually how it is."
He said it without any self-pity, simply as a fact, and Owen understood that he meant it from experience.
"Is it like that for you all the time?" Owen asked.
"Most of the time. People decide what you are from your name and your face, and then they talk to that." Julian turned his glass slowly in his fingers. "There are seven of us. Being the fourth means people usually look past you to someone else, which has its advantages."
"It’s not so different at home," Owen said. "Everyone in Ferrers territory expects a Ferrers son to be good with a sword. My brother made that easier for a while. He was good at everything first."
"And now?"
"Now I’m expected to keep up."
Julian considered him for a moment, and Owen had the odd feeling of being measured rather than judged. "You don’t seem to mind."
"I don’t, mostly. I like training." Owen shrugged. "I just didn’t expect to be asked about my love life by strangers within ten minutes of arriving."
This time, the smile did stay for a moment. "That question isn’t uncommon here."
Owen had a feeling, given how the prince looked and who he was, that Julian had heard it far more often than he had. He didn’t ask.
Julian’s eyes moved to Owen’s left side. "You’re standing as if something hurts."
Owen hadn’t realized it showed. His ribs had been aching since the carriage ride. "A rough journey. It’s nothing serious."
Julian didn’t press. He simply nodded, and Owen noticed that he didn’t look at the spot again.
"Do you come to this every year?" Owen asked.
"I wasn’t especially eager to come this year," Julian said. "My twin sister, Katarina, insisted."
"Insisted?"
"Katarina enjoys these far more than I do. Once she decided we were coming, arguing with her would have taken a great deal more effort than simply agreeing." He paused. "She usually wins anyway. She talks enough for both of us, and she knows I won’t say no to her."
Owen laughed. "She sounds determined."
"She is." There was real warmth in it, plain even through Julian’s reserve. "We’ve hardly ever been apart. If I didn’t come, she would have spent the whole evening telling everyone I was sulking."
"Were you?"
"A little," Julian admitted. "She’s helping Adelaide get ready now. She’ll come in with our elder sister when Adelaide makes her appearance."
That explained why Owen hadn’t seen either princess yet.
"Would you rather be somewhere else tonight?"
"Somewhere quieter," Julian said. Then, after a moment: "But this hasn’t been as tiresome as I expected."
Owen took that as a compliment, and he suspected that from Julian, it was a fairly large one.
As they talked, other nobles came over now and then to greet the prince. Julian received each of them politely and let the exchange end on its own when it was done. He didn’t seem to care whether anyone acknowledged his rank, and Owen found that it made him unusually easy to talk to.
By the time Clara and Elise came back from greeting their acquaintances, Julian was answering Owen’s questions without the brief pause he had used at first.
The sisters saw who Owen was talking to and slowed, then curtsied deeply.
"Your Highness," they said together.
"Your Highness, this is Lady Clara and Lady Elise Ashcombe," Owen said. "They came with me tonight."
"Lady Clara. Lady Elise." Julian inclined his head.
Clara was the first to speak, more carefully than usual. "It’s an honor, Your Highness. Are you enjoying the evening?"
"More than I expected to," Julian said, and glanced at Owen.
Elise said little at first. When the talk turned to the music, though, she remarked that the musicians were playing the same piece they had played two years ago, only faster.
"They always speed it up when they’re tired," Julian said.
Elise looked surprised, then almost smiled.
Owen was glad. Despite Julian’s position, the conversation stayed easy, and none of them seemed to be performing for anyone.
They were still talking when another announcement rang out from the entrance.
"Lord Alaric de Clare, son of Grand Duke Isembard de Clare. Lord Lucien de Clare, son of Grand Duke Isembard de Clare."
The effect was immediate.
Conversations faltered all around them. Heads turned toward the doors. A few nobles exchanged meaningful glances, and then, one after another, their eyes drifted toward Owen.
Owen noticed.
House de Clare was one of the Empire’s three Grand Ducal Great Families, equal in standing to his own. And the two houses had been rivals for generations.
It had started during a joint military campaign, several generations back. Their ancestors had fought over who held command and who controlled the valuable monster cores the campaign brought in, and it had ended with heavy losses on both sides. Each family had blamed the other for what went wrong.
The quarrel had never died. It had grown into generations of competition over military influence, territorial authority and access to resources. House Ferrers held that its ancestors had been wronged. House de Clare had its own version, and neither had ever accepted the other’s.
Owen turned toward the entrance.
Two young men stood beneath the great doors.
The elder was Alaric de Clare, two years older than Gareth. He carried himself with the ease of someone who had attended a great many gatherings like this one, and his formal clothes bore his family’s insignia. His face was composed as he acknowledged the attendants and let his eyes move across the room.
Beside him stood Lucien de Clare, about Owen’s own age. He was dressed just as finely, but there was nothing reserved about the way he held himself. He looked around the hall with open interest, plainly aware of every head that had turned toward them.
Around Owen, the whispers came quickly.
"There’s already a Ferrers here."
"Do you think they know?"
"They will in a moment."
A few of the older nobles near the walls were watching especially closely. They knew the history.
The music didn’t stop. The gathering stayed perfectly orderly. But the room’s attention had shifted toward the doors, and it didn’t shift back.
Julian had noticed too. He followed Owen’s gaze to the two brothers and said nothing, though Owen could see that he understood exactly what was happening.
Clara and Elise exchanged a glance. Both of them clearly realized the evening had just become more complicated.
Owen stayed calm. He had never quarrelled with either Alaric or Lucien in his life, and he had no intention of making a scene at Princess Adelaide’s ball over something their families had been arguing about since long before any of them were born.
But he knew perfectly well that the de Clare brothers might not see it the same way.
Lucien’s eyes travelled across the room and came to the group standing with Prince Julian. They settled on the silver Ferrers crest on Owen’s coat.
He stopped.
Alaric noticed where his brother was looking and turned to follow his gaze.
For a long moment, the sons of the two rival houses looked at one another across the ballroom.
Owen didn’t look away.