The Auroran Season was internationally equally admired and ridiculed for its sheer ostentatiousness, a grand spectacle of extravagance put on every (galactic calendar) summer by the collective of the rich and the privileged of the kingdom. It had its very obvious background from its namesake that had originated in 18th Century Great Britain, and although that one had disappeared due to increasing equality in economic and social standing between the classes, and the effective disappearance of the aristocracy, the founding fathers and mothers of Aurora had revived it a few decades after the Revised Constitution of 2236/2248. It had been a blatant attempt to entrench their social prestige in contrast to the newly politically enfranchised commoners, but despite its thoroughly elitist backdrop, it had stuck and become a seasonal fixture much like any other holiday period. While its (re-)inception certainly raised the eyebrows of most people, and produced disgusted sounds from those of an egalitarian mind-set, it had evolved considerably over the centuries. The Season had by the summer of 2874 become a multifaceted beast that combined politics, social prestige, entertainment, professional advancement, personal networking, and of course dynastic dynamics. Every five years, the Season also became quite a bit more heated and exciting, since as soon as the Proms concluded, there were only four short weeks before general elections for the House of Commons. And since Parliament was out during summer, members of Parliament and incumbent seats in the Lords spent considerable time and energy to build their campaign platforms among the well-off and potential allies for the coming electoral period. And it just so happened that 2874 was an election year.

While many of the different events and shindigs of the Season took place all over Aurora, and some even in the planet’s orbit, it was expected that those who wanted to participate would repair to the capital of Cordelia. Large parts of the planetary nobility, and some from the other worlds of the Kingdom, already owned property in the capital city, but a considerable amount did not, and neither did many of the non-aristocratic participants, which meant that the average rent skyrocketed in Cordelia during the summer months. Many with adequately sized and furnished tenements and lodgings made a pretty penny by letting these for a few months, and went on extended vacations to the countryside or off-world, living grand off the rents they got. Which in turn made it somewhat ironic that the decidedly grandest event of the entire seven-week Season was held at a grand manor on the very outskirts of the county of Alba, two-hundred odd kilometres east of Cordelia. However, if invited to the Duchess of New Forest’s Ball, one certainly did not turn down the invitation.

Goldstag Hall was a massive country manor complex built in the Neo-Georgian style, featuring adjoining gardens, a truly majestic landscape park complete with a fairly sizable artificial lake, all bordered by exquisitely maintained hedgerows and tall-growing flowerbeds. Despite located a continent away from the eponymous duchy of its owners, Goldstag Hall was the foremost country estate of the Allencourts of New Forest, and widely regarded as one of the finest residences in the Kingdom, bar the royal palaces (and some argued that it was superior to even a few of those).

The quadruple argentwood doors at the top of the stairs of the grand entrance were wide open, the cobblestone path leading up to it a tightly orchestrated dance of liveried footmen opening the doors of the stately groundcars which were constantly arriving, before another welcomed the disembarking guests and led them into the princely entrance hall. As a courtesy, soldiers from the New Forest Fusiliers Regiment, dressed in scarlet-and-black parade uniforms, wearing dark grey berets with a traditional white-red fusilier hackle, were posted along the path and stairs. The Allencourts took their affiliation with the Army very seriously, and made it a point that at least one in the main family in every generation was a serving member of the regiment that bore their name. Past the carpeted entrance hall, the guests were escorted through a set of hallways until they reached the grand ballroom. At full capacity, the ballroom could comfortably hold about nine hundred people, even when making room for dancing, but there were far more than that invited to the ball, so there was a tendency to ambulate between other locations on the estate, like the accompanying drawing rooms, the inner fountain court, the rose gardens, and the libraries. A veritable army of footmen were on call in every conceivable location where guests might wander, there to politely attend to their needs. The balls of the Season were primarily for the young, who were as a rule much more excited for the splendour and occasion of the ball, and they were the ones who generally frequented the floor, whilst their parents or chaperones (if in attendance) often retreated to adjoining rooms to calmly catch up or discuss other matters over a glass or four.

The inlaid pillars of the ballroom, as well as the far walls, were decorated with golden vines snaking up from the floor, joining and intertwining in each other, standing out against the alabaster paint of the wall beneath. The roof was a single, massive fresco depicting the legend of Daphnis and Chloē, painstakingly hand-painted in the old Renaissance style. The long side walls however, were even more exciting. The sixth duke of New Forest, the one who had had Goldstag Hall built, had been an avid and adroit student of literature, and he had wanted his new family home to reflect that interest. At a distance, the walls were covered by a muted green wallpaper decorated with stems and blooms of multi-coloured orchids, but upon closer inspection, there were literally hundreds and hundreds of references to classical literature in form of very small vignettes and motifs hidden among the flowers.

A slender, grey-gloved finger traced the figures on the wall. It knowingly caressed the figure of Sigurd as he laid in wait to kill Fafnir, the sword Gram in his hand. Over there was the grieved Orpheus falling to his knees as he inadvertently looked back, just to see his beloved Eurydike disappear into the shadows. And a bit up on the wall was the armoured figure of Fingolfin, his mail reflecting the fiery malice of Morgoth as he challenged the Dark Lord to single combat.

Adea’s face lit up into a toothy smile at the recognition, fond memories of her youth bubbling up to the surface, but she quickly sobered as she became aware that Lord and Lady… Clyde? No, the bloody Coldbournes, get a damn grip, silly girl, were watching and veritably jumped up from her crouched stance and curtsied politely, before making herself scarce, merging with the ballroom crowd. The two other nobles managed to camouflage their amused smiles admirably enough. Despite her own best attempts to portray herself with a sangfroid and world-accustomed attitude in public, Adea was actually prone to slip into the role of the teenager she actually was, and she bloody hated it when it happened in front of others of her same social class. The self-same young noblewoman hurried back onto the periphery of the dance floor, furiously wafting her folding fan to obscure her embarrassed flush. She wore a slim, salmon robe à la grecque, with its traditional high waistline, and comfortably falling skirts which made dancing so much easier than the more elaborate robe à la française. In addition, she wore a pair of comfortable yet fashionable pearl-studded cream faux-leather flats, and a long set of pale grey gloves that almost reached her shoulders. Her hair was expertly formed into a partial bun, her bangles heavily curled to create a contrasting style, something her handmaid Charlotte had done with the gusto of a true fashion aficionado. One of the rules of the Season was that only debutantes were allowed to wear white dresses, and while that was Adea’s favourite colour, she had to accede to the regulations of the social class she adhered. Charlotte had been insistent that the dress she currently wore really accented the colour of her hair and her pale complexion, and Adea was inclined to agree with her slightly hyperactive handmaid.

“I bloody hate this getup,” a familiar male voice grumbled from behind her, and she turned with a grin on her face which she covered with her fan, her other hand holding a tall-stemmed glass of Gordias passimento rosso, but the corner of her eyes crinkled with amusement.

“Why, brother dear, you look absolutely splendid tonight; I have no inkling as to what you might infer, your tailoring is superb.”

Aubrey Aurelian Carlisle-St. Eiron was almost the spitting image of their father; very tall, slender, with slightly wavy dark hair, and the trademark Carlisle ice blue eyes. Well, one of them at least, his left was the same glacier hue as Adea’s, while the right was Iphigenia St. Eiron’s jade green. He was dressed in a black suit with long tailcoats, and the traditional upturned white shirt collar of the haute couture of the well-off, a garnet tie formed in a complicated knot around it. The jacket tapered off around the waist creating a contrasting style which was emphasised further by Aubrey’s burgundy satin waistband.

“Correction,” he veritably seethed between clenched teeth, “I don’t hate this getup in particular, the fact of the matter is that I hate this entire setting that has made the wearing of this stupid outfit necessary. There is a bloody reason I chose to spend the past four years in New Angers on Angevin rather than strut around with this pretentious lot.”

“Welcoming, the Lady Suncrest, and the Lady New Ophelia.”

The footmen at the door to the great ballroom politely announced each guest as they arrived, but not so loudly as to intrude on the conversations happening on the dance floor.

Aubrey, meanwhile, was trying to the best of his irritated abilities to keep his voice down, but Adea cast anxious glances around to make sure no one overheard. She stepped close to him, wrapped her arm around his and leaned in, collapsing her fan.

“You might want to keep your voice down, or else you’ll have a Lord What-the-Hell-upon-Nowhere or a Lady Thefuckhill reporting this to everyone in their circle of friends. Papa and Mama have enough on their plates already than you going about making a stink among the good company of the Kingdom. Remember, you actually do have a set of social responsibilities.”

Aubrey looked like he wanted to physically spit on the ground, but he managed to control his temper at least somewhat, and laid his opposite hand over the one his sister had looped around the crook of his left.

“You’re right as always, Aditsa, and it annoys me no end. I’ve always dreaded the Season, since long before I was eligible, and I doubt it will get any better once I enrol in King William’s Academy.”

Adea pursed her lips.

“No, I don’t imagine it will. Up until now, you’ve had the convenient excuse of education abroad, prioritising your studies over the time of travel from Angevin to Aurora during the weeks the Season takes place. But since King William’s is located on Landfall Isle, just a skip away with a shuttle, you’re pretty boned in the future.”

Aubrey chuckled morbidly at that before his face formed a grimace.

“Welcoming, the Marquess of Blackshore, and the Lady Isolde.”

“I wish I had been born with your ability to fit in, Aditsa,” he said, his tone and facial expression serious, “you’ve always been able to effortlessly glide in and out of any social roles that’s required of you. One moment you’re affable and down to earth when talking to a servant or a shopkeeper, the next you switch up your accent and your physical mannerism when you come across someone noble born. I have never learnt to be comfortable with that.”

Adea actually blushed a bit at the comment from her older brother, and led him further away from a group of similarly aged attendees who had been suspiciously getting closer and closer.

“I know, dear brother, which is why what I am about to say is going to hurt you even more. A few days ago, Papa and Mama were discussing to grant you…”

She didn’t get to complete her sentence before a familiar figure appeared before them. Horace Sciacca, eldest son of the Marquess of Howeland, was dressed in a similar style as Aubrey, apart from the fact that his waistband was a fierce turquoise. His hue was as bronzed as his younger brother Valerio’s, but his personality was a good deal more easy-going, and he flashed a warm smile of recognition.

“Why, if it isn’t the prodigal Lord Darkmoor returned from his self-imposed exile?” His comment could have been misconstrued had it not been for his grinning face. “How does it feel to be back on God’s anointed soil again, Aubrey?”

“I fucking hate it, thanks for asking, Harry,” Aubrey said, untangling his sister’s arm from under his own, “I didn’t come back to the homeworld to be bowing to the likes of Duke Dawnshire and his ilk.”

The use of titles among the nobility was to many outside the good company of the upper crest quite confusing. Alistair, Adea and Aubrey’s father, was the Marquess of Sélincourt, while their mother Iphigenia was the Countess Darkmoor. However, since they had both inherited their titles directly, they were not entitled to each other’s lands and titles unless specified in their wills, and as such Iphigenia would not be any more “Lady Sélincourt” than Alistair could be “Lord Darkmoor” since their titles were of equal rank. As such, these titles were given to their children, despite the fact that Aubrey was the eldest and in line to inherit the Sélincourt estates, while Adea would inherit Darkmoor, their titles were switched around to “avoid” confusion. For someone like Horace, despite being the eldest son of the Marquess of Howeland, was simply referred to as “Lord Horace”, because there was no other titles applicable to him. Many nobles with several titles to their name often chose to defer one of the junior titles to their children. Confusing? Yes. Did it work? Also yes, if you were able to pay close enough attention.

“Welcoming, the Duke and Duchess of New Brabant, as well as Lady Bernadetta.”

“I hear,” Horace said mischievously as he folded his hands behind his back, “that you’re going into the Navy this coming spring. Might I offer my congratulations and also condolences; it hurts my poor sensibilities to see the Kingdom losing such a formidable mathematician to the droll and thankless task of serving on a King’s ship.”

Aubrey punched Horace lightly on the shoulder, the offending noble making a show of acting outraged and physically hurt before his face split into a grin once more.

“Well, do say hello to brother once you get over there,” he said while lightly rubbing his shoulder. “Valerio might have decided to cut ties with our family, but he apparently has the good sense of serving His Majesty, despite the fact that he has renounced his claims to the Howeland title. He’s graduating with a degree in astronavigation come next spring and is enrolling in the Navy after his customary excessive celebratory revelling are over.”

“Hang on,” Adea interrupted, her voice dripping with knowing sarcasm, “Valerio is cut off from the Howelands? Whenever did this happen?” Horace gave her an annoyed glance before clearing his throat.

“Ah, it’s not exactly public knowledge as of yet, despite being the source of hearsay in the clubs for quite some time,” Horace replied somewhat sheepishly, “but the hints are all out there. Valerio chose to settle in a small flat in the Lysander-on-Goneril ward instead of closer to the Quarters or the Rose, and he’s not been in attendance of a single proper shindig for two years. In addition, he enrolled into Queen Marie’s Metropolitan after getting accepted for the New Victoria University’s orbital engineering programme, giving them the middle finger after he learned how high their fees were. And he only opted for Queen Marie’s instead as it is a public university, since he apparently couldn’t land a scholarship. All of that just skirts around the issue of the screaming matches he had with Father before he moved to Cordelia, how he wanted to chart out his own course and how he loathed the intended path forward expected of him, due to the nature of his noble birth. Naturally, that means me or Beatrice have to pick up the mantle. Not that much has changed in reality; Valerio is a third child after all.” That last comment was accompanied by a weary shrug.

“Welcoming, Lord and Lady Pembroke.”

Their discussion was interrupted by the orchestra at the far end of the ballroom finishing their piece and the crowd politely applauded their performance, before they started anew with what sounded to Adea’s relatively untrained ear to be one of Orhenzky’s early sonatas. The music wasn’t loud enough to intrude on the conversations on the floor, otherwise there wouldn’t have been much point of them assembling in the ballroom in the first place. Adea was about to comment on the chosen path of the youngest Howeland when a familiar figure appearing in the corner of her eye caught her attention. Grinning widely, she sprang out, grabbed the nook of the arm of the surprised girl and pulled her into the semi-circle of conversation. Nimue Hastings, the future Countess of Seraphim, could best be described as an unwilling wallflower; she was of Nova Caledonian stock, which was quite exotic considering the small aristocracy of that most sparsely populated Auroran world. She was a slight girl, with hair so black it almost took on a purple shine, and freckled pale skin that betrayed her original Scots ancestry, eyes like dark green pools, and mannerisms that seemed to scream “excuse me for existing”, her shoulders slumped and neck always slightly craned downwards. Nevertheless, she was one of Adea’s best friends, a good listener and surprisingly adept at coming up with good advice regarding most social situations, despite her own discomfort when forced upon them.

Horace Sciacca bowed deeply as she awkwardly was pulled into the conversational circle, tucking her hair behind her ears. Adea could not help but note the fine grey dress she wore, every part as well tailored as her own, albeit less eye-catching, though with some exquisite laced hems.

“Lady Nimue, what a genuine pleasure to see you here, I didn’t believe you would find the courage to attend such an overtly, agh!”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence before Aubrey dug an elbow in Horace’s ribs, and Adea’s brother bowed courteously.

“Forgive my uncouth friend here, he doesn’t know when to shut the hell up. I’m just glad you’re still here in the capital, Lady Nimue.”

“O-oh…” the noblewoman in question stammered, “my parents wanted me to attend, Lord Darkmoor, so it’s not like I had that much of a choi…”

Her cheeks turned pink as she realised the faux-pas her comment might be construed as, but she was helpfully saved by the fact that the orchestra cut their performance mid-bar. The footmen serving as heralds by the doors of the ballroom had been politely calling out the arriving guests, but now they straightened up which sent a wave of energy throughout the ballroom.

“Welcoming,” the duo of footmen proclaimed in unison, “Her Royal Highness, the Princess Royal Valerie, and His Royal Highness, Prince Constantine.”

As they were announced, the band played up the ancient anthem of the royalty which had not changed at all for literally millennia, the guests placing hands over their hearts as the musicians played the first verse of “God Save the King”. Anyone wearing a military uniform in the ballroom immediately came to attention; the rest bowed or curtsied in the direction of the wide admittance doors as soon as the music started. The two royal scions waited for the music to die down before they made their way onto the ballroom proper, walking up to the Duchess of New Forest and to thank her for the invitation.

Princess Valerie wore a pristine white robe à la grecque, since this was her first Season, despite the fact that she had been eligible for years now, whilst Prince Constantine wore the gilded mess dress uniform of a sub-lieutenant of the Royal Navy, complete with his scabbarded sword and the prominent St. George medal on his chest where his service medals ought to have been had he actually been serving for a few years on a deployed man-of-war. Alas, he was but a recent King William’s graduate, but his elevated station made it almost mandatory to wear at least some of the honours bestowed upon his family over the centuries. Princess Valerie was as pale as ever, which sent a pang of sympathy down the spine of both Adea and Aubrey, as they recognised she wasn’t all that recovered as she claimed in the media; in fact, Adea seemed to discern that the Princess was even slimmer than she was a few months ago, and that was bad news for a girl already visibly underweight and unhealthy.

No matter, the princess in question was wearing the widest grin and as soon as her courteous duty to her host was carried out, she spiked out a course for the discussing circle of friends, stopping along the way to greet curtseying Lady New Ophelia, Lord Charleston, and Miss Lohengrin. Not everyone invited to Duchess New Forest’s Ball were nobles, but at the same time, no one were commoners either; just north of sixty per cent were true nobility, whilst the rest were from esquire or gentry families, which explained why people like the Lohengrins, the Cleruchs, and the Barhams were in attendance, although Adea had yet to catch a glimpse of her best friend, Sandy. Typical if the stupid girl got the dates messed up, Adea mentally vocalised half-humorous, half-irritated. Oh my God, the alcohol might be taking a hold of me. Still, she cast a quick glance around, and not seeing her admonishing admiral father around, who had also been in attendance, most likely off to one of the lounge rooms to discuss politics with one Countess or Earl another, she snapped her fingers and as a footman materialised, she placed her empty wait, when did I empty that? wineglass on his tray.

“Something stronger,” she said quietly, “and more sophisticated, if you please.”

The footman nodded in understanding and vanished into the crowd.

“Your Royal Highnesses,” Aubrey said as he bowed politely as Valerie joined their small group, her brother catching up after a short stop to talk to Lord Pembroke. “I hope you have been well since last I saw you?” The seemingly innocent question sent spikes up Adea’s spine, but seeing Valerie not outwardly reacting to it, she relaxed a bit.

“Thank you, Lord Darkmoor,” Valerie responded with a wide grin that exposed her perfectly white teeth, “we have been doing fairly well, have we not, dear brother of mine?”

Prince Constantine Alexios James was perhaps just a bit taller than Aubrey, his hair brown unlike the customary de Roze hue which was jet-black, but the brother and sister had the same shining amethyst eyes. Constantine’s physically impressive frame made a formidable figure in his naval uniform, despite his lack of seniority and the absence of wide golden bars and epaulettes on his tunic, but he still managed to produce a royal air about himself that his poor sister Valerie tragically seemed to lack.

“Lord Darkmoor,” the second in line to throne of Aurora said in a husky tone with an accompanying courteous nod in everyone’s direction, “Lord Horace, Lady Sélincourt, Lady Nimue, how delightful that you could all make it out here to the Duchess’ ball.”

“I, for one,” Adea said, rising to the social bait, “wouldn’t miss it for the world, and I know for a fact that my dear brother came all the way back from Angevin to partake in this particular Season’s festivities.”

Prince Constantine fixed his lilac eyes upon Aubrey and Adea could have sworn her brother came to attention.

“Is that so, Lord Darkmoor?” the prince said in dulcet tones, “if so I must commend your dedication to the social obligations of your family. For my case, I’m mostly here to take the spot of my older brother George, who’s been detained on his way back from Cymru. The usual Light Way shenanigans he assured in an e-letter, the Aurora Regina has dropped out somewhere near Psi Capriconis to recharge her drive.”

“So, Your Highnesses,” Adea asked as the previous footman rematerialized with a glass of Summer Isle cognac which she grabbed with a certain amount of already intoxicated gusto, “what is your impression of the Season so far?”

The princess snapped her fingers and another footman appeared with a tall glass of champagne, which the royal… girl really, accepted with innate grace of movement before fixing Adea with a gleaming gaze.

“It’s been splendid, Aditsa,” she said, speaking quickly, almost brimming over with enthusiasm, “the Victoria Gala, the Queen’s Ball, the Royal Opera Festival, the numerous dinners and parties, it has honestly been some of the best weeks of my life. I’m sorry that after tonight it all starts to taper off and slowly turn into the nasty melee that is the electoral period.”

“Oh, nothing off it,” Horace interjected, “that’s when the real fun begins. Duke Dawnshire over there has been benefiting a lot from making snide remarks in the media the past weeks about ‘the inherent dangers of ill-advised military expansion’. As if being petty and taking advantage of human lives lost is going to earn him any more supporters in the long run.”

Constantine cleared his throat, and his sister awkwardly fingered the stem of her glass. As royalty, they were bound by the Constitution to remain impartial in politics, though it was an open secret that the royal family favoured the Royalists and the political centre-left. Yet they couldn’t utter their support in favour of any one or the other parties in such a public setting as a heavily attended ball. Especially since the good duke just mentioned was just a few groups of conversing guests over, talking to Baroness Redgrove, Lord New Odessa, and Charles Nowaczyk, the leader of the Conservatives in the Commons.

“Yes, well,” the prince said, looking for any opportunity to change the subject, “at least we have tonight to enjoy ourselves before that whole ordeal starts off. Say, Lady Nimue, are you here in Camlann for only the Season, or is it an extended visit?”

The prince was not Adea’s favourite among the royal family, and he did have a bit of an overinflated ego, but she had to admit that his ability to remember people and names was impressive to say the least. She was pretty sure the two had never met before, so the fact that he remembered not only her name, but also that she was not a homelander was genuinely thoughtful.

“Ah, no, Your Grace, I’m staying at the Barhams while I undergo the training courses for Foreign Office employment. I’ve been accepted as a media analyst at the Interstellar Relations Desk, starting around Christmas time, so I need to find a more permanent abode after that.”

“Your people don’t have a Cordelia apartment?” the princess blurted out, somewhat shocked that a noble didn’t have some sort of permanent residence in the capital, to which Nimue shook her head, her freckled cheeks flushing.

“No, Your Grace, Nova Caledonia is so far away from Aurora that it would be an immense bother to maintain a residence over here that we would only whenever we have business in the homeland, which isn’t that often. So until now, I’m ashamed to say I’ve sort of gone around and asked family friends for lodgings."