The lounge buzzed with quiet chatter and the faint hum of holoscreens.
Naelle sat with her group, half-listening as flickering sheets of news floated between hands.
"You saw the Gazette? The Primarch heir's marrying a Delvane this time. That's, what, the fourth alliance this year?"
"They're consolidating again," someone murmured. "The old families never stop."
Naelle's gaze lingered on the shifting headline. Another name, another union. It wasn't new — just another repeat of the same story she'd grown up hearing.
She remembered a morning not so different from this one — her mother's voice sharp with envy and grace, the scent of brewed tea and warm light filling their dining room.
The Lareigne dining room shimmered with quiet, old-fashioned elegance — a perfect balance between legacy and function.
Soft tech panels lined the walls, pulsing gently beneath framed portraits, while the long mahogany table bore the weight of crystal dishes and a hovering news projection.
"Primarch Son to Wed Lady Wrenford — Third Alliance This Cycle."
Her mother had leaned forward then, her tone clipped yet wistful.
"Another one," she'd said. "The old families never tire of sealing power among themselves."
Her gaze slid toward her husband. "If only I'd married someone with a little more drive, perhaps we'd be reading about our own family."
Her father smiled faintly, folding the glowing paper as if it were real. "If only opportunity stopped running," he'd said. "I might have caught it."
Across from them, Elara, her older sister, brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Well," she said lightly, "I've been speaking to someone from the Astier line. Not a Primarch, but close enough."
Her mother's eyes gleamed, pleased.
Then Tomas, their youngest, puffed up with boyish pride. "One day, I'll restore our name myself," he declared.
Her father chuckled, ruffling his hair. "That's my son."
Her mother only sighed, eyes lingering on her husband. "Ambition isn't a family heirloom," she murmured. "It has to be earned."
The silence that followed felt heavier than the air itself — a hush filled with old pride and soft regret.
Naelle remembered it all: her father's gentle patience, her mother's longing, and her own quiet understanding — that their name was history trying to stay alive.
The sound of laughter pulled Naelle back.
The lounge lights shimmered in the same soft gold as her memory, but the warmth was gone — replaced by the sterile hum of Creisleigh's air filters. Her friends were still talking, holo-sheets floating lazily between them.
"Nell, you've gone quiet again," someone teased. "Don't tell me you're analyzing marriage alliances now too?"
Naelle smiled faintly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Just thinking," she said.
But her calm seemed to invite attention from Mirelle Valen, one of the Legacy girls lounging opposite her — the kind who carried herself like conversation was a stage built just for her.
I heard your sister's still seeing him," the girl said with a teasing grin that didn't reach her eyes. "Bold of her — most wouldn't dare mix too far above their tier."
Nell gave a small, knowing smile. "And yet, somehow, they always look down."