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The state banquet and the grand ball at Buckingham Palace were, unmistakably, a celebration of victory.
The atmosphere inside the banquet hall was a world apart from the tense, uncertain night of the coronation ball. Every trace of hesitation had vanished. In its place came a swelling tide of admiration—of fervor that always follows a future decided.
And without doubt, aside from the Queen herself, Arthur Lionheart was the brightest star of the evening.
The moment he entered the hall, he was engulfed by a tide of people. Bankers with fortunes at their disposal pressed forward, eager to invest in his "City of Miracles." Senior Whigs approached him cautiously, hoping to discuss urban development bills with the man who had just changed the empire's course. And countless noblewomen, dazzled by his brilliance and his effortlessly magnetic presence, watched him with soft, longing eyes—each hoping to win even a sliver of favor from the man who had become a legend overnight.
Arthur moved with complete composure, a polite smile resting on his lips as he toasted and greeted everyone.
But behind those warm expressions, his piercing blue eyes searched the crowd for the only person who could bring him peace.
He found her instantly.
Victoria.
She wore a deep midnight-blue velvet gown, the color of London's most beautiful evening sky. She was not adorned with excessive jewels—only a small diamond star pinned delicately into her dark hair, lending her an air of youthful nobility.
She was surrounded by French and Austrian envoys, fulfilling her duties with admirable poise. Arthur could see it clearly: the young monarch who had once been hesitant now radiated the steady majesty of a true queen.
But the instant she saw Arthur enter, her composed sapphire eyes melted—like the first thaw of winter ice rippling across a silent lake.
Arthur lifted his champagne glass toward her, offering a quiet smile.
Victoria's lips curved, soft and secretive, as she raised her own glass in reply.
That silent exchange—understood only by the two of them—made her heart bloom with a joy she could barely contain.
Moments later, the orchestra began the first waltz of the night.
The ball had officially begun.
According to the strictest European court protocol, the Queen's first dance carried immense political weight. Traditionally, she invited the highest-ranking foreign royal present—a gesture of diplomacy and goodwill.
Instinctively, all eyes turned to the Prince of Bourbon and the Habsburg Archduke. They straightened at once, confidence gleaming in their smiles. Both took a step toward Victoria, clearly competing for the honor.
The hall grew tense once more.
Would this newly ascended queen, who had shown such iron resolve in politics, follow traditional diplomatic balancing?
But the choice Victoria made shattered every expectation.
With a serene smile, she closed her conversation with the envoys.
"Please excuse me for a moment."
Then she lifted the hem of her gown and—without even glancing at the two princes—began walking across the ballroom.
Not hesitating.
Not wavering.
Walking straight toward one man.
Arthur Lionheart.
The hall fell into a silence so absolute one could hear a pin drop.
Under the watchful eyes of Europe's most powerful figures, Victoria approached the blond young man standing at the edge of the room.
She stopped before him. Her beautiful face lifted slightly, stubborn and regal, yet glowing with unmistakable warmth.
In the purest sapphires of her eyes there was no throne, no political calculation—
only the fierce, unrestrained love of an eighteen-year-old girl.
Then she did something that froze the breath of every soul in the ballroom.
She extended her hand—small, gloved in pearl-white silk—toward Arthur.
"Mr. Arthur Lionheart," she said, her voice ringing across the hall with crystalline clarity.
There was an undertone of shy sweetness only he could sense, wrapped in the smooth velvet of royal confidence.
"My first dance…"
She paused, letting the weight of those words crash into every stunned mind.
"And all my future first dances… belong only to you."
Her lips curved in a brave, trembling smile.
"My knight—will you accept my invitation?"
The hall exploded.
"My God—did I hear that correctly?!"
"Her Majesty… invited *him*? A subject?!"
"No—no, this isn't an invitation. This is… this is a declaration!"
The French prince and the Austrian archduke looked as if they had swallowed an entire barrel of lemons—bitter, sour, and humiliated beyond measure.
Arthur looked at the young queen standing before him—her gaze burning with devotion, courage, and something deeper than the entire Empire could comprehend.
She was offering him her heart.
Openly. Publicly. Fearlessly.
He felt something inside him tighten, swell, overflow.
Gratitude. Pride. Desire.
He lowered the champagne flute, letting it slip from his fingers into a passing servant's hands, and stepped forward.
He didn't kneel this time.
He didn't bow.
Instead, in a single smooth motion, he took her hand, pulled her gently toward him, and—before the room full of nobles, ministers, and foreign royals—
Arthur Lionheart kissed his queen.
Not a polite, courtly kiss on her glove.
A real kiss.
Warm, deep, passionate—his hand lifting to cradle her jaw, her breath catching against his, her fingers curling against his chest. Their lips met with a fervor that was bold yet elegant, intimate yet restrained enough to remain poetic.
A kiss that told the entire Empire:
*She was his. And he was hers.*
The hall erupted again, this time into pure chaos.
"Good heavens—!"
"They're—! In front of everyone—!"
But neither of them heard anything, nor cared to.
When they finally parted—breathless, flushed, their foreheads touching—Arthur whispered against her lips:
"With all my heart, my Queen."
Victoria's eyes shimmered.
Then, still holding her close, Arthur placed his hand at her waist and led her into the open floor.
Under the shocked, envious, awestruck gaze of Europe's highest nobility, they began to dance—wrapped in each other, moving with perfect, natural harmony.
Victoria rested her head against his chest, listening to the steady, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat.
In that moment, the world fell away.
There was only him.
And her.
And the beginning of the legend their names would become.
**A legend that would outlive them both.**
In years to come, their first dance would not remain merely a memory of a single night.
It would grow into myth.
Poets would immortalize the moment when a young queen crossed a glittering ballroom to choose the man she loved—not a prince, nor an emperor, but Arthur Lionheart, the blond-haired visionary with ocean-blue eyes and a destiny entwined with hers.
Painters across the generations would recreate that waltz: her midnight velvet gown swirling like the deep sky, his hands guiding her as if the world itself moved to their rhythm.
And their love—and their dance—would be celebrated, whispered, sung, painted again and again.
A timeless story of courage, devotion, and the night when two hearts dared to rewrite the fate of an empire.
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