The event continued far more smoothly after the arrival of the royal princess.
It had been arranged for her, after all. From the moment Camellia Van Skargardia stepped into the throne hall, the center of the evening shifted entirely around her. The music, the noble conversations, the careful smiles, glances, everything bent toward the princess as naturally as flowers turned toward sunlight.
Accompanied by a knight, Camellia moved through the hall with grace, greeting the nobles one after another.
Or rather, she barely even needed to move.
They came to her on their own.
Like a swarm drawn toward sweetness, nobles flocked around the young princess, eager for a word, a glance, a remembered name. Every house wished to leave some mark on her memory. Every ambitious parent watched closely. Every unmarried nobleman with more hope than sense tried, in his own way, to impress her, as if by some miracle she might remember him years from now and choose him above the others.
