Heena smiled.
"May I ask for a dance, Prince Larus?" she said, voice carrying clearly across the suddenly quiet hall.
Larus's blue eyes lit up. He set down his own glass and bowed, grinning. "Of course, Your Majesty. It would be my honor."
He stepped forward, took her outstretched hand, and led her smoothly onto the dance floor.
Behind them, Raphael stood frozen, hand still half-raised, mouth still open.
The hall erupted in whispers.
'''
There was a 'custom' to this dance.
It was understood—an unspoken rule woven into the fabric of the empire's social traditions—that the first dance of the evening was reserved for the person you loved most. Married women danced with their husbands. Unmarried ladies danced with their fathers or fiancés. It was a public declaration of affection, of priority, of 'place'.
For the Empress to bypass all five of her consorts and choose a foreign prince instead?
It could only mean two things.
