One hour earlier…
The palace's grand banquet hall glittered like a jewel-encrusted crown under the evening sky—massive crystal chandeliers suspended by invisible mana threads, refracting light into prismatic rainbows that danced across every surface; golden silk draperies cascading in luxurious folds from vaulted ceilings carved with ancient flame runes; floating mana lanterns shaped like phoenix feathers drifting lazily overhead, their warm, flickering glow reflecting off polished marble floors veined with pure gold filaments.
The air was thick with layered scents: exotic spices wafting from imported incense burners, rare vintage wines breathing in rows of crystal decanters, blooming night orchids arranged in massive enchanted vases—flowers flown in from distant southern allies at exorbitant cost, their petals unfurling only under royal mana.
Foreign dignitaries from three neighboring nations attended in full splendor—ambassadors from Newren draped in rich emerald silks embroidered with silver vine motifs, envoys from rugged Arkhlund in heavy fur-trimmed cloaks despite the mild evening warmth, delegates from seafaring Krestia bearing ornate gifts of enchanted glass that shifted iridescent colors with every admiring touch.
Nobles from every province of Vornis filled the hall to overflowing capacity—more crowded than any royal event in recent memory, shoulders brushing as they navigated the throng with polite smiles masking growing impatience.
Famous merchants mingled seamlessly with high-ranking generals—voices overlapping in calculated chatter, laughter echoing sharply off the high ceilings, goblets clinking in endless toasts.
It was the queen's birthday.
And for the first time in years, the hall brimmed fuller than the king or queen had ever witnessed.
The queen herself—elevated on her ornate throne beside King Valor Wynfall, her crown gleaming with embedded fire crystals that pulsed like living embers—surveyed the crowd with a satisfied, almost triumphant smile. She adjusted her golden tiara with a delicate hand, the motion drawing admiring glances from nearby courtiers.
"So many came this year…" she murmured to the king, her voice laced with smug pleasure, eyes sweeping the sea of faces. "The people finally recognize true grace and power. See how they flock to me?"
King Valor nodded absently, though a faint crease formed between his brows as he scanned the room. "Indeed… an impressive turnout."
But the truth soon became painfully clear—and it stung like salt rubbed into an open wound.
They didn't come because of her.
They came because of the Wynfall twins.
The Snowflakes.
Aster and Astra.
Their music had crossed borders like an unstoppable wildfire—albums smuggled and sold at premium prices in foreign capitals, black-market copies fetching fortunes among nobility.
Rap had become an underground sensation among young nobles—whispered verses recited in private gatherings, clumsy but passionate imitations echoing at academy parties and secret midnight salons.
Commoners worshipped them outright—songs blaring from makeshift Harmonia Players in taverns, lifting spirits after grueling days, workers humming rhythms while hauling crates or tilling fields.
Even stoic aristocrats admired them in secret—purchasing the latest Harmonia Players for discreet enjoyment in private chambers, hiding the devices from conservative elders who still clung to fire magic supremacy.
Foreign princes had become outright devotees—letters arriving weekly at the palace (often redirected or ignored), begging for exclusive performances, collaborations, or even royal visits to witness the phenomenon firsthand.
Everyone—nobles, merchants, generals, dignitaries, commoners—wanted to see Aster and Astra perform live.
And that was why the hall overflowed tonight.
Not for the queen's rehearsed speeches or the traditional elemental displays of fire dancers and wind harps.
For the twins.
The Snowflakes.
***
But the twins were nowhere to be seen.
Not seated at the royal table with their half-siblings—Leon and Varus exchanging stoic glances, Seraphine and Lyria casting occasional anxious looks toward the conspicuously empty chairs reserved for their youngest siblings.
Not waiting on the prepared performance stage—draped in crimson silk embroidered with golden flames, surrounded by fire-mana crystals ready to amplify traditional royal spells.
Not even lingering in the palace gardens or outer halls.
A foreign duke from Newren approached the king during a lull in the orchestral prelude, his strained smile barely masking mounting disappointment as he bowed deeply.
"Your Majesty," he began with careful diplomacy, "my delegation traveled far across the border specifically to witness the Snowflakes in person. Their albums have utterly captivated our court—my own son recites their rap verses daily at banquets. We had hoped for a live demonstration tonight."
Another dignitary from Krestia joined smoothly, bowing with equal deference. "Indeed, Your Majesty. My daughters wept with excitement on the journey here. They claim the twins are a generational treasure—their harmonies are the talk of every salon back home. The absence… is keenly felt."
A third envoy from Arkhlund fanned himself dramatically with an ornate scroll, sighing loud enough for nearby clusters to overhear. "Our king dispatched me personally with these gifts," he gestured to a chest of furs and gems, "expecting the famed Snowflakes' performance as the evening's crown. Without it… the night feels somewhat hollow."
And then a bold Vornian noblewoman—emboldened by several goblets of spiced wine and surrounded by nodding peers—whispered just loudly enough for the royal dais to catch:
"Don't tell me the royal family can't even bring its own children to the event… how utterly embarrassing for the crown."
Whispers ignited like wildfire through dry grass—spreading rapidly, growing bolder with each retelling as wine loosened tongues.
"Where are they hiding the twins?"
"Did the queen forbid them from attending—jealous of their fame?"
"Are they even invited to their own stepmother's celebration?"
"I heard they live separately from the palace now—in some merchant-funded mansion…"
"Isn't that strange for royals? Almost like self-imposed exile?"
"Perhaps they're too proud nowadays—with all that gold from those peculiar sound stones and contraptions."
The queen's meticulously painted smile twitched—barely perceptible to casual observers, but the king noticed the subtle tightening around her eyes, the way her fingers gripped the throne arm a fraction harder.
He leaned sideways, voice low and urgent. "This is becoming a problem… the mood is shifting. They're asking openly now."
The queen's lips curled into a thin, dangerous line—nostrils flaring almost imperceptibly.
"Calm the guests immediately," she whispered sharply, her nails digging crescents into the throne's gilded armrest. "Divert them. Do not say anything unnecessary."
The king hesitated, brow furrowing deeper as another wave of murmurs reached them. "But if they press directly—what do I say? The truth isn't—"
"Do NOT ruin the mood," she snapped under her breath, eyes flashing like struck flint. "If you admit the twins refused my personal invitation—and your heartfelt request—we will be humiliated in front of foreign nations. Our alliances could fracture overnight. Smile. Distract. Lie if you must."
The king clenched his jaw—internal conflict plain in the tightening of his shoulders, the way his fingers drummed once against the throne.
More nobles approached the dais with thinly veiled complaints—voices pitched low but insistent, eyes darting toward the empty stage.
"Your Majesty, this is quite unexpected," one duke murmured, bowing. "The anticipation for the Snowflakes was… considerable."
"Surely the prince and princess must appear at some point?" a countess added, fan fluttering nervously. "They are the pride of the kingdom, are they not? Their absence casts an odd shadow over the festivities."
"Their music is the talk of every court from here to Krestia," another noble chimed in. "Yet they are not here to share it with us… or Her Majesty?"
Pressure mounted relentlessly with every passing minute—whispers evolving into open conversations, disappointment curdling into quiet resentment as wine flowed and expectations unmet.
The queen's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, her composure cracking like thin ice under strain.
She leaned closer to the king once more—voice a venomous hiss barely audible over the growing din.
"Send someone to fetch them. Now. Before this turns into a farce."
The king frowned deeply, glancing toward the empty performance stage where lesser mages now awkwardly demonstrated fire illusions to polite but distracted applause. "Arlienne's birthday is today. They may be celebrating privately with her—it's the same date, as you know. Forcing them now—"
"I do not care if they are dancing on rooftops, bathing in gold from their vulgar merchant inventions, or singing to sewer rats," the queen cut in coldly, her grip tightening until knuckles whitened against the throne. "This hall overflows with disappointed guests—nobles questioning our control, foreigners doubting our hospitality. Our reputation hangs by a thread. Fix it, Valor, or watch everything we've built crumble to whispers and scorn."
The king surveyed the glittering crowd—so many influential faces now clustered in dissatisfied groups, alliances teetering, domestic nobles' loyalty fraying at edges.
He sighed heavily—regret, resignation, and quiet shame mingling in his eyes.
Then raised his hand with grim finality.
A trusted messenger approached swiftly, bowing low.
"Your Majesty?"
"Send an escort immediately," the king ordered quietly, voice heavy with reluctance. "A squad of elite royal soldiers and several high-ranking palace officials. Retrieve the twins from Snowflake Mansion. Bring them here—"
His voice dropped further, almost a mutter.
"—even if force is required."
The messenger's eyes widened in shock—such direct orders for royal children were unprecedented, bordering on scandal.
"Y-Yes, Your Majesty. At once."
The queen's smile sharpened into cold satisfaction—triumph flickering briefly.
But as the messenger turned to relay commands, she added one final instruction under her breath, leaning forward:
"Make it look gentle and ceremonial. We don't want blood, screams, or scandalous tales for the gossips. Only swift obedience. Understood?"
The messenger bowed deeper and hurried away.
Within minutes, the squad departed the palace gates—elite soldiers in gleaming crimson-trimmed armor, officials in immaculate robes, carriages rolling swiftly toward the hill under urgent lantern light.
***
Back to the present.
The garden of Snowflake Mansion plunged into tense, suffocating silence as the palace officials stepped forward, their royal insignias glinting coldly under the lantern light like accusatory eyes.
Arlienne instinctively shifted closer to her children—protective arm sliding around Astra's shoulders, pulling her small frame against her side.
Astra held Aster's sleeve in a white-knuckled grip—eyes wide with a potent mix of fear and simmering defiance.
Liora Arcwell moved protectively toward Arlienne's other side—eyes narrowing sharply at the intruders, one hand subtly resting on the decorative dagger hidden at her belt (a merchant's prudent habit in uncertain times).
Old Man Hervin grumbled low under his breath to Tomas the baker beside him, "This ain't right… soldiers at a birthday? Bah!" but stepped back respectfully, broad shoulders tense.
Children—vendor offspring and commoner kids alike—huddled behind parents, wide-eyed and silent, sensing the shift like animals before a storm.
Even the floating lanterns seemed to dim and sway—mana runes responding to the collective unease rippling through the air, flickering nervously as if afraid.
The lead soldier bowed stiffly once more—his helmet plume swaying slightly in the unnatural chill breeze.
"Prince Aster Wynfall. Princess Astra Wynfall."
Aster's expression remained cold but utterly steady—his voice cutting through the charged silence like a perfectly pitched note.
"Why are soldiers crashing my mother's birthday celebration?"
The soldier paused, taking a measured breath—clearly steeling himself for the uncomfortable delivery of royal orders amid such intimate, joyful surroundings.
The moment stretched taut—entire garden holding its collective breath, forks paused mid-air over half-eaten pastries, conversations snuffed like candles.
Lanterns flickered erratically in the gathering wind.
Even the ambient mana in the air seemed to shiver—resonating faintly with the unspoken threat.
The palace official stepped forward—aged scroll unfurled in gloved hands, his face impassive but eyes betraying a flicker of discomfort at the scene.
He cleared his throat once, then opened his mouth—
And declared in a voice carrying official weight:
"By direct order of His Majesty King Valor Wynfall and Her Majesty the Queen, you are summoned to the palace immediately.
The royal banquet suffers without your presence. Foreign dignitaries and nobles alike demand the Snowflakes' performance.
You will accompany us now.
Refusal is not permitted."