A Reign of Roses

A Dance of Duty

The grand chandelier above cast a soft, golden light across the ballroom, shimmering in time with the lively music that filled the air. Anastasia stood near the edge of the room, her back straight, her gaze fixed on the floor as she observed the swirling dancers around her. The soft rustle of silk and the sound of laughter blended into a symphony of aristocratic indulgence, but Anastasia felt none of it.

Her father had insisted that she attend this ball, and as always, she had obeyed—though the weight of his expectations was a constant pressure on her shoulders. This event, though masquerading as a celebration, was yet another opportunity for her father to show off his daughter to the world, to make connections with potential suitors, and to remind everyone of the de Lemoine name. The idea of being paraded in front of wealthy bachelors like some prized showpiece filled her with a deep sense of unease.

But it wasn't the men themselves that bothered her. It was what they represented: her father's relentless push to marry her off, to secure alliances that would benefit the family. Anastasia had no illusions—her happiness had never been part of the equation.

Her gaze flickered to the men standing along the edges of the ballroom, their eyes scanning the room for potential matches. They wore the finest clothes, their expressions polite but distant, as though they were looking for something specific—something that would make them claim her as their own. And while her heart refused to settle into any one of them, her mind couldn't help but wonder how many more balls like this would pass before her father finally found the right suitor.

Anastasia had long since accepted that this was her duty—yet it didn't make it any easier to bear.

She felt a hand brush gently against her elbow, and she turned with a forced smile to see her cousin, Olivier , standing beside her. He was dressed impeccably, as always, his grin wide and mischievous.

"Anastasia, you're positively glowering," he teased, his eyes scanning the room with obvious enjoyment. "Surely the sight of all these fine gentlemen can't have that effect on you?"

She raised an eyebrow, barely able to mask her annoyance. "Olivier, I am merely observing. I find the proceedings quite... tedious."

"Ah, yes, I see now. You'd much rather be out in the garden, picking flowers." He gave a dramatic sigh, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "I can hardly blame you. A life of duty does seem terribly dull when one has the option of escaping it."

"You know as well as I do that escape is hardly an option," Anastasia replied, her voice low and controlled. "This is my life, Olivier. I must endure it."

He shrugged nonchalantly, unbothered by her curt tone. "I suppose," he said. "But you could at least try to make the most of it. These men are not all so... insufferable. Some of them might even be worthy of your time."

Anastasia's gaze flickered over the men once more. Most of them were strangers, their names and titles a blur of faces that would likely fade from her memory by the end of the evening. Yet, among them, one man stood out—a tall figure dressed in an austere military uniform, his face framed by dark, shoulder-length hair. His eyes were focused ahead, but there was an unmistakable tension in his posture. Unlike the others who appeared eager to dance or converse, he remained on the outskirts of the crowd, as though observing more than participating.

She stiffened slightly, her heart picking up pace, though she quickly masked the reaction. The man had an air of quiet authority, and something about him intrigued her. But it was not the man himself that held her attention—it was the strange sense of danger that seemed to follow him.

"Olivier," she said suddenly, her voice betraying the flicker of unease in her chest. "Who is that man?"

Olivier glanced over his shoulder, following her line of sight. His eyes narrowed, and a faint smirk appeared on his lips. "Ah, him? That's Captain Lukas Rosenberg. I've heard whispers about him." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "He's an Austrian officer—fought in several skirmishes with the French forces. He's not exactly a man of leisure like these others, and I suspect that's why he's not interested in dancing."

Anastasia's heart skipped a beat, though she quickly composed herself. An Austrian officer. She had heard of the Austrian forces clashing with the French, the tension in Europe rising by the day. She should have expected that someone like him would be in attendance, but it still sent a shiver down her spine.

"Why would he be here?" she asked, her curiosity piqued despite herself.

Olivier chuckled, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Perhaps he's here on business—though I doubt it. The man doesn't strike me as one who cares much for politics or power plays. He's here for the same reason we all are: to find a match, even if it's not his idea of a good time."

Anastasia's eyes remained fixed on Lukas, her mind racing. This wasn't just some soldier—this was a man from an enemy nation, part of the very forces that had caused so much unrest in her homeland. And yet, the more she studied him, the more she found herself inexplicably drawn to him.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Olivier's voice, now teasing. "Anastasia, surely you don't mean to stand here all evening, watching the soldiers from afar. You must know at least one of these fine gentlemen who would be more than happy to dance with you."

She tore her gaze away from Lukas and forced a smile. "I'm not in the mood for dancing tonight, Olivier. Perhaps you should find someone else to bother."

Her cousin grinned widely, seemingly unfazed by her dismissal. "Very well, Lady Anastasia," he said, bowing mockingly. "But do try to have some fun while you're at it. Who knows? You might even find yourself enjoying it."

As Olivier disappeared into the crowd, Anastasia couldn't help but feel the weight of the evening settle in her chest. Her father would expect her to entertain these suitors, to charm them with her beauty and grace. But the thought of spending her life with any of them seemed utterly impossible.

Yet as she once more glanced across the room, her eyes found Lukas again, standing alone in his corner. She couldn't quite shake the feeling that he was waiting for something—something that neither she nor the other guests could predict.

As the orchestra played another waltz, Anastasia turned her attention back to the crowd, her fingers tightening around the delicate lace of her gloves. She had a role to play tonight, just like every other night. But somewhere, deep within her, she longed for something more—something far beyond the confines of this ball, beyond the gilded cage of aristocracy.

And for the first time in a long while, Anastasia wondered if Lukas Rosenberg might hold the key to that freedom—though she could not imagine how.