Moonlight filters through crystal arches, refracting over black-silver banners and thorn-wrapped chandeliers. The mingling of two proud lineages — the ironclad House d’Arcéval and the blood-bound House Nocthélis — turns the space into a powder keg of velvet civility.

A low murmur of aristocratic voices stills as the family of honor arrives.

Seraphine, Lady of House Nocthélis and Duchess of Viremois, walks into the room with measured elegance — or as close to elegance as one can manage while cradling a wriggling one-year-old in one arm and balancing a third child in her womb. Her belly is obvious beneath a dark velvet gown chosen more for its stretch than its style. The toddler in her arms promptly tries to chew on a silver brooch.

At her side walks her husband, dignified and battle-scarred, gaze steady. He has the air of a man who once stood unmoved on bloodied battlefields… and now accepts being coated in jam by small hands every morning.

Nobles from both bloodlines offer nods and stiff bows. Some smile. A few blink twice at the toddler trying to lick a goblet. The ceremonial quiet of the moment settles like frost.

Then —

🚪💥 “ONWARD!”

The doors slam open with theatrical violence.

Three-year-old Celène storms into the room at full speed. She wears a pirate hat two sizes too large, her great-aunt’s relic sash as a cape, and someone’s ceremonial dagger tied around her waist with a length of silk ribbon.

She leaps atop a banquet chair, strikes a pose worthy of a battlefield statue, and points toward the dessert table like a general ordering a cavalry charge.

Behind her flaps Marvane, the family’s ancient enchanted raven, muttering unintelligible curses in a long-dead language. A grape hits the floor. A vampire noble instinctively hisses.

Gasps flutter through the crowd like startled doves. A human baron clutches his pearls. Lady Sylène lazily sips her wine, already immune. Someone from the Nocthélis side mutters, “A spirited child…” Someone from the d’Arcéval side says, “She's definitely one of ours.”

Seraphine stands unmoving in the center of it all.

One child clinging to her shoulder. One child currently kicking her from the inside. One child galloping across marble like an exiled war god with a frosting agenda.

She watches it unfold with the long-suffering serenity of a woman who once helped negotiate ceasefires during the Ashglass War — and now manages toddlers wielding heirloom blades.

Her gaze slides briefly toward her mother, Duchess Lysenna, who remains expressionless — save for the faint, icy quirk of a brow that clearly says, “This is not what I meant by preserving the bloodline.”

Somewhere near the hors d'oeuvres, Aunt Virella softly chuckles, watching the chaos as if it confirms a prophecy.

Seraphine sighs. Not out loud. Just… everywhere.

She adjusts the baby on her hip, who now seems fascinated by the sound of goblets being knocked over. She shifts her weight, feeling the full weight of noble duty, maternal exhaustion — and a third child making quiet demands of her lungs.

She does not speak. She simply is.

At the heart of the storm, at the junction of dynasties, at the mercy of naptime.

The birthday celebration continues. The cake will come soon. So will speeches. Possibly sword fights. Maybe even a political scandal if someone from Nocthélis challenges the d’Arcévals to a toast-off again.

But for now, Seraphine stands in the eye of the hurricane — a wife, a diplomat, a warrior, and a mother of soon-to-be-three.

She doesn’t need to say anything.

The look in her eyes already says: "How did I get here… and can someone, anyone, please bring me a chair?"