The grand hall of Buckingham Palace shimmered under the glow of chandeliers, the air thick with the murmurs of diplomats, royals, and aristocrats. The scent of polished wood and aged wine lingered, mingling with the delicate fragrance of imported flowers decorating the vast space. Every movement, every glance, was calculated—this was not merely a celebration but a stage where power and influence danced behind cordial smiles.

Amidst the sea of dignitaries, Count Felix stood near one of the tall windows, a glass of untouched wine resting in his hand. He was dressed impeccably, his dark coat adorned with subtle insignias of his noble lineage. His sharp grayish-blue eyes observed the gathering, not with excitement, but with the quiet calculation of a man who understood the weight of such events.

When he finally spoke, it was with a voice that carried a low, steady authority—measured yet undeniably firm.

"The irony of such grand occasions," he mused, more to himself than to anyone in particular. "A celebration of legacy and power, yet beneath the silk and gold, it is merely another game of alliances and silent negotiations."

He took a slow sip from his glass, his gaze finally shifting toward the presence beside him. "And yet, amidst all these familiar faces, I find an unfamiliar one."

His eyes settled on the young woman standing nearby—Princess Jenna Norodom of Cambodia. He had noticed her earlier, her presence distinct from the others. Unlike the seasoned diplomats who wore their expressions like masks, she carried an air of curiosity, as though she were seeing this world from both within and outside of it.

A pause. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he regarded her with a hint of intrigue.

"Princess Jenna, I presume?" His voice held neither excessive charm nor indifference—it was precise, like a man accustomed to dealing with both allies and adversaries alike. "I had not expected to see a Cambodian royal at such an event. Though I suppose even traditions as old as ours must evolve with time."