Amidst the crowd of noble ladies, a certain blonde haired figure towers of them. There’s a charming, yet phony smile gracing his handsome face, expression calm and composed. He looks all too familiar with this instance presented before him. After all, he’s Isidore Visconti.

From a distance, his keen eyes spot a certain figure, meeting this specific individual’s gaze. His cerulean orbs glint with an unnamed emotion.

“My Lady! Miss Seymour! Where are you off to?”