Chương 429: 202.Prince & Princess 1

The Imperial Hotel's façade looked even more like a legally sanctioned display of arrogance at night than it did by day. If, by daylight, it was merely expensive, then by night it was as if someone had decided "expensive" lacked the proper amount of threat and had helpfully added power, history, and a whole aesthetic philosophy deeply unfriendly to the poor. The building rose out of Lunar City's lights, its dark stone and metal frame washed in a cold shine.

The arched windows were tall enough to go eye-to-eye with the dome. The portico was wide enough for an entire honor guard to wheel in formation inside it without scuffing anyone's self-respect. Columns ran along the front, each planed straight as a rifle barrel, like someone had chiseled the word order directly into the structure. The capitals were intricate but not soft, a hard-edged opulence with that particular Germanic flavor.

Put more simply: one glance told you the design brief for this place hadn't been "Welcome." It had been "You had better be worth welcoming." Unfortunately, tonight I probably was. Or at least, my uniform and invitation made me look worth it. We followed the flow inside. The deep red carpet spread across the entry was absurdly soft. Your shoes made almost no sound on it, like even your footsteps were something the hotel preferred to handle for you.

On either side of the door stood the hotel's greeters—uniforms sharp, smiles calibrated, angles of their bows probably pre-approved. They all looked very civilized. I hadn't felt any of that civilization yesterday while being press-ganged as temp staff. The Imperial Hotel and the Empire shared this in common: they were very good at cutting the corpses in the back and the light in the front into two completely separate realities. The second Jess stepped past the doors, she dropped her voice and let out a whistle.

"Wow. This isn't a hotel, this is a palace with beds."

"At least palaces are more honest about it," I muttered.

"This looks like they wrote 'budget overrun' into the architectural style." Roy almost laughed and had to cover his mouth. Lan swept a look around, tone mild.

"If the hotel manager hears that, you're losing dessert."

"That's fine," I said.

"I'm generally more invested in leaving alive than in dessert." Maki walked beside me and didn't pick the line up, just flicked me a sideways look. Message clear enough: you're still mouthing off, which means your mental state is at least superficially operational. As for Hedwig… She hadn't said a word all the way in. She only lifted those pale eyes toward the interior.

She was in the formal version of our uniform for the banquet—lines sharper, chest and collar a touch more solemn—just enough for "inter-academy exchange" on paper. The problem was that Hedwig's face had always been a little too well suited to this kind of venue. Standing under these lights, she didn't look like a guest. She looked like the building had always been meant to make space for her. … In hindsight, that probably hadn't been my imagination. Before you reached the main hall, there was a long front gallery.

Long enough to give anyone tempted to bolt three distinct chances to rethink their life choices before they hit the doors. Dark wood and metal inlays ran along the walls. The vaulting overhead was ribbed, the arches lifting the ceiling so high they almost seemed to be angling for the dome. It felt like someone had taken a Gothic church, swapped out prayer for authority, and painstakingly shipped it to the Moon intact.

Sconces lined the walls, each casting a warm gold pool over stone and polished floor, lighting the passage like a corridor toward some kind of national-grade lie. The moment I stepped out of it and saw the main hall, I finally understood why the Empire liked bundling aesthetics with intimidation. Because it worked. The ballroom was enormous. The ceiling soared so high it felt like it vanished into the artificial night. Ribs and arches stacked layer on layer overhead.

A row of massive chandeliers hung down, lights like domesticated constellations frozen in midair, illuminating everything below too clearly and too correctly. Heavy curtains of deep blue and black-gold flanked the tall windows. The walls were lined with a symmetrical march of coats of arms, plaques, and reliefs. Clean lines. Sharp order. The whole room felt like a war memorial repurposed as a banquet hall.

If German style was about structure and discipline, this was discipline made so grand that even the oppression itself seemed justified. Band to the left, dance floor center, stepped platforms and long tables to either side. The palette was deep blue, black-gold, and cold white. No extra softness, no cozy romance. Just a very clear directive: if you're going to smash a glass tonight, kindly do it in accordance with Imperial protocol. At the far end, the stage and podium were raised a full step.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. That would have drawn enough eyes on its own. But what really dragged every gaze in the room in the same direction wasn't the lectern. And it wasn't the Imperial crest. It was a painting. A huge, shamelessly scaled, full-body portrait so overblown it felt like someone had taken humiliation and framed it. My feet almost stopped when I saw who it was.

The figure wore a near-black deep-blue formal dress uniform, metal stars fallen like frost across chest and collar. Shoulders cut sharp, cloak heavy, hair spilling like a river of cold gold in the light. The composition was perfectly centered, grave, lavish, and had clearly been painted to sanctify as much as to flatter. The background even hinted at a fortress and starfield—iconic enough that the painter might as well have written the Empire's future and honor in person in the corner.

The problem was— That was not the Emperor. Nor any antique councillor, chancellor, or war hero. It was the girl standing next to me. Hedwig von Wittelsbach. I turned my head toward the original. Hedwig stood at the entrance to the hall, face red to an absolutely unnatural degree, head dipped like she desperately wanted to evaporate, the flush burning all the way to her hairline. She stared at her own shoes, lips moving. In a voice only those of us close by could hear, she ground out:"… I told them not to hang it."

I almost burst out laughing. Not the polite kind. The kind where your lungs momentarily consider mutiny. Jess's reflexes were fastest. She flinched like she'd been hit by lightning, eyes wide, then grabbed her own arm, physically forcing what would have been a shriek into a strangled hiss.

"Pff—kch— that, wow."

"Wow what," Roy murmured.

"Close your mouth, your face is breaking."

"I am closing it," Jess whispered back.

"This cannot be my fault, who hangs a portrait that big of the guest of honor?" D, behind us, looked up at the painting, then down at Hedwig, then up again, confusion written all over him like a very large dog seeing its own reflection for the first time.

"Wait," D said, very honestly.

"So is that Hedwig, or Hedwig's ancestor, or a more powerful Hedwig."

"That's actually Her Highness herself," Harvey said, pushing up his glasses and lapsing into lecture mode.

"And this isn't general décor. From the cut, insignia, and composition, it's clearly a prestige portrait—deliberately elevated in symbolic rank."

"Harvey, analyzing it that seriously is only making this worse," Lan said.

"It was already bad," Roy muttered.

"If I were Hedwig, I'd be thinking about which angle to set that thing on fire from so the chandelier doesn't come down with it." Jess nodded vigorously.

"Right? Right? I was going to ask exactly that. Hedwig, if you shoot that thing now, I can pretend I never saw it."

"You can't," Maki said, very calmly.

"Because I'll have to write the report." …That line had its own shrapnel. Hedwig finally lifted her head and swept us with a cold look. Her usual high-born frost, combined with the present shade of red, produced a very interesting effect—some authority, some murder, and a rare, fully alive mortification.

"If any of you laugh out loud," she said, "I'll start with whoever's closest."

"That threat isn't very convincing," I said, honestly.

"You look more like you want to start with the painter." Hedwig glared at me.

"Hoshino Shimo."

"Present."

"Shut up."

"Yes, ma'am." I answered so fast Jess had to turn away, her shoulders shaking. The students clustered near the entrance had clearly noticed too. The Military Academy kids who'd been trying very hard to look cool and composed were now in the throes of a minor, irresistibly spreading commotion.

"That's…her, right."

"No way. Seriously?"

"They really hung it that big."

"The Empire really does hype their own."

"Wait, isn't Hedwig right there? And that's also her?"

"I just learned what psychological damage is."

"Shhh, Disciplinary Committee's watching." Even a few of the quiet types were stealing glances. The Seitokai kids—who usually pretended to be above it all—had each let their eyes flick upward once or twice, muscles visibly working to crush down this is insane under etiquette. The commotion didn't last. Because the far doors opened. The Imperial Military Academy students entered. A line of dark uniforms, more uniform and more honed than ours.

Their steps were matched, shoulders squared, almost every face set in the expression we are here to exchange, not to lose. They looked less like students and more like a shipment of young officers who hadn't yet been blooded but had already learned how to put their breathing on a schedule. Whatever laughter had been bubbling on our side snapped back into place. That was rescue work. The Imperial contingent had arrived not just for the banquet. They had arrived to salvage Hedwig's remaining dignity.

Maki stepped forward half a pace, closing in next to me, voice low.

"Shimo."

"Mm."

"We should go get ready." I followed her look toward the luggage holding area for the students' formalwear. And remembered. The dress. That blue, V-neck, spaghetti-strap evening dress.

"…" I went silent. Maki glanced at me. Jess leaned in, oblivious to her own mortality, and twisted the knife.

"You remembered, right."

"I want to die," I said, honestly.

"Don't be dramatic."

"It's wrong for me," I hissed, dropping my voice as far as it would go without falling through the floor.

"It looks like something for a woman who leans on a balcony drinking champagne and squeezing people's hearts. Not for someone who wants to finish the job and go to sleep."

"I think your self-assessment and reality are a little out of alignment," Lan said mildly.

"Not a little," Roy added.

"A solid distance."

"I also think it suits you," Jess said, all too pleased.

"Especially if you wear it and stay grumpy. It will work even better."

"That's not 'working,'" I said.

"That's an incident." Maki didn't smile. She simply delivered the verdict.

"In any case, you still have to wear it." … Damn it. I hated that tone. The kind where the content left you no exit, while the voice remained perfectly unruffled. I glanced one more time at Hedwig's oversized portrait. The painted Hedwig was noble, icy, and severe—a divine symbol mass-bred by the Imperial art academies and propaganda office. The real Hedwig was still working very hard not to climb onto the stage, pull the painting off the wall, and ship it out of the system herself.

And me—I was standing in the over-dressed entry, about to go change into a blue V-neck dress that didn't fit anything about my self-concept. At the same time, I was very clearly aware: Tonight, something was going to happen. Not premonition. Statistics. You do not pack the Imperial Hotel, a dual-academy banquet, the Imperial Military Academy contingent, Hedwig herself, Hedwig's shame-painting, and my blue V-neck dress into a single evening and then expect nothing to go wrong.

That would be an insult to basic cosmic logic. I let out a breath.

"Let's go," I said.

"To your death?" Jess's eyes glittered.

"No," I answered, deadpan.

"To change."

"And that's a significant difference how," Roy asked.

"For me? Barely." Even Maki's mouth twitched at that. Hedwig, having heard the noise from our corner, managed to wrench herself loose from the trauma of her portrait and looked over. There was annoyance in that look. Embarrassment. Cold. And, now that I could see it, a weight I'd finally learned to read. I tipped my chin at her.

"Hang in there," I said.

"At least let me go handle my own public humiliation first." Hedwig blinked. Then, very slightly, almost by accident, the corner of her mouth moved.

"…Likewise," she said. Good. We were clearly both walking into separate forms of execution.