The Extra's Rise-Chapter 187: Cecilia’s Sweet Sixteen (4)

"Come, Arthur," my father said, his voice carrying a note of quiet bewilderment as he gestured toward the raised platform. "Apparently, we’re making our introductions."

That was unusual. I could see the slight furrow in his brow, the way his fingers twitched at his side—a rare tell of surprise. House Nightingale, for all its history, was not even a noble house. In the grand hierarchy of the Empire, we were respectable but unremarkable, our name holding weight but not enough to justify this kind of attention. Typically, only counts and above were expected—allowed, even—to formally greet the Imperial Family during events like this.

Yet, here we were, summoned forward in front of a room full of people who very much noticed the irregularity.

I followed him, my mother gliding beside us, her expression perfectly composed, though I could see the calculation in her eyes. The room quieted slightly as we moved. Conversations didn’t stop entirely, but they softened, like everyone had just collectively leaned in a little closer to listen without being obvious about it.

We reached the base of the platform where Emperor Quinn Slatemark and Empress Adeline sat with the practiced ease of rulers who knew their presence alone commanded the room. Beside them, dressed in deep red silk embroidered with arcane silver patterns, sat Cecilia Slatemark, the reason for the evening’s celebrations.

My parents bowed deeply, and I followed suit, inclining my head just enough to convey respect without looking servile.

"Your Imperial Majesties," my father said, his voice steady but edged with a certain crispness that only I would notice. "It is an honor for the Nightingale family to be present on this joyous occasion. We extend our sincerest congratulations to Princess Cecilia."

A perfectly polite statement, neutral, offering respect but asking for nothing in return.

The Emperor nodded, his gaze sharp as he regarded my father. "We are pleased to have you here, Lord Nightingale. Your family’s service to the Empire has been noted and appreciated."

That was another surprise. Appreciated? Not "valued," not "acknowledged"—words that would have kept the pleasantries cold and distant. This was a step above that. The Emperor didn’t waste words.

My mother stepped forward smoothly, presenting a small, exquisitely wrapped gift. "A humble token for the Princess, Your Majesty," she said, her voice effortlessly graceful. "May this day be filled with joy."

Empress Adeline accepted the gift with a gracious smile, her sharp eyes taking in my mother with the kind of silent appraisal that rulers mastered. "Thank you, Lady Nightingale," she said, her voice warm but unreadable.

And then, Cecilia spoke.

"Arthur," she said, and there it was—the shift in the room, subtle but immediate. The way the surrounding nobles paid closer attention, the way my father, despite his years of political experience, went very still for a fraction of a second. "It’s good to see you."

There was familiarity in her tone. A softness, even.

I met her gaze and bowed once more. "Thank you, Your Highness. It is an honor to be here for your special day."

She studied me for a lingering moment, the faintest smile playing at her lips, like she knew exactly what she was doing by acknowledging me so openly. "I hope you enjoy the festivities tonight. Please, feel free to partake in the celebration."

I nodded, stepping back in measured deference as my parents concluded their greetings.

The moment we turned away, I felt the eyes on us, the ripple of curiosity spreading through the room like a stone dropped in still water. Conversations resumed, but they had taken a new shape, shifting to the unexpected scene they had just witnessed.

After all, for all the distinguished guests in attendance, it wasn’t a high-ranking duke or a visiting dignitary that Princess Cecilia had personally welcomed with warmth.

It was me.

My mother’s smile was warm as she adjusted the hem of my jacket, her hands lingering just a moment too long, as if she wasn’t quite ready to let me go.

"Arthur, Aria, have fun," she said, stepping back with a nod of approval. My father, ever the quieter of the two, merely gave a curt nod, though I caught the way his gaze lingered, a silent reminder to behave.

Aria, standing beside me in a frilly dress that she had clearly picked out for maximum twirlability, tugged at my sleeve with barely contained excitement. "Arthur, can we meet your celebrity friends again?"

I sighed, ruffling her hair just enough to earn a glare. "Sure. If you aren’t annoying."

"I’m never annoying," she declared, hands on her hips, radiating the same confidence that somehow ran in the family.

Before I could deliver a much-needed reality check, a flicker of gold caught my eye. A blur, moving fast, a presence I would recognize anywhere.

Rachel.

She was in front of me before I could even straighten up, her deep sapphire eyes locking onto mine, the faintest flush on her cheeks. "Finally found you." Her voice was soft, just for me, carrying the warmth of someone who had waited too long. Her lips curled into a smile, and the weight of her absence suddenly settled over me. "I missed you, Arthur."

My heart stuttered.

Rachel turned to Aria, greeting her with the same easy warmth, and Aria, being Aria, practically preened at the attention.

And then another presence. Seraphina, appearing as quietly as the falling snow, her silver hair cascading down her shoulders like woven moonlight.

"Hey, Sera," I greeted her with a smile.

She simply looked at me, her expression as composed as ever, but I caught the subtle way the corners of her lips lifted.

"Oh my god," Aria gasped, clutching my sleeve. "You know Princess Seraphina Zenith!"

Seraphina regarded her with polite interest. "Nice to meet you."

Aria, meanwhile, was vibrating with barely concealed excitement. The contrast was almost comical.

Then, out of nowhere, another voice.

"Hey, Arthur. Been a few days," Rose said, materializing as if she had been there the entire time.

The source of this c𝐨ntent is freeweɓnovēl.coɱ.

I exhaled slowly. "Rose."

And just like that, it began.

"Arthur, my sister wanted to meet you," Rachel announced.

"Arthur, my uncle wanted to meet you again," Seraphina added immediately after.

"Arthur, my father wanted to meet you," Rose followed, as if we were playing some twisted game of social tug-of-war.

The three of them paused, realizing they had all spoken at once. A quiet, almost imperceptible tension settled between them.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Aria covering her mouth, eyes gleaming with the sort of amusement only a younger sibling could have when witnessing her older brother’s suffering.

I sighed. Loudly.

But before I could even attempt to maneuver my way out of the inevitable diplomatic minefield, the music shifted.

A gentle melody, the kind that signaled the beginning of the evening’s formalities, faded into something grander, something structured. The first dance of the night.

The massive hall fell silent. The Imperial Family sat at the highest tier, their presence commanding attention without a word. At their center, Emperor Quinn stood, raising a single hand for silence. The murmurs of the gathered elites, dignitaries, and prodigies from across the world hushed instantly.

Then, with a nod, the Emperor’s gaze fell on his daughter.

Cecilia Slatemark stood, her movements fluid, effortless, like someone who had been born to command a room. There was an unspoken expectation hanging in the air—that she, as the princess, would lead the first dance. It was an honor, a tradition steeped in significance.

Whispers rippled through the crowd as she descended the steps, the rhythmic click of her heels echoing in the vast space.

Who would she choose?

Every eligible noble son, every heir worth their title, straightened slightly, anticipation written on their faces. To be chosen by the princess for the first dance was more than just a fleeting moment of prestige—it was a statement.

Then, in one elegant movement, Cecilia turned toward me.

Her scarlet eyes locked onto mine, filled with mischief, amusement, and just a hint of challenge.

"Arthur Nightingale," she called, her voice clear, unwavering, and loud enough for every single soul in the hall to hear.

A collective breath held.

"Would you honor me with the first dance?"

I blinked.

The silence stretched unbearably long.

Then, from somewhere behind me, Aria’s barely restrained laughter broke through the tension.