"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.
