Julian Metternich was practically dragged away from the edge of the dance floor by his father, Caspar. His face twisted with humiliation and rage, and his furious shouting, which he couldn't keep in check as they went, made for a brief but glaring spectacle in the ballroom. It drew even more openly mocking and disdainful looks. The Metternich family—especially Caspar's branch—had lost much of its dignity in Julian's clumsy imitation of a fool.
Caspar Metternich's face was livid. He handed his hopeless son over to a few attendants, muttered a few angry words, then forced a smile and nodded to the guests around him who were looking on with concern—or, in truth, enjoying the show—in an effort to salvage some dignity. But he could hardly conceal his embarrassment and anger.
The atmosphere in the Metternich family's section plummeted to freezing in an instant. Julian's idiocy had not only made him a laughingstock, but brought shame on the entire family.
But the Metternich family had stood firm in the Empire for more than just the likes of Caspar, with his empty bluster. It also had vipers lurking in the shadows.
Amid the oppressive atmosphere, a figure who had been silently standing in the shadowy corner gently swirled the wine in his glass. It was Felix von Metternich, Lucas Metternich's son and Julian's cousin. He was nineteen, dressed in an unremarkable dark gray suit. With his ordinary looks and gloomy air, he stood apart from the dazzling young nobles around him, as if he belonged in the shadows by nature. He had watched his cousin Julian's farce with cold detachment, a faint, icy sneer never quite leaving his lips.
Idiot, Felix murmured to himself. Julian was a good-for-nothing who knew only how to bluster and throw his weight around. He was useless