Transmigrated into a Fantasy World with No Clue What To Do Chapter 47: Chapter 46: The Duke’s Steady Hand / Princess Isabella is a Menace

Chapter 46: The Duke’s Steady Hand / Princess Isabella is a Menace My father leads me onto the dance floor with the kind of practiced ease that makes it immediately obvious this is far from his first formal ball. That should not be surprising, but it still is. The first dance is measured and elegant, slow enough to be forgiving, structured enough that I do not have to think too hard about where to step so long as I follow his lead, which, thankfully, is easy. My father is a good dancer, of course he is. I suppose it should not be shocking that a duke can navigate both court politics and a ballroom with equal competence, but some childish part of me had apparently hoped his talents ended at being intimidating and emotionally convenient for his struggling daughter. He smiles, like he can hear the thought. “Relax, lass,” he murmurs as he guides me through an easy turn. “You look like you’re bracing for execution.” “I feel like I’m b-being inspected for auction,” I mutter. His mouth twitches in mirth. “Aye, that’s close enough, then,” he says, somehow managing to smooth his face into full seriousness in the process. I let out a laugh before I can stop it. Around us, the ballroom turns in slow, practiced patterns, silk sweeping marble beneath warm golden light while conversation continues in softened currents at the edges of the floor. From a distance, it had looked almost effortless. Up close, I can see the calculation in it. Who dances with whom. Who is seen and who is not. The politics do not stop simply because there is music. It has learned to waltz instead. My father follows my gaze and sighs. “Aye, that too,” he says, as if reading my mind. “You make it sound exhausting,” I reply. “It is exhausting,” he says. “That’s why your mother is better at it than I am.” That startles a laugh out of me. He smiles, faint and fond. “She understands the rules well enough to use them properly. I mostly endure them and occasionally step on the wrong people,” he says. “That sounds d-deliberate,” I point out. “It often is.” He chuckles softly. I laugh again, quieter this time. The tension in my shoulders eases by degrees, not enough to disappear, but enough. Enough that the music stops feeling like structure and starts, however briefly, feeling like music. Enough that I stop counting who might be watching. Enough that I remember, for one quiet stretch of borrowed time, that I am dancing with my father and not merely being observed while doing it. His hand tightens briefly around mine. “You’re doing well,” he says, low and warm. The words land harder than they should. I glance up. He is watching me with that same quiet steadiness he always seems to reserve for the moments I need it most. Pride rises warm and sudden in my chest, sharp enough to catch me off guard and, for one fragile moment, I let myself have it. The end of the first set comes gently. The music softens, dancers part, and the ballroom settles into that strange, practiced lull where movement does not stop so much as reorganize. My father releases my hand as the final notes fade and offers me a small bow that is just formal enough to earn a smile. Before I can say anything clever in return, the shift begins. It starts at the edges. The conversations quiet, the movement slows. The subtle hum of the ballroom stills by degrees as attention turns, not abruptly, but with the smooth inevitability of something well-rehearsed. At the far end of the hall, at the top of the grand staircase, the herald steps forward. He strikes his staff against the marble landing once. The sound cuts cleanly through the room, then his voice follows. “Presenting Her Highness, Princess Margaret Muir, and His Highness, Prince Albert Muir of Muirven.” The doors open. Princess Margaret enters first in deep royal green, her red hair swept elegantly back, one hand resting lightly on her husband’s arm as they descend into the ballroom with the easy confidence of those long accustomed to being watched. Prince Albert