Airlean Tales S2E6: Grand Ball (1)

Author Notes:
There are now links during some sections that go to music / mood tracks for these scenes. Usually I listened to these while writing these sections. I like a lot of game and anime music, don’t judge.
If you don’t like links or mood tracks, then feel free to just scroll past them.

Karis steeled herself as she ascended the grand steps of the royal palace, ballgown swishing about her ankles. It had been years since she’d left the socialite scene in derision, cursing them all for ostracizing her mother. Since then, she’d received numerous invitations—only after she’d proven herself as the Second Hunter and revealed herself as an elegant beauty, of course. She had rejected all of them. The nobility hadn’t accepted her mother, so she would not accept them.

Yet here she was now, dolled up in a floor-length dress that spilled down her figure in layers of silk and chiffon, hair loose and tumbling in soft pink waves. Like another tittering sycophant, seeking a spouse of greater coin.

Well, it can’t be helped, she told herself. She’d felt ill at ease ever since the Atlantean delegation had arrived, and this ball was the perfect opportunity to glean more information. If it meant pulling out the name of her esteemed uncle, Lord Corinth Sylvester, to gain entry, then she would do so.

A flickering shadow caught the corner of Karis’s eye, and she looked up. Halcyon was at the head of the stairs, dressed down in a simple black shirt and trousers that seemed effortless, but striking all the same. He stared at her, and she stared back. For one moment, his eyes flickered down to appraise her figure, and she was a little satisfied to see his throat bob before he looked away.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” he said.

“Oh,” Karis said coldly. “So, now we’re on speaking terms.”

Halcyon stepped back, which almost made Karis regret her harsh tone. Until she recalled his own utter lack of manners when they’d last spoken. She worked up her righteous indignation. Let him taste his own medicine for once.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t have left you to fend for yourself.”

An apology could not thaw her so easily. “You could have, if you’d just bothered to explain yourself.”

She waited. Halcyon supplied no explanation. Not even a defense for himself. He was determined to hold his silence to the end, it appeared. Or determined to cut her out.

Miffed, Karis turned her hand into her skirt to hike the hem up to her ankles, and continued up the stairway.

“Nicolina needs something,” Halcyon said behind her. He made her pause just for a moment. “Did she brief you?”

“She did not.”

“She says that the delegation is preparing for something big.” She heard a rustle of cloth as he turned to face her. “They carted a huge tribute to the palace when they met with Prince Sethis.”

“But that was weeks ago. Before this ball was even announced.”

“It took this long for the Observatorium to verify the safety of the contents. Pearls, opalite weapons, and arcane tomes. No traps or disguises, from what the sages could tell.”

Karis’s mind hummed to life, suddenly alert. Her irritation dampened quickly. “So it’s a bribe.”

“Or a threat of a different kind.” Halcyon faltered. “If…if you can, help me keep an eye out. I’m to watch the head envoy, but he looks like the slippery type.”

You’re hardly in the position to be asking for favors, Karis nearly said, but she knew better. This was something of a peace offering. He would know, more than anybody else, just how bored she had been these past months. No Storms. No hunts. Not even any deliciously insane criminals. The life of a Hunter was feast or famine, and Karis was all but starved.

So instead, she nodded. “I’ll do better than that,” she said. “What of you? Frankly, you seem rather underdressed for a gala.”

“Been holding off on the formalwear until I absolutely have to.” He grimaced. “It feels like slipping on a noose.”

“Think of it as a suit of armor for a different battlefield.”

“Is that what yours is?”

She turned lightly, letting the folds of the dress slide around her like water. “A rather beautiful one, I think.”

He looked at her openly, which was somehow more thrilling than when he’d turned away bashfully.

“Save me a dance?” he said.

Karis’s heart fluttered like a fragile moth beating its paper-thin wings. Not trusting her words, she inclined her head and swept into the castle.

Like donning the trappings of war, Sethis dressed in his finest, piece by piece.

The undershirt and blouse. Pressed trousers. A gilded jacket. No armor this time; instead, his royal cape was fastened by a beautiful golden pin that feathered over his shoulder. His faithful sword, Stardust, remained strapped to his hip, but more for decoration than combat.

He regarded himself in the looking-glass. Past the polished, princely facade, he swore that another face lingered over his shoulder. A gaunt, weathered face, a hunched back, a lined, heavy mouth.

The face of his father.

Sethis closed his eyes. Two weeks ago, he’d approached King Asher, seeking permission to host this very gala. And although he’d been granted an audience, his father’s words still lingered heavily in his mind.

Do what you will, child, the king had said. Sethis easily recalled the bowed silhouette of his father, faintly backlit by pale, dusty light while shadows consumed the rest of the enormous throne room. Hold your gala. It matters not.

Sethis should have made his peace there, but he could not. It would hearten the people were the king to involve himself in the festi—

Silence. The command was simple, but unshakable. Vestiges of the king that Asher Lunaren had once been. You may indulge your whims, but do not involve me.

Sethis’s control frayed. Why?

You will come to understand. The city swallows itself in greed. The people gorge themselves on hate. The heavens rain down retribution for our folly. The king’s head hunched over the golden glint of the Airlean scepter, a broken figure stooped on the throne. What can man do in such darkness?

Sethis felt flickers of a flame settling in his chest. Better to fight it than to submit.

You will fail. Esther rose to face it and the Lightbringers swallowed her. Now the Storm ravages the land. The king tapped his scepter on the cold tile in a low, empty noise that rattled up the pillars. Attend to your soirée, child. Live out your final days with cheer before you die.

That had concluded the audience. As it always was with his father, Sethis had gotten what he wanted, yet felt like he’d lost nonetheless.

In the safety of his chambers, Sethis’s hand pounded down, cracking the pristine marble counter before him. He’d wanted to scream back. To seize his father by the shoulders and cry, Then give up the crown, give up yourself, but do not drag down the nation with you! Go join Mother today, if you are so eager to rot!

He forced a breath and pulled in his shaking fingers. This would not do. Such dark thoughts were not becoming of an Airlean prince, and the gala could see none of it.

He raised his head and looked into the mirror, trying once more for a smile. He succeeded. A part of him wondered if anyone would see there was no life behind his eyes.

Karis thought that she had arrived early, but apparently, no one could best Azalea Fairwen when it came to conscientiousness.

The girl was standing in her full armored regalia just within the main hall, starshooter tucked neatly in one arm, her other raised in dutiful salute. But her composure broke the moment she saw Karis sweep down the corridor, and she clasped her hands together, beaming warmly.

“Lady Karis!” she exclaimed. “Oh, you look radiant!”

Karis could not help but preen. Just a little. Alright, perhaps quite a bit. “Thank you, little flower,” she said. “There isn’t much time left. When will I get to see your own ensemble?”

“Oh,” Azalea said softly, and a glum look overtook her gentle features. “I…I don’t have one.”

Karis stared.

The girl smoothed her hands over her skirt and adjusted the straps of her armor self-consciously. “I’m, I’m here as a Hunter,” she mumbled. “So…I thought I should dress like it.”

That certainly had never stopped Karis, who saw fit to dress however she wanted on any of the commissions from the Hunter’s Guild. “I don’t think Nicolina would begrudge you some finery,” she said.

“No, I’m here on duty. I wouldn’t want to cause any trouble. And with only two weeks’ notice, I couldn’t procure anything presentable in time.” But every word sounded like a sad, wilting mewl.

Karis seized her arm. “Then I shall cause trouble in your stead,” she said primly. “Come with me, little flower. Tonight, I shall serve as your fairy godmother.”

“Oh!” Azalea said, blushing. She gestured frantically to the empty spot where she’d been standing. “But Lady Karis, my post!”

Karis lazily flicked her fingers. Her manawell burned and spun into threads of ice mana, which deftly wove into several spherical Forms in a manner of seconds.

Azalea’s post was now occupied by a cute little snowman holding a starshooter-shaped flower branch.

“There,” Karis said airily. “I’ve found your replacement.”

And before Azalea could protest further, she dragged the girl down the hall and out of the palace.

When it came to matters of appearance, Karis hated to be rushed. But they had very little time until the party began, so rush she did.

Without windsoles to power her movement, she burned her manawell and strung sugar-thread along the rooftops and parapets, then proceeded to sling herself on the ropes like a trapeze artist. The technique likely violated several ordinances regarding royal property and unauthorized manacraft on private estates. Karis did not care.

Azalea, who had the fortune of wearing windsoles, kept pace with easy leaps and bounds of wind mana. Her confusion was apparent, but she asked no questions until Karis’s house sprung up from among the gabled roofs of Magnolia Hills, a wealthier sector of Mythaven.

“You live here,” Azalea said in disbelief as they dropped down to the front door.

“Yes,” Karis said.

“Why are we here?”

Karis slotted in the key and opened the door. “It’s far too late to visit a seamstress, little flower, but you seem a similar size and build to how I was as a youth. I was hoping you wouldn’t mind trying one of my own frocks. It may be used, but I always keep my things in good order.”

“Oh!” Azalea gasped. She trailed after Karis, who stepped into the bedroom and up to her wardrobe. “I wouldn’t—I couldn’t possibly impose…”

“Nonsense. If you don’t mind something borrowed, it would be my pleasure.”

“Thank you,” Azalea whispered shakily. Startled, Karis turned around and saw that the girl’s eyes had misted over with a wet sheen. “This is…this is one of the nicest things anyone’s done for me.”

Borrowing a dress?! Karis thought, aghast. She would have to spoil the girl more often if it were so.

She opened her wardrobe and carefully filed through the section of nicer garments—courtesy of her generous uncle, Lord Corinth Sylvester, who had supported the living of her mother in secret. Dresses of deep plum, cornflower blue, ivory and dappled pink flashed before her gaze. But one particular garment, buried at the very end, caught her eye.

Perfect.

There was no protest from Azalea, who obligingly removed her armor and old trappings as Karis pulled a dress of deep, luxurious scarlet from her wardrobe. Rather, the little flower regarded her with a glittering, awestruck gaze, as if Karis were a Mythic Star made flesh. Karis stifled a smile as she draped the fabric over Azalea’s figure, satisfied that she had been correct—Azalea was more or less her size from earlier Academy days. The waist was fitted, the skirt flaring beautifully at mid-calf, and tulle butterflies flecked up the bodice of scarlet silk and chiffon.

“Thank you,” Azalea began breathlessly, but Karis held up a hand.

“We are hardly finished, little flower,” she said. “You have but completed but one part of six.”

“Six!” Azalea exclaimed, though she looked far more excited than dreading. “What could possibly be the other five?”

“Hair, facial cosmetics, accessories, shoes, and of course, the crafted handbag.”

“Why—thank you, but that—that could take hours,” said the girl, a pinch of nerves crossing her face. She was probably still thinking about the starshooter snowman in the corridor.

Karis sniffed. “Well, then hours it shall take. What, is the palace so short-handed that they must instate a Royal Hunter as a footman at the door?” If so, then they did not even deserve a snowman to watch their gates.

“Um…maybe they are that short-handed. I mean, the Magistrate of Culture has been in a terrible frenzy, bemoaning that he’s had only two weeks to pull together a ball at the palace. He thinks he’s due a heart attack any moment now.”

“He shall have one whether you are at the door or not. Look forward.”

Azalea fell silent as Karis flitted around her, hands swift but precise. Hair tongs, heated with gentle sunfire mana for loose and natural curls. Little glass pins for a sparkle around the crown. Pencil for the lashline, shimmer oil to lift the eyelids, rouge for a petal-pink blush. And lastly, a little scarlet snap-bag, plush layers reminiscent of a tulip.

Karis tried to work quickly, but she knew that over an hour had passed by the time she was finished. Still, she could not muster an ounce of regret when she turned Azalea to the full-body mirror and saw the look on the young girl’s face.

“I’ve never felt so lovely,” Azalea said softly. Unshed tears lined her eyes, giving them a starlight glimmer. She turned once, letting the dress layers flow around her like water. “Thank you, Lady Karis. Thank you so much. I, I’ve only dreamed of looking so pretty.”

“It was my pleasure,” Karis said demurely, which was more true than Azalea could ever know. She was particularly looking forward to the look on the young Lord Geppett’s face at seeing the love of his life dolled up like a princess.

So she was meddlesome. Let them begrudge her at their wedding.

“What do I owe you?” Azalea said, blinking wetly.

Perhaps an honorable position in your wedding party, Karis thought. But she wouldn’t dare make such demands aloud.

“Well,” she hummed, “if you would truly like to return the favor…”

Azalea leaned forward. “Yes?”

Karis grinned. “Have the most wonderful time, and remember this night for the rest of your life.”

Azalea laughed, so light and free that although she had not been the pampered one, Karis felt as though she were flying. Truly, this little one deserved the best memories in life, and she was happy to contribute.

“Now,” Karis said, voice still alight with mischief, “if you don’t mind a bit of manacraft, little flower, I daresay that the ball is missing one of its scarlet blossoms.”

Glittering chandeliers cast crystal light down onto the ballroom, illuminating the colorful refreshments laid out by the wall. Noblemen milled about in their high-collar suit jackets, feathered crests proudly declaring their family backing pinned to their lapels. Noblewomen swept by in large dresses with voluminous petticoats and sensual bertha necklines, trains decorated with billowing embroidery.

The air was affluent, poised. Far more than Sethis liked. Despite his own pristine accouterments of snow white and royal blue, spending the past Storms on the frontlines made him feel more at ease in the grime and brotherhood of the battlefield, rather than in the manufactured beauty of a ballroom. Still, he had done his best to be an adequate host, welcoming each attendee with a nod and a smile.

At the very least, he could take comfort in the genuine excitement in the celebration. For it had been many years since the royal palace had hosted a ball.

As Sethis turned from the latest arrival—the friendly Lord March Regale of the House of Bards—he rubbed subtly at his cheeks, which were rapidly becoming sore from excessive smiling. A young man’s voice sounded from close behind him, nearly making him jump.

“Feels strange, doesn’t it?”

Sethis turned stiffly, only to promptly drop his guard. Lord Wesley Geppett from the House of the Heavensward Tree stood before him in a perfect array of rich brown and forest green. Gold leaves dotted his cuffs and vine-like tracery wrapped around his evening cloak. He looked about as thrilled to be dolled up as a turkey paraded about before its fateful execution for an autumn feast.

But Sethis smiled. Ever since they had met on the battlefield, both of them disobedient sons stealing away from their respective fathers, he considered Wes as a friend. Perhaps his only one among the nobility.

“I do miss the comfort of having my sword within reach,” he admitted. “Is that odd?”

Wes jutted his chin towards the congregating aristocrats. “Not when you’re facing the wolves.”

They were wolves, wolves dressed in silk and smelling of roses. Sethis was not ignorant to the insidious agendas that lay behind the gilded smiles. And yet…

“My mother loved such wolves,” Sethis admitted softly, looking out upon the gaiety and splendor. “Whenever she arranged a gathering, she worked her utmost for even the smallest to feel that they belonged. For her alone, I would attempt to do the same.”

Wes’s gaze softened. “That’s very kind, Your Highness.”

“She left big shoes to fill.”

“I think you’re well on the way to doing so.”

“Thank you.” Sethis straightened. “But enough about me. Are you enjoying yourself? Did you arrive with any company?”

“Why, Your Highness, is that meddling I detect?”

“Perish the thought.” Sethis grinned. “Although many often look for partners at such events.”

Wes raised a brow. “I’m sure you have no lack of amorous suits for the crown.”

Sethis already had his fill of introductions to the daughters of nobility—they were all lovely and charming in their own way, but as was the nature of organized social events, every conversation was stilted, wrought with politics and a desire for the crown. He could hardly fault them for it, for that was exactly how his father and mother had been wed. It was silly for him to wish meeting a girl in different circumstances, without titles and families, where she might treat him with humor and candor.

Yet wish for that impossibility he did.

“Nor you as the scion of House Geppett, I imagine,” Sethis replied. “Why, word has it that you and Lady Charlene Penrose were seen…?” Quite odd, as Sethis had been under the impression that Wes’s affections lay with a certain little Hunter.

Wes grimaced. “One courtesy-mandated outing and the rumor mill gets grinding. One civil outing hardly constitutes a courtly intention—”

But Wes’s voice trailed off to a slow, distracted stop, as if his words had been stolen from his mouth. He stared openly at the grand double doors, unmoving, a light flush tickling his cheeks.

Sethis turned, and immediately saw the object of the young lord’s distraction. For the first time all night, Sethis felt a smile of genuine joy spread cleanly over his face, and he stepped back, allowing Wes the full view of one Azalea Fairwen.

Affections with a certain little Hunter, indeed.

‹ Prev Episode      Next Episode ›