The barracks blur as I lean up against the wall, absently spinning and flipping a short dagger in my hand. My too-small ceremonial armor pokes uncomfortably into the muscles of my back, which still ache from training. I tip my head back, for once wishing Romulus were here if only to loosen the straps and save me from the boredom of the conversation I'm in.
I've never been a good listener; I try, of course, but after so long of chatting about the food in the mess hall and the newest court drama, the world starts to blur and my thoughts start to spiral inward. It's the opposite when something catches my interest. I've spent ages crowded in libraries before on my off days, devouring every book on a subject I possibly could. Once, it was the history of potion-making. Another time, when the Imperial Library's cat decided to join me, it was myth-legends about cats. It's the same with conversations, even; if the person I'm talking to is engaging enough, I could sit and listen intently for days. I imagine trying to listen to Romulus talk about himself for days and almost laugh out loud.
As if I summoned him by daring to even think his name, Romulus steps up to the group. The others wave hello to him and part as he walks up to me, narrowly avoiding my spinning dagger.
He swerves out of the way to avoid the blade, throwing me a mock salute. "Hey, Don—"
"Do not. I would even rather you call me sergeant all the time like the general does." I grin anyways.
He returns a crooked smile, but it melts into a frown as he notices what I'm wearing. "Celis, couldn't they have gotten you some bigger armor? There has to be at least one more oversize angel to have ever been in the Celan army. I didn't even notice when I was tightening it..." He mumbles something incoherently, the proper fit of armor having been drilled into our heads since we were old enough to wear it.
The uncomfortable poking is relieved a second later, the leather straps slackening slightly around my shoulders. I nod, rubbing out the knots that are now worse. "Thank you."
He claps me on the back. He's almost as tall as I am, but can never manage to move me. "Have fun!" he says as he walks off, knowing how often I end up hating these kinds of events.
"I won't!" I call back.
I attempt to entertain myself by examining the barracks for entrances, exits, and spy-holes as we've been trained. Three arched doorways that could be used for either, and there are four spy-holes I can see without moving the bunks lining the walls. I count how many total soldiers there are, then how many men, then how many women. Checking, double-checking, triple-checking. The seeking and recording, the mental rhythm and ease of it soothes me and distracts from the memories always stalking beneath my thoughts, like panthers under tall, golden grasses.
When it is time to make our way to the ball, Romulus catches up trails behind me as we walk through twisting white stone corridors, scattered with buttresses and statues tucked in alcoves, punctuated by grandiose rooms.
The word does not do the spaces justice. They're more like caverns, but brighter and slightly less cold. The ballroom is another such space, lit by flickering candles that float by enchantments. The faceted glass dome above filters and reflects the vibrant sunset hues, washing the space in reds and yellows from above. More white arches section off a curved walkway around against its rim, leading gently out to the attached outdoor spaces, which overlook the lake. Masterful paintings depicting landscapes from each of the kingdoms line the space between; from the free white sails of Vaporean pirate ships to the iridescent towers and waterfalls of Pearlspire, sirens leaping through, and the rippled sands of Sitoan oases.
We check everywhere for possible threats and find nothing, so General Lemaure officially excuses us for the night. The guards who already work at the castle will be posted everywhere, so our services are not needed. Most of the soldiers do not return to their rooms, opting to stay in their ceremonials for the night instead of changing.
I watch, amused, as Romulus approaches one and tries to ask her to save him a dance. She smirks, then shoves him back—hard enough that he cannot stop as he barrels into me. Grinning, I shove him back with less force to right him. He totters a bit but stays stable.
"Better luck next time," I say.
"Oh, shut it. You haven't dated a girl in half a decade."
"At least they wish I would."
Defeated, Romulus busies himself with invisible flaws in his armor's fit. Streams of Celan nobles start flouncing and crawling and strutting into the ballroom, clothed in lush, jewel-like fabrics. The women's dresses are almost all tight on top, with draped off-the-shoulder sleeves and flowing skirts layered with sheer fabric.
Exactly the type the Grand Duchess wore that last day in town, to the briefing, before she fled. I wonder about that—it's not something the fierce Grand Duchess I knew would have done. Maybe, if it helped her schemes. But otherwise, she would never miss out on a meeting as important as that one, especially considering the case's mystery and importance. The memory of how fiercely she fought, how many times she beat me in combat, pervades. How she was always a whirlwind of spinning gold and flying hair, quick and cunning as a viper. That last day before I left for travel training.
I physically shake the memory off as the next wave begins, the Stele party. I recognize a fearless tiger shifter who trained me as a cadet, Osk Batra. The silver brooch pinned to his tunic denotes him as the new Hand to their king. Impressive. I spot their princess, grinning and punching a male cousin in the shoulder hard enough to nearly shove him off his feet.
Most of the men entering now wear thigh-length tunics with short, rounded collars and slits on their sides, layered with dark, long breeches. The women wear vibrant selem slung over their shoulders, crafted with the unrivaled skill of Stele artisans. Most have rich brown skin and long black hair that is worn down. They're just as obviously rich as the Celans but flaunt it more demurely.
The leaders of the Seafaring Guild enter. Most are current or former pirates and wear expensive clothes to match. The men wear billowy white shirts that remind me of sails under luxurious waistcoats The women wear the same, with exposed corsets under their longer, flaring coats and loose pants tucked into boots. I wonder how that many shiny gold buttons could be necessary on one outfit, much less multiplied and sewn onto a dozen.
None of them bother to hide the knives strapped to every part of their bodies. The president wears especially fine clothing, her flame-haired daughter chatting and smiling beside her. Traditionally, they're called the Raana and Vaana, the presiding president, who does more diplomatic, governmental work, and the heir, who handles more... pirate-esque matters. She bounces from conversation to conversation, enchanting half the room before her official entrance is even over. The gleaming, curved saber at her belt contrasts with her light demeanor.
A few siren ambassadors enter, wearing beautiful, sheer, sparkling fabrics that remind me of the sea, their long hair suspended in invisible water like Tempest's is in wind. The plush-cushioned chairs they sit on roll with wheels, somehow gliding down the steps from the main entrance. The young magickers pushing them, assigned in case their hydrating enchantments need renewal, look terrified.
Only a small group of Northern shifters arrive, the chiefs of packs the Empire and Stele will deign to do business with. They're all huge, mostly men, with shoulder-length hair and furs wrapped around their hulking shoulders. Stony, light eyes and chiseled faces swivel around the room, scanning for threats in the way I often do. I recognize an Elbii tribe tattoo on one and am reminded of Blandus, likely still selling spices back home.
Next to enter is the Avinin convoy. I don't even bother to blend into the shadows of the wall, knowing none of them will likely try to come to speak with me anyways. Gold, silver, bronze, and white wings gleam as they enter. The Gilded King and his immediate family all bear their signature golden wings proudly, a testament to the purity and power of their bloodline. Most of the convoy wears immaculately tailored white.
I spot the prince, whose warm umber skin is dusted with the same gold as his wings. Evzen Kallis, heir to the Kingdom of Avia. High-cut cheekbones, cropped hair, and a solemn expression.
He's notoriously intelligent, but also rumored to be unsuccessful in the most important aspect of angel culture; battle. His father, at the front of the group, bears a heavy golden crown with interspersed diamonds each the size of a quail's egg. They do not disband when they enter the crowd, rather they form smaller groups that are each carefully curated and distinguishable by their white attire.
The tension in my body loosens somewhat when they're dispersed. I start to relax against the wall and enjoy the people-watching, but the orchestra starts to play—and everyone silences. The Celan imperial family is entering.
First is Empress Evalin, resplendent in a deep plum gown that acts more like a wide-belted robe, heavy with gold embellishment. Her golden crown rests on her brow, and she looks every inch the empress.
A figure, clad in black, finally appears silhouetted against the arch at the top of the grand staircase. Unusual, for such a colorful, bright event. She steps down, her heeled shoes clack-ing conspicuously against the marble in the silent room. She holds herself with as much regality and self-assuredness as her mother, if not more. She takes a few more steps, and her face enters the light.
Thick lashes, dark green eyes, and that face I can't believe I forgot. Shit.
I can't help but stare at her; the entire ballroom is. Her gown cuts in a deep, broad vee. She looks the complete opposite of every other person in the room, colorless and ethereal against lavish jewels and splendor except for the color high on her cheeks. The black pearls securing the curls piled on her head gleam gray, and gentle wisps of hair frame her face, brush her collarbone.
She does not wear a crown. She does not need one. Everyone knows, without a doubt, that she is the heir to the Empire. And I know, without a doubt, that she is the girl I met in the seamstress's shop that night.
I see no trace of the nervous girl that fled my meeting. I only recognize the fierce, calculating, heartbreakingly stunning Duchess. I mentally kick myself—I should have known better.
Her eyes skip over me as they scan the crowds, thankfully. Perhaps I can make a quick escape. If the emperor, no, if even Tempest finds out that I was speaking with the Grand Duchess—Hel, that Romulus was flirting with her—we would be fired surely, possibly even hanged for impropriety. I sink further into the shadows, hoping to slink away while she is dancing.
Of course, though, Romulus latches onto my arm. "You can't leave."
"Yes, I can." I yank my arm away.
"No, you can't. You need to talk to someone, I've been saying it forever." He lowers his voice to a whisper. "Who better than the Grand Duchess? You knew her as a kid, didn't you?" He winces when I backhand his arm.
"How do you even know that? No one is supposed to know who I trained with." Our conversation is now drawing glances from nearby soldiers. My voice is so low that I can see Romulus straining to hear. "Seriously, I'll go find some minor lord's granddaughter. We have to leave."
"No, you will not pull that with me. What issue would the Emperor even have with you dancing once with his daughter? I mean, he knew you, practically raised you for a few years. It's one dance." His eyes gleam mischievously, and I know I will not like what I am about to hear. "If you don't, I'll go dance with her and say you want to court her."
"What? No. No, you can't, he'd rip my eyes out—"
"Donny,"
"Don't call me that."
"I saw the way you were looking at her in that shop before you even remembered her. You haven't even looked at a girl since Kasta. Just go." He tries to push me into the dance floor. I don't move.
"What do you mean, looking at her? She was just laughing like some drunk—" I am caught off guard by Romulus shoving me into the crowd. I'll do it if you don't, he mouths at me. I sigh—I seem to do that often when Romulus is involved—and wander closer to the dancing floor.
Ladies' dresses twirl and flare, like vibrant falling flower blossoms spinning on a breeze. The men lead, though I can point out the flaws in their movements from the dance training the Commander insisted on. One man's hand is too high on his partner's back, another's steps are too wide, another's hand is clamped too tight around his partner's. I easily find the Grand Duchess, dancing flawlessly with... the Stele princess as a partner. She leads the princess, graceful despite having to lead. Both are smiling, and I can see their eyes flicking towards other couples as they gossip about them.
A minute or so in, I see the Grand Duchess tip her head towards where I'm standing. The princess looks over and laughs, and I pray to all the gods that they aren't speaking of me. The song fades to a close. She curtsies, and the Duchess bows to her, shooting over one last smile before the princess leaves the floor. I steel myself before weaving my way over.
If I'm going to be forced into this, I might as well not make it awkward, I tell myself before approaching her. She turns.
She looks the same as she used to. I have no idea how I didn't notice it before. Her golden hair, longer now, is the same shade. Her high cheekbones, her cupid's bow lips, everything complements her perfectly. She looks so different, but the forest-green eyes I used to see gleaming when she beat me in combat are identical.
"May I have this dance?" I ask, offering a hand. My heart falters in my chest for a single beat. I'm worried, for a moment hanging in the air, leaning over the edge, that she will refuse.
"Yes. You may." Her smile is dazzling, but her emotions are completely hidden. Even I, someone who's been trained to detect them, can't tell what she's feeling.
I return it and pull her close by the waist. One of her hands rests on my shoulder, the other on my own raised hand. She's barely a hair's breadth away. In perfect tandem, we start to dance.