Mei-Ling stood at the razor-sharp edge of a craggy cliff that jutted out from the rugged haven of her refuge, her eyes fixed on the far horizon where a line of snow-blanketed mountains dissolved into the intimidating vastness of an unknown world. The shock of realization coursed through her like the solemn tolling of an ancient bell—he was alive. Yet, the news brought mixed emotions: survival came at the price of profound change, of being marked, and, what hurt the most, of knowing he was not alone. Jingfei's words echoed relentlessly in her mind as if reciting an inescapable incantation. The persistent image of that woman, ever-present by his side from dawn until dusk, sent a spark of fury flaring in her chest; her hands clenched into fists instinctively. With that spectral figure now intertwined with his fate, slipping into the palace suddenly seemed a far steeper challenge than ever.
Pacing along a corridor of crunchy fresh-fallen snow, her boots carved defined rhythms into the frozen ground beneath. The thought of following a visible path on the road was unthinkable—too sluggish, too easily discovered. If she was to infiltrate quickly and in silence, she would have to rely on her innate ability to teleport. As she lifted her gaze to the swirling skies above, she sensed the subtle shift in the air currents; they brushed against her skin like delicate, luminous strands of starlight Her father's voice rang clear in memory, "Immortals move across the world in a single step, but only if they've been there before or possess the strength to twist the spirit lines without tearing themselves asunder."
She had never set foot in Zlatnomirheim—and she vividly recalled the calamity of her last attempt at teleportation. One single miscalculation had hurled her into a dragon's den; the dragon, far from slumbering, had been very much awake. In that moment of peril, she had almost been reduced to nothing more than a crispy soul-snack before her father had burst in, roaring louder than the beast itself, hauling her up by the collar with the ferocity of an enraged feline. "YOU TELEPORTED INTO A DRAGON'S NEST, MEI-LING! WHO EVEN DOES THAT?!" his thunderous anger still sent shivers down her spine, a memory more cringeworthy than any searing blast of dragon fire.
Now, she resolved, no more blind teleports—not if she wished to avoid turning into a blazing missile that introduces herself to the royal guards. She needed a more calculated entry plan; she needed backup. Her eyes narrowed, and within the labyrinth of her thoughts emerged a singular figure—a person whose influence and charm could stride into the palace and rally a small number of allies. Mirna. A reluctant, mischievous smile slowly crept along her lips. If anyone could lull the haughty nobles, slippery attendants, and that fiercely ambitious enchantress into oblivion, it was none other than Iron Maiden Mirna Branidóttir. Perhaps Mirna even possessed a couple of disguises tucked away to help Mei-Ling pass as just another nondescript courtier. After all, stranger things had happened.
Taking a measured, resolute breath and executing a practised flick of her fingers, Mei-Ling vanished in a scintillating shimmer of light, only to reappear directly before the magnificent, imposing gates of Havgradić. She stepped back momentarily, her eyes rising to scrutinize the towering ironwork. The ornate metalwork arched overhead like intricately curled vines, exuding an air of self-satisfied grandeur. For a fleeting heartbeat, she hesitated, transfixed by the sight. Memories flooded back of her previous arrival here—escorted in chains for a highly controversial and absurd misdeed involving apple property disputes.
Shaking off the haunting recollection as if it were entirely by design, she advanced and delivered three sharp knocks on the heavy oak door. After a pregnant pause that felt like an eternity, the door creaked open just enough to reveal a young squire, his windswept hair and bewildered expression proclaiming his status as an intern fresh from training. "Uh... yes, ma'am? Can I help you?" he stammered.
Straightening her posture and brushing away invisible motes of dust from her flowing robes, Mei-Ling replied coolly, "Name's Mei-Ling. I'm here to see Lady Mirna Branidóttir." The squire blinked in surprise as the door creaked open further—and there she stood. Mirna, clad in gleaming chainmail that caught the light and accentuated the determined set of her features, her hair matted against her flushed face likely from some grueling bout of combat training or perhaps the weight of a knighthood's burdens. Her expression mingled disbelief and triumph as her jaw dropped, "Mei-Ling. You're—alive?!"
A lopsided smile danced on Mei-Ling's lips in response. "Nice to see you, too." Without a moment's hesitation, Mirna swung the door open with a resounding clang and practically swept Mei-Ling into the building.
In the expansive, sun-drenched courtyard beyond, the clash of steel rang out as Hattori and Hozo engaged in a spirited sparring session, their blades slicing through the air in a graceful yet fierce ballet of combat. But the moment they spotted her, their rhythm shattered; swords froze mid-swing as they both shouted in stunned unison, "Mei-Ling!"—like two boys seeing a ghost from a bedtime story appear in their own backyard.
With arms outstretched in playful welcome, Mei-Ling beamed. "Miss me?" she called, utterly unbothered by the scene of interrupted warfare around her.
She turned to Mirna with a spark of urgency in her eyes. "I have a favour to ask. I need your help to sneak into the palace... I have to get to Aelric."
Mirna, watching with arms crossed and one perfectly arched brow, tilted her head with cool suspicion. "Tell me," she said, "why exactly do you need to sneak into the palace unnoticed?"
Mei-Ling blinked, caught in the act of dramatically pacing back and forth across her forge—a scene reminiscent of a woman plotting a mild rebellion. "I don't want to sneak," she declared, her voice dripping with both exasperation and resolve, "I want to... enter. Discreetly. Preferably without ending up behind bars. Or impaled."
Mirna's eyes narrowed appreciatively as she gave her a look that balanced amusement and exasperation. "So... sneak."
With an exasperated sigh that seemed to carry the weight of many unspoken confessions, Mei-Ling relented, "Yes. Fine. Sneak."
Mirna folded her arms even tighter, her tone laced with incredulity, "What for? Do you plan on slipping a love letter under Aelric's pillow?"
"No!" Mei-Ling halted dramatically, a pause hanging in the space between them, "...Maybe."
Mirna snorted, laughter tugging at the corners of her mouth, "By the gods above, you're lucky you have that pretty face."
With a flourish of theatrical defeat, Mei-Ling collapsed onto a nearby bench. "I need to see him, but that porcelain death-glare of a elf woman—Lady Aurelia—and her army of scented, gold-plated shadows stand in my way."
Mirna grumbled, her voice a low rumble, "She's always skulking about like an over-perfumed moth. Well, in that case, you're in luck."
A spark lit Mei-Ling's eyes as she leaned forward eagerly, "You're going to help?"
"I might have received an invitation," Mirna replied, retrieving a crisply folded card from a clutter of unopened mail as though it had personally insulted her. "To Aurelia's monthly masquerade ball."
"You got invited?" Mei-Ling's tone mingled disbelief and intrigue.
"Every noble under the sun receives one," Mirna replied with a dramatic roll of her eyes. "Every full moon, Aurelia conjures up some outrageously obstinate event so she can flaunt her jewels, her impossible waistline, and her very dubious taste in flattery."
"And you weren't going to go?" Mei-Ling pressed, her curiosity piqued.
Mirna shot her a withering glare, "I'd rather be locked in a sparring match blindfolded with a drunken ogre than wear another silk gown and engage in tedious chatter about horse breeding with Lord Ferthington's left nostril hair. It's not my cup of tea."
Mei-Ling leaned in conspiratorially, "But you could get me in."
"I could," Mirna responded, a hint of mischief in her tone.
"As your plus one." Mei-Ling's words were laced with the promise of adventure.
"You'd owe me," Mirna countered.
"Done," Mei-Ling replied succinctly, a sweet grin spreading across her face.
Mirna's eyebrows arched in subtle amusement as she regarded her friend. "You love me, don't you?"
With an exasperated groan, Mirna turned on her heel. "Fine. But if we're doing this, we're doing it with style. Come on."
Ten minutes later...
They stood in the dimly lit corridor at the entrance to Mirna's private chambers, shadows dancing along the ancient stone walls. Mei-Ling had entered expecting something modest—a small, functional armoire, a few reliable cloaks, maybe even a discreet rack for her trusty sword and matching boots. What she found instead left her utterly breathless.
Mirna pushed open the double doors to reveal an enormous, resplendent walk-in wardrobe. Before Mei-Ling's astonished eyes stretched rows upon rows of exquisitely tailored gowns, each masterpiece shimmering subtly in the gentle glow of enchanted sconces. Shoes were meticulously arranged like a miniature army arrayed for battle, and shelves boasted an impressive collection of accessories: delicate ribbons, sumptuous lace, rich velvet, and embroidery spun in colors Mei-Ling couldn't even name. Every item was perfectly arranged and untouched, exuding a glow of refined opulence.
Mei-Ling's jaw practically dropped to the floor. "You've been holding out on me."
Mirna ambled further into the room and selected an emerald-green gown trimmed with intricate lace. "My father wanted me to be a lady," she explained dryly, as if reciting a long-forgotten lament, "so he bought me a fortune's worth of dresses, hoping I'd magically transform into a debutante."
"Did it work?" Mei-Ling asked, her eyes dancing with curiosity.
Mirna's lips twitched into a sardonic smile. "I tried to duel the dressmaker when he jabbed me with a rogue pin. So... no."
Slowly, Mei-Ling stepped forward into the wonderland of textiles, her fingers trailing along a rack of sumptuous silk gowns. "They're beautiful," she murmured, almost reverently.
"They're absurdly ridiculous," Mirna corrected, her tone a mix of fondness and exasperation.
"I love them," Mei-Ling said, plucking a midnight blue gown adorned with silver embroidery that shimmered faintly like starlight. "I want to wear this one."
Mirna smirked, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. "Let's get to it—there's a new identity to conjure and a crown that's about to be thoroughly rattled. Time to cause a little royal chaos. "
Mei-Ling paused, a hint of playful seriousness in her voice, "We're going to need backup."
Mirna raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow as if in silent challenge.
One hour later...
A resounding knock echoed through the chamber's heavy, ornate door. Mirna opened it to reveal two very enthusiastic figures stationed in the hallway—Yueli and Xueyi. They were each clutching a large, suspiciously magical-looking bag brimming with an array of items: vibrant makeup palettes, an assortment of hair tools that glinted like enchanted relics, delicate perfume bottles exuding exotic scents, shimmering enchanted pins, and what appeared to be glowing blush that pulsed softly with magical light.
"We heard someone needed a makeover," Xueyi announced brightly, her smile wide and infectious.
Yueli added with a burst of energy as she breezed past Mirna in glittered boots that caught every stray beam of light, "And we brought everything."
Mirna blinked in feigned shock, "What exactly did you just summon?"
In the midst of the theatrical moment, Mei-Ling grinned triumphantly and declared, "Victory."
Later...
"Absolutely not," Mei-Ling snapped, arms crossed, glaring at her reflection. "This dress is cursed."
"You haven't even tried it on yet," Mirna said, holding up the gown like a prize-winning fish. "Just look at it. It has sparkles. And... flow."
"I don't wear flow," Mei-Ling muttered.
"You're infiltrating the royal masquerade ball," Yueli said from behind, adjusting a tray of makeup brushes like a field medic prepping for battle. "It's not supposed to feel comfortable."
"I'd rather sneak in through a chimney."
"You'd catch fire in that hair," Xueyi quipped, already armed with a curling iron. "Now sit. If he sees you in this dress—"
"Oh, please don't start with that again," Mei-Ling groaned.
"—the curse will surely be lifted!" Xueyi finished dramatically, clasping her hands.
Mirna snorted and tossed the gown over Mei-Ling's shoulder. "Ignore them. Just know you're about to be the most dangerously beautiful woman in that ballroom."
Mei-Ling rolled her eyes but relented. With Xueyi and Yueli moving like twin whirlwinds—armed with pins, powders, and the occasional polite threat—Mei-Ling was soon standing in front of the mirror, breath caught.
The gown shimmered like moonlight on water—layers of soft silvery silk embroidered with tiny crystal lotus blossoms. A matching lace mask dusted with gems framed her eyes, delicate and mysterious. Her hair was swept into a regal updo, silver threads woven through each braid.
She looked like the kind of woman who should be dancing with princes and plotting revolutions.
She blinked. "Is that... me?"
"Aelric's gonna pass out when he sees you," Xueyi said, clapping her hands with glee.
Mei-Ling giggled softly, almost shy.
Outside...
Hattori stood like a carved statue in formal black and gold, stoic as ever. Beside him, Honzo paced in his velvet ensemble, casually tossing nuts into the air and catching them with the precision of a showman.
The moment the ladies emerged, Honzo fumbled mid-throw and dropped his last nut.
"Well, hello stars," he said, bowing with a theatrical flourish. "I volunteer as tribute."
"Don't flatter me," Mirna replied coolly, adjusting the sword hidden beneath her gown. "Flatter her."
Honzo turned to Mei-Ling, letting out a low, appreciative whistle. "You clean up nicely, Mei."
"Don't," she warned, though her smile betrayed her.