At Zlatnomirheim Palace with Hattori and Honzo expertly drawing the guards' attention—and a few well-placed bribes greasing the right palms earlier that day—the foursome slipped through the side gates under the veil of dusk. Shadows clung to the edges of the palace walls as they moved like ghosts, their footsteps silent on the polished marble floors. Without a word, they wove through the quieter corridors with practised precision, the echo of distant music, and murmured conversation growing ever nearer.
The Grand Ballroom unfolded before them like a fantastical dream sculpted into reality—a dazzling symphony of light, colour, and enchantment. Towering crystal chandeliers suspended high overhead, their gentle glow imbued with a subtle, magical pulse that replaced ordinary candlelight, casting intricate patterns that danced playfully over the gleaming marble floor. Rose petals, charmed to defy gravity, twirled lazily through the air like delicate snowflakes caught in the hushed stillness of a perpetual waltz. Gilded columns soared at each corner, draped in sumptuous velvet curtains dyed a deep midnight blue and embroidered with shimmering constellations, as if the very night sky had descended to revel in the spectacle.
Every guest was a moving part of this living mosaic—a riot of silks swirling in intricate patterns, crisply tailored coats, and masks that ranged from the ethereal delicacy of gossamer lace caressing high cheekbones to the wild, regal visages of beasts sculpted in hammered bronze and silver. The air pulsed with a vibrant hum of movement, punctuated by sparkling laughter and fleeting moments of beauty that made hearts flutter and breaths catch in silent wonder.
Above it all, from a lofty balcony, music drifted downward like mist spun from stardust—each waltz a cascade of effervescent notes that shimmered with the effulgence of champagne, threading its way through the enchanted crowd with grace and ease.
Then, with theatrical precision, a herald stepped forward. His bow was as deep as the mysteries of the universe, his voice resounding with thunderous grandeur, announcing with an almost mythical cadence:
"Announcing... Lady Mirna Branidóttir... and Lady Petronella Snortwhistle!"
At the sound of the unexpected name, Mei-Ling halted mid-step. Leaning toward Mirna, she hissed in incredulous disbelief, "Snortwhistle?!"
Mirna's confident smile faltered into a momentary freeze. "I panicked, alright? It was the first name that came to my mind!"
"That's the name you'd give to a cow with allergies!" Mei-Ling retorted sharply.
"Just smile and wave, Lady Snortwhistle," Mirna murmured, her tone a blend of exasperation and encouragement.
They strode into the ballroom, heads held high and gowns flowing regally—and the entire room fell into a hushed awe. It wasn't merely the dazzling sparkle, the profound mystery, or even the undeniably heroic presence they exuded; it was the palpable gravity of the moment, amplified by the fact that Aelric was watching.
Seated at the far end of the magnificent ballroom upon his throne, King Aelric's gaze remained fixated on the newcomers, his expression unyielding and unreadable, as though guarding a secret buried deep within his soul. Beside him, the immaculately poised Lady Aurelia maintained a serene composure, her eyes as sharp as obsidian.
Not a flicker of emotion disturbed the king's countenance, yet Mei-Ling could feel the stillness—a taut tension, as if his gaze were silently interrogating and challenging her very existence.
She whispered, "I need to talk to him."
"Subtle," Mirna muttered under her breath. "So, what's the plan?"
"I distract Aelric. You distract Aurelia," Mei-Ling explained, a determined edge sharpening her resolve.
Mirna squinted, questioning the logic. "I think you have that backward."
Glancing briefly at the imposing throne, Mei-Ling replied firmly, "Trust me. If he sees me, the spell might break. Or worse, I might be executed. Either way, we need to move fast."
Mirna's eyes darted toward the dessert table where Hattori and Honzo were stationed. There, Honzo was already charming two masked noblewomen by juggling delicate éclairs with the flamboyant nonchalance of a street performer.
She sighed softly and called out, "Boys."
Both men straightened into positions of quiet readiness.
"Do your job," she instructed.
Hattori offered a single, dignified nod while Honzo winked, stuffing one final éclair into his mouth before strutting toward Aurelia with all the subtlety of a glittering cannonball.
Before Mei-Ling took her next step, Mirna handed her a finely decorated fan. "This is either going to be genius... or complete chaos."
A playful grin illuminated Mei-Ling's face as she adjusted her delicate mask. "Why not both?" she replied, seamlessly gliding into the vibrant, enchanted crowd, her heart pounding with an intoxicating blend of purpose and destiny.
Meanwhile...
"Lady Aurelia," Honzo purred, his voice dripping with mischief as he offered a bow so theatrically exaggerated that his head nearly brushed the gleaming marble floor. His smile, devilish and knowing, danced in the lamplight as though it contained secrets too delicious to confess.
Aurelia's eyes flickered in a moment of disbelief, as if his words were but an irritating speck of dust floating through her refined air. Instantly, her gaze shifted toward Aelric, searching desperately for any sign of jealousy, some protective scowl, even a hint of disapproval—anything to salvage her dignity from the absurdity of the moment. Instead, Aelric stood unmoving and expressionless, his face set in that trademark royal stillness, his eyes fixed blankly ahead as if he were a marble statue come to life.
Aurelia's eye twitched in mild exasperation.
"...Very well," she declared crisply, her tone edged with reluctant amusement. "Just for a little while."
Honzo's face radiated boyish delight, his excitement palpable like a child granted an extra slice of the richest cake. "My eternal thanks, my lady," he exclaimed, voice filled with effused gratitude. With a flourish, he guided her gracefully onto the center of the dance floor just as the orchestra's notes softened into a lilting waltz that seemed to caress the air itself. For several heartbeats, the moment was a delicate tapestry of movement and sound. Honzo's steps revealed a surprising elegance, an artistry unexpected in one who was more accustomed to the stealthy balance required for scaling silent rooftops or slipping unnoticed through doorways at the dead of night.
Then, with a swift motion, he spun her—catapulting her straight into the waiting chest of Hattori, who had been stationed conveniently nearby, his arms crossed in a posture that betrayed both surprise and the silent acknowledgment of fate.
Aurelia's gasp was sharp as she collided with him. "Excuse you!" she snapped, her voice tinged with indignation.
Hattori's smile was a quiet, knowing curl of his lips. "May I have the next dance?" he asked in a tone that mixed amusement with the hint of a challenge.
Before Aurelia could protest, Hattori swept her once more into a dizzying spin, only to deposit her back at Honzo's side.
"Welcome back!" Honzo chirped brightly as he caught her hand, and twirled her again—whirling her like a finely crafted top in dizzying circles.
"No, no, no—!" Aurelia protested, her voice a mix of exasperation and alarm as the relentless spinning continued.
Then, with another abrupt change, she found herself thrust back toward Hattori. "You're a surprisingly good spinner," he remarked with an easy, almost casual tone. "Care for another dance?"
Her protest, "I SWEAR TO—" was cut short as the waltz forced yet another spin—a relentless carousel of conflicting partners.
Again with Honzo, the dance continued as if on cue. "Feeling dizzy, your ladyship? Shall I fetch a physician? Or perhaps a pail to catch your fancy?" he teased, his tone light yet laced with a palpable gleam of mischief.
Aurelia wavered visibly, her porcelain complexion draining of its usual vibrance beneath layers of carefully applied powder. "I...I think I need to..." she began, her regressive sentence dissolving into the strains of the waltz.
Before anyone could hear the end of her thought, she bolted from the dance floor—a startled deer bounding away, one hand locked around her stomach in a clumsy protectiveness while the other flailed desperately, snagging at passing velvet curtains as if hoping one might somehow swing open to reveal an escape to another, kinder realm.
Behind her, two elvan figures exchanged a look of smug approval, their eyes twinkling with mischief, and sealed their silent complicity with a discreet high-five.
Across the expansive ballroom, Mirna, a noble of understated elegance, took a languid sip of ruby wine and murmured conspiratorially to Mei-Ling, "You're up. Go."
Mei-Ling, her fingers trembling slightly as she adjusted her intricate mask decorated with silver filigree, stepped boldly into the sea of glittering nobles. Every measured footstep made her heart pound louder, echoing the rapid tempo of her burgeoning hopes and anxieties.
Mei-Ling, however, was the picture of transcendent beauty—thanks in large part to magic. Her gown shimmered with the luminescence of distant stars captured in fine silk, and the mask she wore, a mosaic of silver and crystal, caught every stray beam of light, transforming her into an enchanting amalgamation of deity and mystery. Yet beneath this enchanting spell, she was merely an immortal woman chasing the elusive echo of a love that seemed to have forgotten the contours of her face.
A nobleman approached her with an expectant smile. "May I have this dance?" he asked, his tone smooth as velvet.
"Another time," she replied with a demure smile, stepping away gracefully.
Not to be deterred, a second gentleman tried his luck. "Surely you won't refuse every—" he began, only to be halted by her gentle yet firm interjection. "I will," she said sweetly, already drifting past him like a wisp of smoke, leaving his words to blend into the chattering background of the party.
Only one elf, however, held her true focus tonight.
She proceeded through the throng toward the dais where Aelric sat, the embodiment of regal calmness. In his customary pose, one elbow rested elegantly upon thearm of the throne, fingers steeples with meticulous precision. His crown, a scintillating artifact of royal lineage, caught and refracted the light of the grand chandelier, lending him an otherworldly aura. His cool, measured gaze swept over her—not with personal interest, but with the detached appraisal one might offer to a prized exhibit in a gallery.
He did not recognize her; not even the slightest flicker of familiarity crossed his eyes.
The realization pricked her heart with a delicate sting, but she maintained her composure, bending into a graceful curtsy as she softly offered, "Your Highness. I am Lady Snortwhistle." The name, bold and unyielding, burned in her throat like a secret scalded into her very identity.
Aelric's eyes remained steady as he replied in a cool, measured tone, "Good evening... Lady Snortwhistle."
Nearby, Mei-Ling nearly tumbled from the weight of the moment, her cheeks flushing as she stammered a quiet explanation. "It's an old family name," she lied quickly, her voice betraying both the heat of embarrassment and the fragile veneer of nobility. "Very... noble. Probably."
"Quaint," Aelric mused, his tone dipping into dry humour. "It has a rustic, agricultural ring to it."
"Possibly," she countered teasingly, "It does evoke visions of abundant root vegetables and harvest feasts."
Aelric tilted his head, his curiosity aroused. "Do I know you?" he inquired, the question hanging in the air like a fragile whisper.
Mei-Ling's heart pounded in a rapid, hopeful rhythm. "What?" she managed, caught unawares by his unexpected inquiry.
"You seem familiar," he continued slowly. "Have we perhaps met before?"
Her practised smile wavered, and in a barely audible voice, she offered, "In another life, perhaps. Or maybe just in a dream."
He regarded her for a long, contemplative moment. "I rarely remember my dreams," he noted softly.
"I remember mine," she replied in a hushed, wistful tone. "They're always so vivid... and bittersweet."
At that very moment, as though responding to their secret exchange, the orchestra seamlessly transitioned to a new, more contemplative tune. Without a moment's hesitation, Aelric rose, extending his hand in a silent invitation. "Will you dance with me, Lady Snortwhistle?"
A soft twitch played upon her lips—a mixture of amusement and resignation. "That name is slowly killing me," she whispered, her voice laced with both irony and delight as she placed her hand into his. "But yes. I'd be honoured."
Stepping together onto the marble floor, they became the center of a shifting tableau of curious eyes and whispered intrigue. Mei-Ling, perfectly attuned to every nuance of the court, found herself gliding effortlessly under Aelric's steady lead. Each turn, every delicate step, stirred echoes of lost memories locked away in the quiet corners of her soul. He did not know her—not really, not yet—but in the way he held her, in the lingering softness of his gaze as he traced the contours of her face, she fancied that he might be chasing a memory that once belonged to both of them.
"Has anyone ever told you," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the soft strains of the violin, "that you dance like a elf who's trying desperately not to feel?"
Aelric's reply, delivered with a subtle smile, was as enigmatic as it was sincere. "Yes, quite often—usually right before the inevitable tears begin."
She chuckled gently, a sound that mingled with the music. "I'm trying very hard not to cry, so I suppose we're doing great," she replied, her words filled with both humour and vulnerability.
Another spin; a pause; then suddenly, his gaze took on a different quality—a questioning warmth that penetrated the formal mask he so carefully maintained. "Who are you really?" he asked, his tone soft but insistent.
Mei-Ling's fan fluttered open in a delicate arc before her face, a whispered secret of silk and lace as she leaned in just enough for his ears alone to catch her clandestine words. "I'm the echo of a promise," she whispered, her voice a fragile confession. "And if you find me later, out in the garden tonight... you might remember what that promise was."
For a long moment, Aelric said nothing, his silence weighted with unspoken longing. Then, drawing her closer, he held her with a tenderness that belied his stoic exterior, and the music continued its inexorable flow.
In another part of the grand ballroom, Aurelia re-entered with a determined grace that barely concealed the frenzied rush in her heart. She had returned with a composure carefully constructed to hide the chaos of a hurried sprint through the palace, her elegant heels betraying the frantic dash. Her hair, usually a masterful coiffure of twists and precise tension, now rebelled with unruly strands curling about her crown and clinging desperately to her damp forehead. Her cheeks glittered with an unmistakable sheen of perspiration, and her impeccable makeup had begun its quiet dissent, smudging ever so slightly beneath one eye as she sought refuge by a stately column's mirror. There, fan in hand, she dabbed and patted at her face, striving to restore the image of unflappable nobility.
Alas, fate is seldom kind to those who attempt to hide imperfections in plain sight. From the heart of the ballroom, still cradled in Aelric's steady arms, Mei-Ling caught sight of Aurelia's dishevelled return. Though she could not see clearly over his tall, commanding shoulder, a discreet sideways glance revealed Aurelia slipping back into the fray, visibly rattled yet determined to cling to her performance as if her very dignity depended on it.
"Uh-oh," Mei-Ling murmured softly, and with a graceful gesture, she slowed their waltz to a gentle close.
Aelric's eyes dropped to her, a faint crease forming between his brows. "Is something amiss, Lady Snortwhistle?" he inquired, genuine concern threading through his measured tone.
Mei-Ling winced inwardly. "I still despise that name," she admitted with bitter humour, "but no—rather, I must take my leave."
His eyebrow arched in mild surprise. "Already?" he queried, barely concealing a hint of disappointment.
With a final refined curtsy, she stepped back. "Please, meet me tonight. In the garden."
And with that, she turned and melted into the throng—vanishing into the crowd as if she were but a wisp of smoke caught in the shimmer of moonlight. Aelric watched her departure, his head tilted slightly, a constriction tightening in his chest. His eyes followed the fading glimmer of her gown until it was swallowed by a cluster of silk drapes and the murmurs of disapproving nobles.
Moments later, a slight tap on his shoulder roused him from his reverie. Aurelia stood there, a picture of forcibly maintained composure, her hair carefully re-pinned to conceal its rebellion, her fan strategically positioned to hide the telltale signs of a smudged expression.
"I do hope you saved the last dance for me," she said, her brittle smile unable to disguise the tension in her voice.
Aelric merely offered a small, polite nod. "Of course," he replied, his tone measured and cool.
And so they began to dance—a duet of apparent civility and unspoken grievances. Aurelia's grip on his shoulder was a touch overly firm, her eyes darting across the ballroom in search of some trace of the elusive and mysterious Lady Snortwhistle
Yet Aelric's gaze remained distant, his thoughts lingering on the echoes of promises.