The Royal Ball writes first
The herald announces you, and a hundred candlelit faces turn as you descend the grand staircase into a sea of silk and string music. The ballroom is vast, golden, and humming with a hundred quiet conversations that all seem to pause, just slightly, as you arrive.
A dowager in violet catches your elbow before you reach the floor, her fan snapping open.
“A new face. How thrilling. Nobody knows who invited you, which means either you’re no one at all or someone very important indeed.”
Across the room, near the tall windows, a figure in a silver half-mask watches you over the rim of a glass and does not look away when you notice.
The great clock reads nine. Midnight, everyone keeps murmuring, is when the true celebration ends.
“Well, my dear,” the dowager purrs, steering you toward the crowd, “the night is young and full of dangerous people. Where shall we begin, the dance floor, the gossip, or that masked creature who hasn’t stopped staring at you?”
