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Two young noblewomen stand before me, their dark hair pulled back and their lowcut dresses nearly identical but for the color. One wears deep red, the other gold. Shocking.
“Welcome back,” the gold-clad girl says. A different voice, so not the first one who spoke, though she looks and sounds familiar. She twirls a strand of hair around one finger and puckers her lips up at me like she’s said something unique. A dozen and a half people have already said the exact same thing.
And none of them truly mean it.
I force myself to remember manners and tip my chin down. “Ladies. Thank you for attending.”
“Oh, we wouldn’t miss it for anything.” The first girl — the one in red — says with a coy giggle surely meant to endear me to her. She seems familiar too, though I can’t place her.
I fight to keep from grimacing. Of course they wouldn’t miss an opportunity to parade themselves in front of me in hopes of being chosen as my bride.
I should’ve worn a mask and mingled secretly. May have been a better use of my time. Easier to weed through those who seek only power and status. Though, it’s probably all of them. At least it would’ve been more efficient. Maybe even more fun.
Maybe I’ll try that tomorrow.
“Are you enjoying the ball, Prince Kirran?” The gold-clad girl shifts a bit closer and tilts her head as if she’s really interested in what I think. She keeps lazily twirling her hair. Her other hand lifts as if to brush my arm. “Is it everything you hoped it’d be? Has anyone in particular caught your eye?”
I study what I can see of their faces. They’re pretty, definitely, and the way the gold-clad girl stands compels my eyes toward certain areas of her body. Yet something about her — whether it’s the attempted seduction in her stance, the dress that doesn’t cover enough, or the questions she asks but doesn’t want honest answers to — riles my nerves. The girl in red is no better, now biting her bottom lip as she bats her lashes at me as if it’s somehow attractive.
Do they truly think they can win me over with such tactics?
A flare of wild defiance ripples through my chest, and I shrug. “The ball’s enjoyment rivals the last time I found myself surrounded by strangers who all wanted a piece of me.”
Both smile, though a flicker of hesitation plays on their lips, like they don’t quite know what I mean.
I take a step closer and lower my voice. “Though there was far less food involved — and far more screaming and dying.”
Their smiles falter in unison. I fight a smirk.
“Oh, did you think you spoke to a pampered, shallow prince who finds pleasure in opulence and enjoys being flirted with by women who can’t bother to share their names before playing games? No, pleasure is draining the lifeforce from a dozen enemies at once and watching them turn to dust.” I level my gaze at each one and cross my arms. Neither girl budges, though the gold-clad girl’s eyes widen. “Now, ask yourselves: am I truly the sort of man you want warming your bed? No? Then move along.”
For a heartbeat, they stay motionless. Then both give quick bows and dart away without looking back. I watch them and let out a slow breath.
It’s not entirely true — war brought no pleasure — but if it keeps preying women away from me, I’ll pretend to enjoy it. If someone cared enough to poke through the bravado, or even look at me like something beyond a means to an end, maybe I’d answer with the truth.
But the one girl who offered that slammed that door in my face years ago.
It’s only fair to plaster over it and turn it into a wall.
On the other side of the room, one of my cousins and captains, Harran, has stopped beside the women in yellow and orange and struck up a conversation. From the way the girl in yellow looks up at him and the way he beams down at her, it’s only a matter of time before he pulls her away for a dance. Her friend in orange stays a step back. Knowing Harran, he probably tries to engage with her too. I can’t tell if she responds at all.
And then, just like that, she’s alone.
Something like panic grips her form, tightens her arms. In the next instant, she catches herself, exhales a heavy breath, and shrinks back toward the area behind the tables. The movements tease me somehow, but all I can focus on is that she looks like she’s about to run.
Might as well.
I don’t pay much attention to the people around me as I stride toward her, but I get a sense that some are parting to clear a path. Like they think I’ve set my focus on her. Maybe I have. I don’t know why I’m approaching her at all, other than the sliver of hope that maybe she too doesn’t want to be here either.
A semblance of common ground with someone would be nice. Even if only to pass some time.
I stop a pace from her and clear my throat. “Hello, miss.”
I don’t say it loudly, and I’m sure she saw me approaching, but she startles anyway, like she didn’t expect me to notice her. Her head dips down, sending the strands around her face farther over her cheeks. I catch a soft whiff of lavender and oakmoss. It isn’t memorable, though something about her still tugs at the depths of my mind. Her skin is lighter than ours usually is. Milkier. And while her hair mostly suggests autumn fey, there’s an odd tinge — a hint of white? Silver?
Autumn and winter fey, perhaps? The winter fey of Sarma have been isolated for years, increasingly so, but it’s possible she shares some of their blood.
I pull myself from my inspection and lean a little closer, as if we share a secret. “You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself.”
