Waltz of the Uninvited

“For the love of the gods, sit up straight.”

River had endured many things in his life—ambushes, backstabbing employers, blood-slicked battlefields—but nothing could have prepared him for Alvise’s brand of torture.

“Nobility demands a certain level of refinement,” Alvise said, pressing firm hands to River’s shoulders, as if physically trying to mold him into something presentable.

River scowled. “I’m standing fine.” For a moment, the mercenary considered ditching the babysitting duty altogether—if enduring this torment meant mingling with the vermin, as he called them.

Alvise looked like he aged ten years in the span of ten minutes. Across the room, Fiora stifled a laugh behind her hand.

“Come now, Alvise,” she said, eyes sparkling with amusement. “You must admit, he is making progress. He hasn’t insulted you in the last five minutes.”

“Give me time.”

“Let’s go over this again,” Alvise said, his patience stretched thin. “How do you properly greet someone at a noble gathering?”

River leaned forward, a smirk splitting his face.

“With great reluctance.”

Fiora lost it.

The next few hours were bound to be tough for everyone, as the ex-noble attendant struggled to shape the mercenary into someone fit for the ball.

✾

Montevio’s grandest estate stood bathed in golden light, towering over the city with all the extravagance of a world that refused to acknowledge its impending end. Music and fake laughter spilled from its lavish halls, and the scent of fine wine and perfume clung to the crisp night air.

At the grand entrance, a line of nobles draped in silk and gemstones handed their invitations to a group of armored guards. Fiora and River approached, their own invitation in hand.

Fiora moved with natural grace, her sapphire gown flowing behind her as they approached the entrance. Her fiery red hair had been carefully pinned, though a few loose strands framed her face.

And against her collarbone sat the brooch, the only piece of her past she had chosen to wear tonight.

River, by contrast, looked as though he had been forced into nobility at knifepoint. His dark blue coat was sharp, fitted, and tailored too well for a man who usually spent his time dodging blades. The tight, sharp, black tricorne hat on his head was the final touch, perfectly low so no one could mistake him for the mercenary hanging around in town.

“You clean up surprisingly well,” Fiora mused, her gaze flicking over him.

River adjusted his cuffs, scowling slightly. “Don’t get used to it.”

“And the hat?”

“A necessary evil.”

“You look like a pirate.”

River’s violet gaze slid toward her. “And you look like you belong here. Don’t know which is worse.”

Before she could respond, a guard held out a hand. “Invitation.”

Fiora stepped forward first, retrieving a sealed envelope from the folds of her cloak. The guard glanced at the crest, eyebrows twitching upward for the briefest second. The Di Lorenzo name still echoed, even if it was now little more than a ghost in Vermillia.

Then came River.

He handed over his own envelope—less ornate, the wax seal unfamiliar. The guard frowned, inspecting it longer than necessary.

“House Viret?” he murmured. “Haven’t heard that name in a while.”

“Not many have,” River replied smoothly, his posture straight, his tone bored, “The family keeps to the mountains these days.”

The guard gave a slow nod, either convinced or too disinterested to pry. “Very well. Welcome.”

As they stepped past the threshold, Fiora leaned in.

“House Viret?” she whispered.

“Alvise had a spare,” River murmured back. “Said the real one didn’t plan on showing.”

“Let’s hope no one from the mountains recognizes you.”

The doors opened, and they stepped into a world of decadence and deception.

The ballroom shimmered with gold and crystal, light spilling from a towering chandelier onto polished marble floors. Nobles danced in elegant circles, their silks whispering beneath the waltz of a hidden orchestra. Servants moved between them with silver trays, and beyond the sweeping staircase, there was a mezzanine from which a few men looked down upon, most likely scheming in whispers.

“See you soon.” Fiora whispered to River, weaving into the crowd. After all it was their plan to split up so they wouldn’t raise suspicions.

Fiora delicately plucked a small glass of wine from a tray and started moving like she belonged, slipping between lords and ladies, exchanging polite pleasantries. However every inquiry she made about Lothar Vitale was met with the same answer—polite smiles and feigned ignorance. They didn’t share anything, or in other instances they didn’t share enough.

“Lord Vitale has been absent for quite a while.”

“It’s been years since we last spoke.”

No one knew him as well as Fiora would have wanted. Or perhaps, no one wanted to admit they did.

Then—a whisper in her ear.

“You won’t find Lord Vitale here, Lady Di Lorenzo.”

Her breath hitched.

A man stood beside her, dressed finely but unremarkably. He had the look of someone who could blend into a crowd and never be noticed again. But he had noticed her.

“But my lord knew you’d be here,” the man continued.

Fiora schooled her expression, turning to meet his gaze.

“And what does he want?”

His eyes flicked to her family brooch.

“That little trinket of yours—it’s the key to something lost in the Grimhelm mountains. An old Di Lorenzo relic. If you wish to prove your worth to my lord, you will retrieve it. Then he shall come in contact with you.”

Fiora forced herself to remain still, to keep her breath even. “And if I refuse?”

The man smiled, but there was nothing kind about it. “Then you are of no use to him, and you better not speak his name ever again.”

River on the other hand had barely taken five steps into the ballroom when he was cornered.

A trio of noblewomen—elegant, adorned in silk and glittering with finely curated intrigue—had taken an immediate interest in him. They circled him like curious foxes, their painted smiles sharp, their gazes flicking over his fine but unfamiliar attire, the sharp cut of his jaw, and the cool detachment in his violet eyes.

“You must be new to Montevio, my lord,” one of them purred, tilting her head. “What estate do you hail from?”

River gave her a long, deliberate look.

“The farthest one.” He finally spoke prompting the women to exchange intrigued glances.

“Oh? A man of mystery. How very…” The second woman let the words linger, “Intriguing. And what trade does your family oversee?”

River sighed internally. What did nobles even trade? Silk? Favors? Other people’s money?

“Exports,” he said smoothly, swirling his own untouched drink.

“And what, pray tell, do you export?”

There was a beat of silence.

“Time and patience. And I’m all out of both at the moment.”

The first woman blinked, caught off guard by the flat delivery. The second, however, let out a soft, delighted laugh, clearly enjoying the challenge.

“You wound me, my lord. Surely you must have some noble pursuit. Perhaps something… refined?”

“Yes,” he said dryly. “I hunt.”

The third woman, intrigued, leaned in slightly. “Ah… A man of sport?”

“You could say that.”

“And what do you hunt, my lord?”

He lifted his gaze just slightly, his lips curving in the faintest smirk. “People.”

The first woman stiffened just a little. The second bit back a grin. The third simply stared.

“…How thrilling,” she said at last, though she now held her wine glass a touch closer to her chest.

Before any of them could press further, movement caught River’s eye—Fiora, across the room, watching him with barely concealed amusement.

River exhaled slowly, then gave her a pointed, unimpressed look. Fiora, in response, took a slow, leisurely sip of her wine and smirked.

That was indication she had finished her information gathering. Then the mercenary bowed, or at least tried to.

“Now if you’ll excuse me.”

He walked towards the noble with the fiery red hair, and stretched out his hand.

“Care to a dance?”

Fiora raised a brow, clearly caught off guard. On the other hand the noblewomen who tried to catch River’s attention earlier sneered at her.

“Are you really asking me to dance?”

“Take my hand. Or we can keep whispering and really draw attention.”

Fiora deflated, finally understanding the reason behind the gesture. Yet that didn’t do much to quell her heartbeat as they moved closer to each other.

River wasn’t a dancer, and it showed. His grip was firm, but his movements were careful—as if he was relying on her to guide him.

Fiora adjusted her stance slightly, making the footwork as simple as possible.

“You’re stiff,” she murmured.

“I’m not used to this.”

“I can tell.”

She kept her voice low, masking their conversation beneath the waltz. “The brooch is a key. Vitale wants me to find an old Di Lorenzo artifact in Grimhelm.”

“Grimhelm? All the way out in the mountains?”

“It seems so.”

“What kind of artifact are we talking about?”

“He didn’t say…”

Their movements were slow, controlled—not a waltz of passion, but one of necessity. Still, the closeness was distracting, and Fiora hated that it unnerved her more than him. His breath felt close. Closer than ever in fact.

“He also said Vitale knew I’d be here.” Fiora added, trying to distract herself from their closeness.

River clicked his tongue, “The bastard’s really got eyes everywhere. But why would he want that relic now?”

River seemed to fall into thought.

“He just sends a shadow to dangle some cryptic treasure and expects you to go running after it? Something smells here.”

“I don’t trust it either. But it’s the only lead we have.”

“How about I get two minutes with that informant, and tear the truth out of him?” River spoke through gritted teeth right besides her ear. Fiora gripped his shoulder tighter.

“Don’t. Even you can’t fight all these guards.”

Before she could continue, movement caught her eye—a group of nobles slipping away toward the upper floors, past the guards stationed in the staircase. And one of them was none other than Vitale’s informant.

River also traced her line of sight. His mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Trouble?”

“Trouble we must hear about. Let’s follow them.”

Nevertheless they moved as one, slipping after the nobles before the trail went cold.