/// Night of Lassier Blue ///

Ibeth wasn’t lying when she said that her younger sister’s coming of age party was going to be big.

Standing at the gates of her family estate, I can see the bright lights from inside the mansion through the windows, hear the orchestra playing the lighthearted music of violins, cellos, flutes, smell the odor of delicious delicacies finding their way out into the garden.

The party is in full bloom.

Standing in front of the car, I rub my arm, the coolness of the air making it tingle. I’ve never been to Ibeth’s mansion on my own terms, and I let my eyes explore the impressive design of the building, how large it is. How many people must be inside.

“Wait here, please,” I tell the chauffeur, and he nods willingly, getting into the driver’s seat and waiting patiently like ordered.

Without looking back, I walk slowly to the front door, and reach for the doorknob. But I stop, and my hand hovers. With a sudden feeling of doubt, my finger twitches, and I pull back slightly. Why am I stopping?

Ibeth’s face flashing through my mind, I swallow. She invited me to her sister’s party. I deserve to be here. Besides, there is nothing holding me back, not when Father doesn’t care where I venture or question my whereabouts. Not when I have people who want me to show up beyond this door.

I make my lips smile.

With a huff, I push the doors open, letting the volume of the wonderful music blow right past me, almost like a breeze against my skin.

When I finally get to the ceremony room—not exactly a ballroom, but large all the same, enough for the group of rich, wealthy people with influence under my father already amassed here—I am almost overwhelmed by the light that bathes all of us guests from the roof, reflecting off of glasses and diamond jewelry worn by the young, the beautiful, and the glad. The facade is draped in pale silks, the navy blue Lassier crest on every curtain—a never-ending lightbulb circled by crow feathers.

It’s beautiful, the scene so captivating I stop and stare. But nothing feels right, not in this dress, not in these heels. I feel out of place, yet right where I belong.

In a beautiful room filled with people who all hate each other, but wouldn’t utter a word because deceit is business. Everything feels artificial.

“Althea,” a voice says, smooth and sweet like honey, and I quickly turn to come face to face with Ibeth, clad in icy lavender, her ash blonde hair in a high braid, her slim arms sleeveless. “You actually came.” She smiles tightly, and I hesitate, wondering if her knee-length dress is uncomfortable for her.

Returning the smile, I shrug lightly, my tone playful. “I always come. When I’m needed, of course.”

Her smile flickers, and she chuckles, taking a sip of clean wine from the glass in her hand. “Of course.”

I can't tell what it is, but we’re . . . tense tonight. I've never been close on a deeper level with Ibeth, but our fathers are linked—my father being the King of Lassier and her father being the head of this land’s main agricultural systems, they talk often about affairs involving the agricultural supply—and despite my not going to school with other children, we’ve found ways to talk. She’s been like the sister I never had, informing me on the latest gossip and jokes whenever we’ve found time to interact. Stiff and brusque conversations have never been our usual, especially not at events.

She departs then to converse with other friends I don’t know or people associated with her parents, walking off with refined grace, and I am left to ponder over something that might mean nothing, yet means something to me.

But my thoughts are interrupted by the greeting of another guest, and I let my worry fade, smiling as I greet politely back. The small talk stretches on, taking me from person to person who is associated with my father. I get compliments about my dress and jewelry, and inquiries about what Father is up to.

By the end of it all, I’m irritated and fed up with the evening’s genesis.

It feels nice, being important. And I can’t deny that.

From across the party room, a voice interrupts the string quartet—the master of ceremonies announcing the coming-of-age celebration for Mielle, Ibeth’s younger sister. A burst of applause follows, people clapping all around me. I raise my hands to do so as well, but pause, my eyes randomly catching on someone in the crowd.

My eyes widen.

A man just about my age, standing amidst the crowd, a glass of wine in one hand. Tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in midnight Council Guard blues—he looks as if he’s carved of something too real, too solid for this glittering room.

His skin, a warm light brown, and short brunette curls combed back. Those features are impossible for a full Lassieran to have, and it clicks that he’s halfbreed of the Land of Flame and Ash and Lassier. Rare, lucky, magical.

Just as I’m deciphering his placement, he spots me, and our gazes lock from across the room. His eyes are the color of steel, their focus on me making my mind suddenly chaotic.

He smiles.

I forget to breathe.

Where have I seen those features before?

The announcer takes a break from speaking as the crowd waits for the star of the show to appear, and before I know it, he’s walking over to me, the trip easy with those long legs.

“Greetings,” he says, his voice like velvet fabric. “Althea, if my memory serves me well?”

I flinch, my brain resetting, and recollect the pieces of my common sense and dignity. He’s handsome, I’ll say that much. I can already feel the eyes of a few on us, females watching him with darts for eyes.

I blink at him, slowly. “We’ve—we’ve met?”

“Three times,” he says, smile widening at my stutter, revealing a set of straight teeth and a dimple in his right cheek. I already hate that I feel foolish, but I probably look like a dazzled child with my eyes bulging out of my head. It’s irritating, being in awe of someone. It reminds you that you are still lacking in something—whether it’s looks, composition, or simply charisma—no matter how perfect you’re trying to appear. “You ignored me twice, insulted me once.”

My eyes find his again, confusion in my voice as I say, “Excuse me?” It’s embarrassing not to remember people you encounter in public, like friends of your father who claim to have bought you presents or played with you as a toddler. But the feeling is even worse when the person you’re supposed to remember is a hot Council Guard of mixed race, who claims to have been offended by you three times.

I feel utterly stupid when he laughs, the sound soft and amused. His warmth already sets me off, and I don’t want to get comfortable, but I can’t run off as of now, when we’ve already started a conversation.

One hand finds his pocket as he tips his glass back and forth carefully, watching me while I watch the wine circle the glass. “Your father knows mine. You know, Grett Castor.” The famous Elite Guard known for his exceptional skills in both combat and sword-fighting, yes. “When we were eight, we met each other twice.”

The memory lights up like a chandelier newly hung up after being discarded for later use, and I vaguely remember standing next to my Daddy, staring cluelessly as he discussed with an older man whose face is blurred. He was fully Lassierian, I remember, at least. No dark tones. There was another boy, his son I assumed, who I recall thinking was very strange because of his curls and light brown skin.

“Hi.”

“. . .”

“Hello?”

“. . .”

“My name is H-Haden. What’s yours?”

“Go away. I don’t know you, and your voice is annoying.”

An ashamed blush rises from my neck to my ears, and I clear my throat, standing straight even though my body instinctively wants to curl up and stay that way till it decays.

“If I don’t remember,” I lie, keeping my tone regal, “the interaction probably was not worth remembering.”

“Now that sounds like you.” Haden grins, holding out a hand. I tentatively take it, uncomfortably conscious of the calluses of his palms. “Haden Castor.”

“Althea Raven.”

Even after the awkward reunion, I can’t help but notice the casual way he addresses me, the warmth in his quiet ease, like he lives in his own rhythm and everyone simply dances around it.

I refuse to dance.

Haden and I chat for a short period of time, getting to know each other, as if to make up for the time we lost back in our childhoods. But soon, the music quiets as Mielle finally enters the room.

I’ve never seen her before, so I’m surprised when she walks out. Ibeth’s little sister is bright, blonde and slightly chubbier than her sister, a beam of hope and innocence as she walks in, her rosy freckled cheeks flushed with pride. Wrapped in ceremonial blue, her gown shows off our Land’s crest for everyone to see, right below her collarbone.

Everyone applauds, and this time, I don’t forget to.

I remember when I was the star, standing in a giant ballroom in front of hundreds of the people invited, sixteen and mature. How I felt, grinning from ear to ear and knowing my father was proud of me from where he stood to my right.

Ibeth steps forward, holding her sister’s hand, tears shimmering in her hazel eyes as she gives the ceremonial blessing. I’ve never seen my friend like this, emotional. It was either never fit for the occasion, or she never bothered showing me that side of herself. As if I wasn’t worthy of it. Still, she looks so happy to be next to her younger sister, who is alive and healthy, even in this era of disease.

There is something real in this moment—love, pride, and family. Something genuine that you can only ever find at the coming-of-age ceremony for any young adolescent in this time and age. The entire room softens for it, for the moment.

But for some reason, I feel like I’m floating outside of it all.

///

Now at the food tables, laughter erupts.

The champagne flows like river water, and the music shifts, turning to something livelier. We all talk and eat, catching up and sharing jokes or memories about us at the age of sixteen.

That feeling of emptiness, separation, it’s still here, sitting in my stomach, but it’s fainter now. Just talking with these people of my age group and casually exchanging conversation like life-long friends is enough to make me feel like I belong. Being the Council Leader’s daughter, going to school with my peers hasn’t been an option, not when Father has an old, wrinkly governess to teach me politics, social norms, elegance, and forms of education I’ll need when I eventually take his place.

“Honestly, I haven’t been to a coming-of-age ceremony in ages,” one girl, who I honestly cannot remember the name of, says, words accompanied by laughter.

“No one throws grand ones anymore unless it’s for someone societally important.” Making my own commentary, I take a long sip of wine, letting the sweet taste coat my tongue and wash its way down my throat.

“True,” another girl says.

“I go to a lot of ceremonies. But mainly just to take note of what the girls are wearing, especially the star, so I can request new dresses from my mother.”

More laughter arises at that comment.

“Now that I think about it, I can’t remember what dress I wore for my party.”

“Come to think of it, neither can I. They’re all just Lassier blue, aren’t they? Hard to remember when the only thing different is the design.”

I don’t say anything, but I vividly remember my dress—a ceremonial blue embroidered applique dress, long enough that the skirts touched my ankles, shoulderless with puff sleeves that hugged my wrists. It was covered in crystals, so beautiful that when I moved through the room, light caught every gem, making me like a starry night sky.

It was my mother’s dress.

“Real ones do remember their dresses. Mine was a sleeveless wavy gown with an opening for my cleavage, and a choker. Gorgeous.”

Ibeth claps delightedly, and I glance in her direction, noticing her joy. Reserved joy, that unwanted voice in my head corrects. “Wait! Mine was a short dress with layers, and black roses. The crest was on my hip.”

I put down my glass, erasing the thoughts of my mother and my worth from my mind and visibly giggling into my hand. “If I was to decide, your sister should have worn your old dress. It’s more preferable and elegant, and this is a ceremony for maturing, right? She would have looked much better.”

Suddenly, the laughter dies down.

Addled, I look around to see that all the girls are looking at me, each perfect eyebrow slightly raised in disapproval. I’m not sure if I’m imagining it, but they all appear . . . disdainful?

The silence settles like frost.

I smile again, but I can’t help the nervousness that makes my heart stutter, that feeling of misplacement and alienation that churns in my gut like a monster waiting to be proven right. With a proud lift of my chin, I add, “It is the truth.”

“You know,” Ibeth says, all the emotion gone from her voice, her expression unreadable as she says, “You act as if you’re much more educated on maturity than anyone else here, when we all know that you still get spoonfed basic concepts by your governess. Hypocrites don’t get to mock my sister’s dress.”

I don’t respond, truly and utterly speechless.

What?

All I can do is open and close my mouth as Ibeth continues. “As if everyone here is fortunate to be in your presence. But I don’t think anyone ever actually liked you, Althea.”

The silence becomes absolute.

My throat feels like it’s closed up, a pressure on my chest so intense it feels like my whole body is strung up painfully tight together, just to keep from falling apart.

“E-Excuse me?” I manage, pushing aside my shock.

Ibeth tilts her head and holds out her glass with an attitude I didn’t think she had for me. “You don’t listen. You don’t trust anyone. You cut people down before they can speak. You think being Tithus Raven’s daughter makes you better than everyone.”

I laugh, a hollow, brittle sound completely forced. My fists clench, my painted nails digging into the skin of my palms. “I’m sorry, a-are you aiming to start a fight at your sister’s party?”

“I’m just saying what people have been thinking for years.” Ibeth sighs, annoyed. Those words confirm my fears, the things my monster has been whispering to me from my darkest pits, the things I strongly believed to be lies that my mother’s ghost sowed into me. “You are exhausting. You don't belong here.”

Or maybe I’ve always known them to be true.

I have to press my lips hard together, ire bubbling beneath my skin, leaving it red with anger. “I never really needed you. I don’t—I don’t need any of you,” I say firmly.

“No,” Ibeth says, turning her back on me. “You really don’t.”