White Court Waltz

“We call it judgment when we want cruelty to sound holy.”—Hiiro

______________________

Fate isn’t a thread.  

It’s a leash—tight enough to choke, loose enough to make you think you’re free… until you hear the snap.

Kagenui didn’t say goodbye.
She just offered that little sneer—half amusement, half apathy—and flicked her wrist like I was some insect crawling the wrong way up a page.

“Keep walking straight and you’ll find the White Court. I’ll be enjoying the show from the audience seat.”

Then she was gone, her heels tapping like a clock counting down a bad idea.

I stood there longer than I should’ve. Not because I thought she’d come back—she wouldn’t—but because standing still felt like a trick. Like maybe if I hesitated, the future would hesitate too.

Spoiler: it didn’t.

I sighed, a thin sound scraping the back of my throat.
I guess the only way to end a bad joke is to let it play out.

So I dragged my feet toward the hall Kagenui had pointed to.

The path ahead waited. Clean. Cruel.

A tongue daring me to walk into a mouth.

Confidence wouldn’t help—but walking was better than waiting.

Each step was a lie I told myself, that I was choosing this.

What lay at the end of the hall wasn’t a White Court where justice took its seat.

It was a stage—where madness made sure the cuts ran deep enough to leave scars.

Stone and porcelain rose in pale circles, too perfect to be natural, too endless to be human.

Long pillars stood like they’d been here for centuries, carved with fragments of every faith—holy, clean, composed.
But at their bases, dried blood had crusted into the cracks.
Not from neglect. From intention.
A warning. A memory.
Proof of what had happened to those who stood here before… and what would happen again.

Every seat was filled.

Shadows layered on shadows, still enough to be statues, intent enough to be judges.
The silence pressed heavier than any applause.

I walked into the center, and the world closed over me like a curtain.

Each step echoed like a confession—sharp, heavy, fractured.

Then I saw her.

Emiha.

She sat in silence, posture polished flat by obedience.

Her smile was porcelain—clean, unbreakable, holy.

But porcelain isn’t warmth.
It’s a mask pretending to be.

This wasn’t her.
Not the girl whose grin once dragged me back to life.
This was a ghost trained to look pure.

And it hurt—quietly.
Like pressing on a bruise you forgot you had.

Something coiled in my chest. Not anger. Not sadness. Just tightening—like my lungs were trying to strangle themselves.

She was slipping.

I could see it in the way she didn’t flinch when she looked at me—like I was just another shape in the script. Another piece of the stage. Another tragedy waiting to unfold.

I couldn’t lose here.

Not because I wanted to win—but because that version of her, that polite ghost, was too close to becoming real.

And that thought alone felt like a thousand needles stuck in my throat.

Then he arrived.
Waltzing from flame—not like a man entering a room, but like a spotlight ripping through smoke.
A stage direction given legs.

He patted the fire from his coat as though brushing away dust.

Unburned. Untouched.
A man walking out of fire like it had rehearsed obedience.

Kyoshin.

He emerged as if the stage adored him—arms outstretched, grin polished like a blade meant for smiling instead of stabbing.
His voice curled across the arena, theatrical and too loud, like he’d been practicing this very line in front of a mirror.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, each syllable dripping self-satisfaction,
“it’s showtime! The fairytale of blood and steel begins!

The trials you’ve been dying to see—who’s worthy of Wonderland?”

He spun once, unnecessarily, then stopped mid-turn to wink at me—as if I were the only one allowed backstage, the only one who saw through the act.

“Let’s sip some tea and spill some blood—etiquette optional, murder mandatory.”

A thought crossed my mind—to tear off my own arm just so I’d have something to throw at him.

Not out of hatred. Just to see if that grin would crack.
It was the kind of smile that made pain look poetic.
The kind of face that would call a decapitation charming mischief.

He was enjoying himself.

Like a child playing with matches in a paper city.
And we were the buildings.

The stage vibrated—a pulse crawling up from the floorboards.

Fog seeped through the cracks, cold and dry, laced with regret.
It coiled at my ankles like a corpse’s hand rehearsing resurrection.

That's when—she arrived.

The air shifted before she even appeared, like the room held its breath.
She didn’t walk. She was carried—on a velvet platform, no less—by soldiers whose rhythm was sharper than steel.
Step. Drag. Pivot. Strike.
Not a march. A choreography sharpened into murder.

Her scent reached me first. Roses and rot.

A contradiction. A warning.

She stepped into view.

Victorian widow chic. Regal. Grotesque.
Impossibly composed—like royalty sculpted from wax and quiet violence.
Her veil shimmered, but it didn’t hide the curve of amusement at her lips,
nor the poisoned wells of her eyes, where reflections went to drown.

I didn’t know who she was.
I didn’t need to.

She was a conductor.
And we were her orchestra—a script already inked in tragedy.
You could tell by the way the audience didn’t react.
No gasps. No applause.
Nothing.

That silence was worse than any roar.

The silence of a verdict, not a surprise.

“What a lovely evening to begin the long-awaited trials,” she said.

“What a delightful course of fate.”

Her gaze slid toward me, the corner of her mouth rising like a curtain being pulled.

“Dressed up as a cruel twist.”

She bowed—deliberate, rehearsed, every gesture dripping control.
“Allow me, the Duchess, to host this stage by performing the first trial.”

She didn’t ask. She volunteered.
As if the role had been written for her the moment I stepped into this porcelain wound.

A thread of fate laced with poison.

What a joke.
One that would strangle you if you blinked first.

The fog thickened.

My legs felt nailed to the ground—not as flesh, but as props waiting for their cue.

Kyoshin grinned wider, arms opening like curtains.

“Well then!” he declared.
“If our honored Duchess volunteers—delightful! Might even speed things up!
No objections? Of course not. First trial decided!”

He clapped once—sharp and showy.

The machine turned.
Nobody objected.
Why would they?

The ending had already been written.

Waiting only for the narrator to call the last line.

The Duchess turned her head slowly, as if gravity had signed a contract never to touch her.

Her gaze swept over me—not curious, not cruel. Just calculating. Like I was a dish on a banquet table, too bland to deserve a name.

Her lips curled, sharp and deliberate.

“Let’s have a small chat over tea before the stage begins, my sweet boy.”

She didn’t wait for agreement. She walked away, velvet shadow trailing like a script already rehearsed—expecting me to follow.

No one blinked.
Not the judges.
Not Emiha.
Especially not Emiha.

A scoff escaped me—half-laugh, half-exhale.

“Could this place get any weirder?” I muttered.

Answer: always yes.

So I followed.
Not because I wanted to.
Not because I had a plan.

Because in fairytales, when monsters invite you to tea, you sit down.

You smile.
And you try not to flinch when the sugar cubes are laced with meaning.

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Kagame Jin's commentary:

A leash looks a lot like a halo when you polish it long enough.

Call it faith. Call it obedience.

Either way, it leaves the same ring around the throat.

Perhaps that’s what the White Court was built for—

to see who still calls suffocation divine.

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 Things are finally moving and the main act is getting closer. Stay toned and don't let your reflection moves before you do , otherwise you might find yourself the one trapped behind the glass.

 See you next week.