To The Royal Ball

On the days leading to (and even on the day of) the Royal Ball, the Greymoor family scurried about their estate in a frenzy. Initially, it looked like everyone was simply preparing to ride out to the ball, which took place at the imperial palace, a much further carriage ride than any of the previous parties. But there were other tasks that Stefan and John Greymoor delegated to Cyrus and the other servants.

Vast swaths of the estate’s family heirlooms were removed and stored in vaults beneath the mansion. Perishables were cooked and cleared out of the kitchen. I assumed that this was done in preparation for the fact that the Greymoors would not be home in some time.

But an air of finality hung over the mansion as the length of days grew shorter, culminating in Cyrus’s dismissal days before the ball.

“Best of luck, Cyrus,” John shared a firm handshake with the butler, “There are no words to describe my gratitude to you. If there’s anything you ever need…”

“Of course. It’s been a pleasure, sir. Stay safe.”

“Cyrus,” Emily stepped forward, “You have been nothing but spectacular.”

“Emily,” Cyrus smiled, “Watch over Vivian, as you always have.”

As Stefan had predicted, everything appeared to be changing.

The Greymoor family left for the Royal Ball in three carriages, the first housing the patriarch and matriarch of the family, while Vladimir, Stefan, Vivian, and Emily rode in the second. The third carriage provided provisions for the duration of the trip, but it was stocked much more fully than I expected. It was a three day ride to the ball, but the Greymoors left four days in advance to allow for plenty of rest stops along the way.

I spent my time reviewing Vivian’s final stat distribution, building simulations for the probability of her success when trying to charm other individuals. The last few weeks of guided level ups had given Vivian a comfortable amount of attributes, enough to give her a significant advantage in social situations. It wasn’t the build I had dreamed of, but after all the curve balls and setbacks, I was excited to see her in action soon.

In the last few nights before the ball, Vivian spent time alone talking to the bracelet. To me.

“Things are moving so fast,” she admitted, “Cyrus, gone. I mean, everyone’s concerned about what might happen at the ball, but it’s hard to think of what might happen when we go to war.”

Even if I had a mouth, I wasn’t sure how to respond. I had been fortunate to live in mostly peaceful times in my old world. Wars, famine, these were experiences of those in places far, far away from me.

“I wonder sometimes what I’m doing,” she continued, “I’m here trying to enact revenge for a silly romance, and the world around me seems to be falling apart. But maybe this is the only thing I know how to do right now.”

“You know, I feel comfortable when I’m talking with you,” Vivian chuckled, “I don’t know why, I’m talking to a bracelet of all things. But it’s true. Diane really knows how I work. Let’s see this ball through, my charming little bracelet.”

On the final day, the capital of the Caerleon empire came into view. Its high walls almost seemed to sparkle under the morning sun. Colorful banners hung from the ramparts. The royal castle, where the ball would take place, sat on an elevated verdant hill overlooking the outer walls.

We were joined by numerous other carriages flocking from all corners of the empire. Not just aristocrats and other members of high society. Merchants, traveling artists, playwrights, all of them arriving as part of the celebration.

Inside the walls, almost nothing that I had heard about the waning aristocracy seemed to be true. The streets of the city were clean, lined with spotless stone tiles and people joyously conversing among one another. The market squares dotted around the inner city were crowded and bustling. In richer districts, women pranced about from store to store, shopping for a fancy new dress for the ball while vigilant guards stood at attention at every street corner in decorated garbs.

Like many other prestigious families, the Greymoors were invited to stay at the castle for the duration of the ball. They were granted three massive rooms adorned with lavish textiles and fur rugs. Here, Vivian spent what time she had left reminding herself of what she had learned from Vladimir and Stefan.

“Just like what we practiced, bracelet,” she said, “Let my intelligence and personality speak for itself.”

And looking at her newly improved stats, I believed they would.

On the night of the Royal Ball, Vivian Greymoor attended with her vintage crimson dress. Perhaps it was because she had spent so many points on her personality that it was even affecting me, but she looked even more stunning than usual.

I wished that I could accompany her in person.

Unfortunately, I was merely a digital presence overseeing her preparations. The hems and sleeves of her dress had been trimmed by Emily to show off more skin and accentuate her confident aura. The dark red notes of the dress contrasted with the cerulean bracelet on her wrist and a new sapphire amulet hanging from her neck. Her scarlet hair, often a defining trait of her beauty, was tied into a bun, as if a secret hidden away for no one at the ball to see.

“Lovely, Lady Greymoor,” Emily said, “I wish you the best of luck.”

The floor of the Royal Ball took place in the banquet hall at the center of the castle. Dozens of chandeliers were required to light the hall in its entirety. The tables and benches had been moved to the outer perimeter where chefs and servants manned food stations and beverage stands. The royal throne stood at the head of the room, waiting for the current king of the empire to enter and officially begin the event.

And yet it was Vivian Greymoor who captured the attention of the hall when she entered. Word had spread about her appearance at the preludes to the Royal Ball, and numerous faces, familiar and unfamiliar, cautiously watched her every move. But it wasn’t just Vivian’s appearance that commanded their attention, it was a supporting cast that helped her into the limelight.

“Vivian, well aren’t you looking your best,” Diane approached her, “Are you dressing up for anyone special?”

At this point I was immune to Diane’s oblique taunting.

“Of course not.”

“Oh, he’ll be happy about that,” Diane smirked.

“Come on, you said that last time, who’s this ‘he’ that you keep mentioning?” Vivian’s voice dropped to a low whisper, “Do I have some kind of secret admirer?”

“Don’t be silly!” Diane laughed, clapping her on the back, “What, by secret admirer, you mean there’s someone that’s following your every move and watching you with passionate interest, hoping desperately that you’ll notice them?”

“It sounds a little creepy when you put it that way.”

“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” Diane beamed, and at that moment, there was no one I hated more.

Diane’s presence as the Grand Enchantress drew others to both her and Vivian. More importantly, the tone of the conversation dramatically changed with her present.

“The Astral Viscountess, what a pleasure to see you. Where’s your husband?”

“Off to no good, I’m sure. I haven’t seen him in three days.”

“What a shame. And you, Vivian Greymoor, you look wonderful. I haven’t seen you in months!”

“Yes,” Diane would nod and bow, “Lady Greymoor looks stunning, wouldn’t you say? Beautiful, full of wit, and would you believe she’s available for marriage?”

“I can hardly believe it, of course, what fool would abandon you, Lady Greymoor?”

“I’m merely waiting for the right man,” Vivian would say. She murmured to Diane, “I thought you said you were bad news?”

“I still am.”

A few stragglers attempted their backhanded whispers about Vivian’s broken engagement to the prince, but she merely repeated the same strategies as before, revealing the deep and troubled histories of the families casting aspersions upon her. They, with dejected faces, took their malice and gossipy natures to the prince who had just arrived, swarming him yet again with their facile personalities.

A trumpet blared from the head of the room and the crowd attending the banquet collectively knelt on one knee before the entrance of the king.

To me, he appeared an old and simple man with a crown. Perhaps I had seen too many portraits in museums and galleries, but the King of Caerleon appeared nothing more than a figurehead with a crown of fatigue. He was herded in by a chorus of ministers, seated himself at the throne, and managed a weak smile.

“My friends,” he spoke, his raspy voice echoing off the deep chambers of the banquet hall, “Welcome to our annual Royal Ball. Times have been tough recently, as I’m sure many of you are aware, but I would hope that our joyous occasion here is a reprieve from those days, and an occasion to hope for better ones.”

“Let the ball begin.”