The Grand Ball

“Aren’t you looking dashing today!” a voice calls from behind. You turn to see Princess Viola smiling at you, dressed in a stunning black gown. The low-cut bodice accentuates her neckline, and a cascade of dark lace graces her shoulders and arms, making her look both regal and slightly dangerous, like a queen in mourning. Her blue eyes sparkle, and the corners of her ruby lips curl in the ghost of a smile.

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she says, making a point of pausing and looking you up and down, her expression approving.

“Please, introduce me to your companion,” the princess continues, gesturing to Lady Victoria.

“Ah, Princess, please allow me to introduce my sister, Lady Victoria of House Caldersmith.”

“One of Lucretia’s bastards,” Viola says coolly, a note of derision slipping into her voice.

To her credit, Victoria takes the insult in stride, curtseying deeply before the princess. “Your Highness,” she murmurs, respectfully lowering her gaze.

Viola waves a hand dismissively. “Please, I’m being boorish. I owe you and your mother a debt of gratitude for taking this man into your family,” she says, taking a sip of wine. “Were it not for you, I’d be **** to wed that wretch Leopold.”

She gestures in the direction of a thin young man chatting with a pretty, but rather muscular woman with short-cropped hair—his older sister, the Duchess, you presume.

As Viola and Victoria continue to chat amicably, you take a moment to glance around the enormous ballroom. Intricately carved pillars line the walls, reaching up to support a high, vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of Askerian history. Above, balconies curve around the perimeter, where a gathering of nobles and dignitaries observe the festivities from a higher vantage. In the grandest balcony sits the queen herself, framed by flowing silk drapes and flanked by her attendants. The vast room below is filled with hundreds of guests in resplendent attire, creating a sea of color. The stone floor at the center of the room, tiled in dark granite, is particularly scuffed and worn, suggesting that it has seen countless dances, duels, and declarations over the years.

“Your Grace,” Viola says, inclining her head to a slight, pale blonde woman in a stunning blue gown, accompanied by a hulking woman in a fine black suit.

“Lady Victoria, allow me to introduce you to Duchess Persephone Alecton and Dame Katarina Longhorst,” Viola says with a tight smile.

“Your Grace,” Victoria says, curtseying deeply once more, a little less sure of herself in the company of these nobles than she had been in the servants’ baths the night before.

Persephone spares you only a cursory glance, but Katarina’s eyes linger, her captivating gaze seeming to size you up as if peeling away the layers to see what lies beneath.

“I’m surprised you came,” Viola says to Persephone, her voice tinged with an edge. “You have my deepest sympathies for the loss of your mother.”

Persephone’s expression remains cool and impassive, but a flicker of rage flashes across Katarina’s face before she reins it in.

“My thanks,” Persephone replies with a slight nod. “Alas, my duties at home nearly prevented me from attending, but Alecton is not so far from Ariavel, and I had heard this year’s ball would be... eventful.”

“Indeed,” Viola responds. “I—”

“Your Highness,” Dame Olivander interrupts, making her way respectfully through the crowd, “The Queen has asked for your presence.”

Viola sighs but inclines her head to the duchess. “Alas, I must depart,” she says, shooting a frosty look in Persephone’s direction.

“Of course,” Persephone replies, her voice neutral. “There are a number of my mother’s acquaintances I must pay my respects to.”

“Find my sister,” Persephone whispers to Katarina as the group disperses, everyone heading in different directions. Left alone with Victoria once more, you both take a deep breath, the weight of the conversation lingering.

“By the Goddess,” Victoria whispers as they depart. “Except for Her Majesty the Queen, Princess Viola and Duchess Persephone are the two most powerful women in all of Askeria.”

“Doesn’t seem there’s much love lost between them,” you murmur, cautious not to be overheard.

Victoria nods solemnly. “I’ve heard they were close as children, but their friendship soured over the years. I fear their mothers have poisoned them against each other. The Queen is a staunch monarchist, while Persephone’s mother believed the queendom would benefit from a more equitable distribution of power.” She sighs. “Viola and Persephone are simply continuing a rivalry that goes back decades.”

Suddenly, a resounding thud echoes through the hall as the guards slam the butts of their halberds against the floor in unison.

All eyes turn to the queen, who now stands at her balcony, her two daughters standing to either side. She surveys the room, her expression unreadable, before finally beginning to speak.

“To my esteemed lords and ladies, thank you for joining us for this evening’s festivities.” She pauses, her gaze sweeping over the gathered nobility with a slight, knowing smile. “As Queen, I often find it challenging to separate my role as a sovereign from my role as a mother. It is not easy, after all, to raise children with minds and wills as stubborn as mine. Perhaps none of you are as familiar with Princess Viola’s particular standards as I am.” She chuckles, drawing a ripple of laughter from the crowd.

She continues, her voice taking on a more solemn tone. “It is with great pleasure—and no small measure of relief,” she adds with a wry smile, “that I announce the betrothal of my daughter, Princess Viola Valencia, to none other than Lord Bradley Caldersmith.”

A cheer erupts from the gathered nobles, but in the midst of the applause, you notice Leopold Duccato and his entourage looking anything but pleased. Duchess Persephone appears near apoplectic, but a petite, dark-skinned woman at her side succeeds in calming her before she can make any public display.

“As is—”

“I challenge this union!” A voice rings out across the hall, stunning the queen into silence. Princess Anora steps forward, her face resolute, and an uneasy hush falls over the crowd. Viola looks ready to leap on her sister, but the queen raises a hand, holding her back.

“On what grounds?” the queen asks, her voice dangerously calm.

Anora steps back slightly but speaks with commanding ****. “That man,” she says, pointing at you from across the room, “is no Caldersmith.” Hundreds of eyes turn to you in an instant, and Victoria instinctively takes a step closer, worry etched on her face.

Anora’s gaze hardens as she continues. “I challenge the very notion that one can be adopted into a noble house with the stroke of a pen, or the... thrust of a sword,” she adds, her voice dripping with insinuation as she looks at Victoria knowingly. “For the good of Askeria, I deny his right to wed my sister and demand she choose another.”

An oppressive silence hangs in the air as Anora finishes, the weight of her words sending ripples through the crowd.

“That is your right,” the queen intones solemnly.

“Viola,” she continues, her gaze shifting to her eldest daughter. “How do you answer your sister’s challenge? Will you set this man aside and choose another, or will you ask him to prove himself worthy?”

“No.” Viola’s voice rings out loud and clear, cutting through the murmurs like a knife. “I have chosen this man, and I demand he fight to defend my honor.”

A wave of whispers sweeps through the hall; even among this gathering of nobles, a public rebuke of a challenge is rare indeed. Anora pales slightly, hesitating as she glances in your direction.

“As is your right,” the queen says, her voice calm but wary. “What are the terms of the trial?”

“Unarmed combat,” Anora declares, her eyes narrowing with determination. “The fight will end only when he is ****, or she is deflowered.”

The queen’s expression tightens as she glances between her daughters, visibly unsettled by the situation unfolding before her. “Very well,” she says. “Anora, do you accept these terms, or do you withdraw your challenge?”

For a moment, it seems as though Anora might reconsider, but then, with a deep breath, she straightens, her voice steady. “I accept.”