The Royal Palace of Vellitia stood like something torn from the pages of an overfunded fairy tale. Its spires gleamed white and gold against the summer sky, with enchanted banners fluttering proudly from every window. Magic ran through its marble veins like lifeblood—golden-veined walls shimmered faintly with warding enchantments, and the ceilings in every grand hall were charmed to reflect the skies above. Today, the sky was a brilliant cerulean, dotted with clouds and sunlight.
The ballroom at the heart of the palace resembled a glass snow globe large enough to hold a small village. Its dome-shaped ceiling was crafted from sky-glass—a rare translucent crystal enchanted to reflect light like dancing stars. Dozens of floating chandeliers hovered above, dripping in glittering icicle-like crystals that tinkled faintly with each magical breeze. Servants bustled across the gleaming floor, levitating garlands of silver and blue, directing enchanted paintbrushes, and adjusting ambient music runes with finely tuned precision.
In the midst of this orchestral chaos, four young men were absolutely not helping.
Prince Lucien Alaric leaned on one of the balcony rails, watching the final preparations with the tired calm of someone who'd seen one too many tiaras.
"Do I have to make a speech this year?" he asked dryly.
"Yes," said Vincent Vexhart without looking up from the invitation list. "It's your ball."
"Can I make it in interpretive dance?"
"No."
Julian Vexhart, sprawled comfortably on a chaise lounge like he belonged in a portrait of aristocratic nonsense, sighed dramatically.
"You're all so dreadfully dull. I vote the prince should waltz onto the stage with a sword and a live griffin."
Darian, Lucien's ever-loyal, too-serious young knight, rubbed his forehead.
"Please don't encourage him."
Julian sat up with an exaggerated gasp.
"Speaking of drama—you will not believe the absolute chaos I ran into in the capital yesterday."
Vincent sighed, setting down his quill like it pained him.
"Do we have to?"
"Yes, because I was physically assaulted by a bag of flour—attached to a girl. Short, black hair, a hood, strange outfit, witty mouth. I swear, she materialized from thin air, insulted my posture, and then disappeared into the crowd like some sarcastic gremlin from a pastry dimension."
Lucien chuckled, finally turning from the balcony.
"You're exaggerating."
Julian pointed at him.
"I am underselling it. She was unlike anyone I've ever met."
"Sounds undignified," Vincent muttered, reaching for a teacup.
"Sounds real," Julian countered. "Refreshing. No curtsies. No fake compliments. Just raw chaos."
"So, a hazard."
"A delightful hazard," Julian said with a dreamy sigh. "Dibs."
Vincent arched a brow. "You don't even know her name."
"Details."
Lucien tapped his fingers along the railing. His mind wandered back to a sharp-eyed girl in a plain cloak, someone who hadn't seemed impressed by his title at all. Someone who felt… real.
He didn't say a word.
Meanwhile, at the Vellion estate, Arila was elbow-deep in cocoa powder and despair.
The kitchen looked like a confectionary crime scene. Pots of caramelized sugar hissed in protest. Half-melted chocolate clung to wooden spoons like guilty secrets. There was flour on the ceiling. She wasn't sure how.
Arila wiped a streak of chocolate from her cheek with her wrist and muttered,
"It's fine. I have god-level elemental magic, but boiling sugar is where I draw the line."
One of the copper pots fizzed ominously.
"Don't sass me. You're cocoa, not sentient."
Ninko, silent as always, rested nearby in invisible mode, occasionally pawing ingredients off the counter in judgmental protest. He had, at one point, delicately tapped her hand to suggest she not add lemon zest to fudge. She ignored him. Chaos was part of the process.
"I once defeated a magical construct shaped like a ten-story hydra," she hissed as she wrestled with a stiff batch of truffles.
"Now I'm losing to fudge."
A loud pop echoed through the kitchen, followed by a whiff of burnt sugar.
Right on cue, Evelaine Vellion swept in like a glamorous hurricane, holding a velvet case of jeweled hairpins and a makeup brush like they were weapons.
"Arila, darling! We need to discuss your hairstyle!"
Arila went pale.
"I'm baking."
"And yet your face is untouched. This is a crime."
Lira peeked into the room with the weariness of someone who knew better than to get between Evelaine and a fashion vision.
Evelaine descended like a fashionable hawk.
"I'm thinking soft curls, just at the ends, or perhaps a braided crown with sapphire beads?"
Arila shrieked and ducked under the table.
"I'm hiding," she declared, curled around a pan of marshmallow fudge.
"From society, hairpins, and my inevitable public humiliation."
Evelaine crouched next to her, holding up a pearl clip.
"Just let me do something. You can even choose the glitter level."
"No glitter," Arila moaned. "That's how people die."
Eventually, with the threat of being turned into a decorative cupcake looming, Arila escaped to the library.
It was cool and quiet, filled with the comforting scent of parchment and lemon polish. She slumped into a velvet armchair like a heroine at the end of a three-act tragedy. Ninko padded silently beside her, reappearing just enough to curl into her lap like an emotionally distant heat pack.
A small tower of stolen sweets sat beside her, hidden under a napkin. She cracked open a well-worn fantasy novel, but the words blurred.
What if someone recognizes me at the ball? What if I trip over my wedges? What if Julian is there and brings his entire flirt arsenal? What if the prince is there and I get stuck in a slow dance mini-game I can't skip?
Ninko flicked his tail over her nose. She sneezed.
"Okay, okay. Deep breaths. I can handle this. I've fought monsters. I've stared down professors. I even tamed you. Sort of."
Ninko blinked.
She sighed and took a bite of a cinnamon bun, letting the sugar melt away her anxiety.
"I'm going to die in sparkles."
Ninko flicked his tail again.
Too late.
To be continued...