The Dirrium kingdom act 8: The tailor's Audit
The Academy was buzzing with a frantic, shallow energy. The annual Midwinter Ball was only days away, and for the students of Dirrium, it was the social event of the century. Everywhere Leornars turned, the air was thick with talk of lace, lineage, and legacy.
"I heard the Duke of Valois is bringing his three daughters," Mia whispered excitedly during lunch, leaning over a fashion magazine. "And Count Vane—he's supposedly hosting the pre-gala toast. Leornars, you're going, right? You have to!"
Leornars poked at his salad with an expression of profound boredom. "I suppose. It's hard to avoid the noise."
Behind him, Stacian sat like a statue, her eyes fixed on a tactical map disguised as a geography textbook. To anyone else, they looked like two students dreading a mandatory social function. In reality, they were the only two people in the room who understood that the Ball wasn't a party—it was a battlefield.
The following afternoon, the two of them stood in the most exclusive tailor's shop in the capital. The scent of cedar and expensive silk filled the air.
"This is an inefficient use of our time," Stacian muttered as a tailor's assistant measured her shoulders.
"Appearance is the first layer of deception, Stacian," Leornars replied, standing perfectly still as a master tailor draped a midnight-black fabric over his arm. "If we look like we belong, they'll talk as if we aren't there. Especially Vane. He's vain by name and nature; he won't respect anyone who isn't dressed in at least a year's worth of a peasant's wages."
When the final fitting was ready, the transformation was startling.
Stacian emerged from the dressing room in a gown of layered, shimmering pink silk. It was a color she clearly detested, yet it served a purpose—it made her look soft, approachable, and harmless. The warmth of the fabric made her cyan eyes and hair gleam like polished ice against a sunset.
Leornars, meanwhile, stepped out in a tailored black tuxedo. The cut was sharp, emphasizing his lean, dangerous frame. His long silver hair was tied back with a silk ribbon, making his crimson eyes stand out with an almost predatory glow.
"You look..." Stacian paused, searching for the word. "Functional."
"And you look like a distraction," Leornars countered smoothly. "Which is exactly what I need you to be."
Back at their secluded warehouse, amidst the crates of Pollium and the lingering scent of iron, the two of them practiced the only skill they lacked: the waltz.
There was no music, only the rhythmic thump-thump of the harbor waves against the pier. Leornars placed a hand on Stacian's waist, his other hand taking hers. Her grip was like a vice.
"Loosen your hand, Stacian. You're supposed to be a noblewoman, not a strangler," Leornars whispered.
"The two are not mutually exclusive in this city," she retorted, though she eased her grip.
They moved across the dusty floor, their expensive clothes a stark contrast to the grime of the warehouse. Leornars led with effortless grace, his mind calculating every step as if it were a move on a chessboard.
"Vane will be at the North Terrace by ten o'clock," Leornars said, spinning her slowly. His crimson eyes were locked on hers, intense and cold. "He'll be intoxicated on his own ego and the King's wine. That's when I'll slip away to find his address. You will keep the young lords occupied. Use that 'charming' smile we practiced."
Stacian attempted a smile; it looked more like a snarl. "I would rather fight a battalion."
"Think of it as a different kind of combat," Leornars said, pulling her closer as they finished the turn. "The Ball is where the nobility hides their secrets in plain sight. We aren't going there to dance, Stacian. We're going there to audit their souls."
As the silver-haired boy and the cyan-eyed girl moved in perfect, lethal synchronization under the dim warehouse lights, they looked less like students and more like the architects of a coming revolution