Chapter 10: The Games begin
The grand ballroom was a marvel of excess, the kind of place where even the air seemed to be woven of gold. Light from a thousand crystal chandeliers fractured into rainbows across the domed ceiling; every column was garlanded with white lilies and climbing roses, their scent battling the subtler tang of perfume, sweat, and ambition. The floor, polished to a near-liquid sheen, reflected the swirl of noble gowns and frock coats with the precision of a pond disturbed by hungry carp.
Clara paused in the archway, blinking at the glare. The receiving line coiled through the outer gallery, a serpent of expectation, and every head turned her way. She saw the usual suspects first—the minor lords and ladies who orbited the throne in hopes of a good marriage or a better tax concession—but beyond them, standing in the exact center of the room, was Queen Zia.
Her mother wore a dress the shade of midnight, with a high collar and waterfall sleeves, the fabric shifting hue with every movement. The circlet on her brow outshone even the chandeliers. She looked like the universe's own idea of a queen, and Clara was abruptly, acutely aware of every flaw in her own presentation. She straightened her spine and stepped into the glare.
The crowd parted with the efficiency of a well-trained flock, each noble dipping a bow or curtsy as she passed. Clara responded with the bare minimum of acknowledgment, careful not to lock eyes for too long; that would only invite conversation, or worse, sympathy.
Zia greeted her with a smile so perfectly modulated it was impossible to tell if it was meant as comfort or warning. "You look radiant, darling," she said, voice pitched low for Clara's ears alone. "Try not to break anything." She added as a soft warning.
"No promises." Clara inclined her head, matching the smile with one of her own.
The first suitor emerged almost immediately: Lord Edmund Brightshield, heir to the eastern province. He was as broad as a door and nearly as tall, his doublet straining at the seams. His hair was the color of old iron, cut short and brushed with military precision. His hands—massive, freckled, with the knuckles scarred and battered—were folded behind his back in the pose of a man who had been told not to touch anything breakable.
"Your Highness," Edmund rumbled, his voice so deep it seemed to vibrate in Clara's chest. "May I have the honor of this dance?" He bowed, the movement careful, as if worried about damaging the floor.
Clara glanced at her mother, who gave the tiniest nod. Clara accepted the offered arm and allowed herself to be led onto the floor. The orchestra—stationed on a raised dais, all blue livery and gleaming brass—struck up a waltz.
Edmund's hand engulfed hers, warm and calloused against her skin. Clara's breath caught as they stepped off, and for the first two turns, she tried to stomp on his foot. Not enough to break a toe, but enough to register as a warning shot. Edmund, to his credit, seemed to anticipate every attempt and simply adjusted his stride with surprising grace. The brush of his formal jacket against her gown sent an unexpected flutter through her chest as they moved together, like two wild creatures circling cautiously.
"I hope you will forgive me," Edmund said, his gaze warm on her face, "if I speak plainly. I have little skill for the subtleties of court." He admitted as his lips curved up in a small smile.
"That makes two of us," she replied, the corner of her mouth quirking upward. "I expected a slew of compliments and glozing." She commented, begrudgingly. Most nobles around her would have already given her an alphabet's worth of flattery.
"My mother always said the truth is less likely to rot if you bring it in from the air." He laughed, a great rolling sound that vibrated through his chest and into her palm where it rested. The couple dancing nearest them startled at the sound, and Clara found herself fighting an answering smile.
They spun past the central fountain, its marble cup overflowing with enchanted lights instead of water. The magical glow painted Edmund's strong features in gold and shadow, highlighting the surprising gentleness in his expression.
"So what's your truth, Lord Brightshield?" Clara fixed him with a look, suddenly aware of the broad chest beneath her fingertips.
He considered, his thumb brushing absently across her knuckles. "I think you're cleverer than you let on. I think you find this whole affair distasteful. And I think, if you were given the choice, you'd rather run the kingdom from the shadows than the throne." He finished with a shrug that pulled her slightly closer, the woodsy aroma of cedar and leather from his collar washing over her.
"Is that a criticism?" she asked, her voice softer than intended as she noticed the flecks of amber in his deep brown gaze.
"It's an observation," Edmund replied, not unkindly. His hand at her waist tightened fractionally. "The realm needs cunning more than it needs a pretty face. I'm not blind, Princess. I know what my father wants out of this. He wants the eastern fields exempted from the next round of levies. He wants a grandchild with strong arms and a healthy appetite. He wants me to keep the Brightshield name in the mouth of every merchant for the next hundred years." He admitted truthfully.
The song's tempo increased. Clara, in a petty burst of resistance, tried to switch direction on him, but he countered smoothly, guiding her back into step. His broad palm pressed more firmly against her lower back, their bodies drawing closer together in the faster rhythm. The warmth of him seeped through her dress, and Clara fought the feeling and any stray thoughts that were against her goals.
"What do you want?" she asked, bluntly and a bit sharper than she intended.
He blinked, his breath catching as if the thought had never occurred to him. The music swirled around them, but for a moment, they might have been alone in the vast ballroom. "I want the famine to end," he said, and the words were so plainly meant that warmth bloomed in her chest. "I want the farmers in my district to stop dying over last year's wheat. I want the city's children to see a harvest festival that doesn't end with mass graves." He explained, and his voice dipped lower.
For a second, Clara forgot the ring biting into her skin, the stares around the room, even her mother's watchful gaze. She saw the sweat at Edmund's brow, the dark smudges under his gaze, and understood that he, too, was a prisoner of ceremony. She felt sympathy. Although she was unsure how his gaining power as king could help alleviate the famine in the east. He had enough power as is to help. She knew his family was wealthy enough to invest in the land.
The music paused, and Edmund released her hand as if it were a precious thing, his fingertips lingering against her palm. "Thank you, Your Highness," he said, a flush creeping up his neck. "If I have said too much—"
"You haven't," Clara replied, missing his touch the moment it was gone. Her lips curved into a genuine smile. "But if you ever want to dance again, you'll need steel caps on those boots." She quipped before giving him a small formal bow. She wasn't convinced that he was being candid, perhaps just telling half-truths to gain sympathy and favor.
Edmund grinned and bowed to Clara before taking his leave. Clara did not even get a chance to breathe before the next contender approached her.
Lord Adrian Dawnweaver, the youngest son of the capital's wealthiest noble, approached with predatory grace. Adrian stood as a sharp contrast to Edmund: slender, dressed in pale blue velvet, every strand of his black hair precisely in place. His uncanny green gaze studied her with calculation beneath a veneer of charm, and his smile curved like a blade forged specifically for court battles.
"Princess," he purred, dipping a bow so deep it verged on satire. "If I may?" He offered his hand to her.
Clara did not have the energy to resist. She stepped onto the floor, and as soon as the music began, Adrian swept her into motion with such fluid precision that she felt weightless, like a leaf caught in an autumn breeze.
"You're quite the dancer," Clara said, hoping to disarm him with small talk. She already didn't like how comfortable he grew with his touch. His eyes told her he was a snake.
"I'm told it's all in the posture," Adrian replied, his attention fixed entirely on her face. "And the willingness to adapt, of course. Most people cling to the old steps, even when the music changes." He added smoothly.
Heat bloomed across Clara's cheeks as his thumb traced a small, deliberate circle against her waist. "Is that your philosophy for life?" she asked, quirking a brow to mask the flutter in her stomach. She hoped this dance would end soon; at least Edmund was more charming than Adrian.
Adrian spun her out and drew her back with controlled strength, bringing her close enough that cardamom wafted from his breath, rich and exotic. Clara's senses heightened, cataloging the warmth of his palm against her back, the slight pressure of his fingers against hers.
"It's my philosophy for politics. Adapt or die. The old lords don't see it yet, but the world is changing. You're the proof, Princess. The youngest ever named heir. A woman, no less, and untested by war. Some would call it a gamble." Adrian spoke with a velvety smooth voice, meant to seduce.
Clara smiled, showing all her teeth, but it didn't reach her eyes. However, warmth crept up her neck at his proximity. "Some would call it the future. I suppose you're here to secure your place in it?" She asked, failing to mask the bite in her tone. Her grip on his hand tightened as she resisted a scowl or throwing an insult his way.
"I'm here," Adrian said, his tone dropping to a velvet murmur that seemed meant only for her, "to offer you an ally who knows how to navigate a shifting landscape." His hand at her waist guided her through a complex turn that brought them chest to chest. "You need friends in the city, Princess. People who can carry your voice beyond the walls of the castle. I can be one of those people." He added as he leaned his head down closer to hers, his gaze fixed on her eyes.
"Can you?" Clara asked, tilting her head. Her hair brushed against his shoulder, and she caught the woody notes of cedar mingling with his cardamom breath. "I've heard you have more enemies than friends." She pointed out. She wasn't going to fall for his seduction.
Adrian laughed, the sound vibrating through her where their bodies connected. "True. But my enemies are predictable, and my friends are well compensated." His fingers spread slightly wider against her back, steady and warm. "If I were in your position, I'd want at least one Dawnweaver on my side." He spoke as if it were a thinly layered threat.
"You assume a lot, Lord Adrian," Clara said, letting him twirl her out. For a suspended moment before he pulled her back, their bodies met with a soft impact. "Maybe I'm content with the allies I have." She stated it clearly, her words unwavering.
"No one's ever content for long in this city." Adrian shrugged, not missing a beat. His smile was like that of a snake. Clara saw right through it.
Adrian then leaned in closer, his voice steady and serious. "What are your thoughts on the new trade tariffs?" he questioned her, expecting a genuine response.
"I think we should replace them with a frog export initiative. Wouldn't that be interesting?" Clara responded, sarcasm lacing her words. Then she let out a small laugh.
"This isn't a joke, Clara," Adrian replied. His brow furrowed, a hint of irritation creeping into his expression. He wasn't sure what her goal was, but there was no way she was serious. He attempted to mask his irritation.
"And the proposed land grant to the southern merchant quarter?" Adrian pressed, trying to steer the conversation back to a serious tone. He wasn't giving up quite yet.
"Mandatory matching hats for all merchants on festival days! It's about time we added some style to the economy," Clara replied in defiance. She wasn't going to give him what he wanted, after all, she didn't like him one bit. So she decided to have some fun. Uncaring if it would come back to bite her in the ass.
Adrian's smile was strained as he continued to dance, matching her moves but with less enthusiasm. "How do you plan to address the unrest among the city's laborers?" he asked, his tone now edged with a hint of exasperation.
Clara spun back into his arms. "Simple! Subsidized knitting lessons for all rebellious teenagers. Nothing calms the mind like a good scarf project," she responded and nodded confidently.
Adrian's steps faltered slightly, his gaze growing more serious. "You have quite the imagination," he remarked, his brow furrowed, and he bit his cheek. He could tell the Princess was not going to take him seriously at all.
When the music stopped, Adrian bowed again, but his fingers lingered against hers a moment longer than protocol demanded. "I look forward to our next dance." He spoke, though his words were far from hopeful-sounding.
Clara withdrew her hand. "Till next time," she replied, the challenge in her words. She watched as he turned away and melted into the crowd. She could tell her words struck a nerve, and she couldn't help but smile smugly, a shit eating grin crept across her lips.
Then Clara noticed a stillness at the ballroom's edge. Zarek Starforge was standing near a marble pillar, arms folded, eyes fixed on her with a predator's patience. He was dressed plainly compared to the others—a dark tunic, the wolfskin cloak from court, boots that looked fit for climbing ice rather than for dancing. He looked like a statue carved for a different room, a relic of an older, colder world.
For a moment, their gazes locked. Zarek nodded once, a motion so subtle it might have been a trick of the light. Clara felt the ring throb against her finger and was struck by a sudden, illogical sense of kinship. He, too, was an outsider at this ball only because fate and politics required it.
Clara turned away, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of curiosity.
The rest of the evening blurred together: a parade of hopeful nobles, each trying to impress or intimidate, each peeled away by Clara's unwavering refusal to play the part of blushing maiden. She spilled wine on one; told another that she planned to name her firstborn "Soup" just to spite tradition; advised a particularly tiresome baron to invest in onions, because "no one appreciates the humble onion until it's gone."
Somewhere between the third and fourth dance, she realized that her mother was watching her not with disappointment, but with a kind of fierce pride. Zia's eyes sparkled, and she looked, for once, entirely satisfied.
Toward the end of the night, as the music slowed and the couples drifted out onto the balcony for air, Clara lingered at the edge of the floor, pulse thrumming, feet aching, mind spinning with the night's revelations. She had survived the ball. More: she had bent it to her own shape, however briefly.
But the real challenge, Clara knew, would begin when the crowd thinned, and the games turned from spectacle to strategy.
Clara glanced again at Zarek, still standing sentinel by the pillar. He didn't smile. But he didn't look away, either. She turned away again. Had he been watching her all night? He had not once approached her. Not yet. She did not want to admit it, but he intimidated her more than anyone else. Her confidence wavered. The night wasn't over yet.