D
angling chandeliers cast fragments of light upon the masked faces of the guests. A crystal fountain bubbles gloriously in the center of the room, golden waters luminescent. Its strange glow seeps through the vast room like fog. Shadows fade into light. Light bleeds into shadow. The beauty of the ballroom is at once mesmerizing and nauseating. Caine had found the crowded ballroom by mere chance. One moment the boy had been milling absently through the perfumed hedgerows of the gardens, the silence a solace after the madness of the maze, and the next he had turned a corner to come face to face with the fluttering velvet of a curtained doorway.
Naturally, he had wandered through.
The clamor of the festive crowd disorientates him. Already he laments the loss of the garden’s peaceful silence. Sighing, Caine tightens the ribbons of his raven mask, pulling it low over his cheekbones. He doubts it will happen — remaining unseen and unnamed has become more art than habit for him, over the years — but tonight he desires to keep his anonymity.
Music streams loudly from a group of young performers gathered in an especially lively corner. The melody is foreign and grating to Caine’s ear. He has always preferred piano, violin if his mood is particularly dark. The high-pitched whine of the flute pierces terribly through his brain.
Caine’s strides lengthen as he cuts straight for the glowing fountain.
Silks cascade like water from the backs of dancing girls, their smiles inviting and demure. Jewels drip from their slender limbs like dewdrops, though Caine thinks the effect rather lost on anything other than the petals of flowers.
He does not look at the ones that look at him.
At last he makes it to the fountain. The lack of cups puzzles him, but before he can wonder further, a crystal goblet floats lazily out of the haze of light. It passes deftly under the bubbling stream — champagne, Caine notes, when he smells the fruity tang — to come to a triumphant rest in front of him.
"Thank you,” he murmurs, though he does not know who he is thanking. Hesitantly, he plucks the glass from the air. The liquor is as gold as nectar. Shrugging, Caine tilts the goblet to his lips and drinks. The champagne is aromatic and sweet, and he drains it dry with relish. Emptied, the glass pulls away and, before Caine can even blink, out floats another one. Brows quirking, he shakes his head (though reluctantly). The goblet retreats, slow and sulking.
Thirst thoroughly quenched, Caine walks languidly back the way he’d come. Dancing has never tempted him, despite enduring it almost nightly in Vectaeryn. (Though, loathe as he is to admit it, Caine remains far more comfortable in the halls of a lavish gala than he will ever be in the forsaken deserts of Solterra.)
The wail of the music is beginning to give him a headache. How does this infernal whine, he thinks, looking disdainfully at the chortling guests, please them so? He does not see the girl entering until she is halfway through the curtains, strands of her dark hair sticking to the velvet fabric.
With a start, Caine halts just shy of brushing her golden shoulder.
"Apologies,” he says, lips parting in surprise. He steps back to allow her to pass, wings folding neatly to his sides. He would’ve left it at that — continued on his way to the gardens, as unbothered as he is always is — were it not for the gleaming ax tucked casually at her side.
A hurlbat, Caine recognizes, a gleam of interest sharpening his silver gaze. A rare weapon. He has never seen one in the steel.
The girl's boldness at wearing a throwing ax to a gala amuses Caine far too much for him to simply leave. So he lingers, turning back curiously just as she walks past. He stares at her retreating form for a moment, eyes narrowing beneath his mask. There is something else.
Something — familiar about her.
"If you are going towards the ballroom,” he says, tone carefully casual, "the crystal fountain is rather enchanting.”
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