Random Chapters From a Book I Hope Gets Finished One Day: The Ball

I was dreading this ball. The stares. The whispers. No mask to shield me, no companion to deflect the uncomfortable conversations. Just me. Rosie. Exposed and out in the open, nowhere to hide.

I wasn’t sure what to expect. To say my reputation preceded me would be putting it mildly. Necromancer. Deceiver. Hero. Villain. Savior. Grim Reaper. They were all true, in their own way. And none of them told the whole story.

Maybe that’s why I dreamt of him last night. Stupid, really. Childish. But I couldn’t help it. In my dream, I opened the doors to this damned ball and there he was, waiting for me. His hand outstretched, ready to pull me from the storm. Ready to dance with me. Every eye in the room would still be on us, but it wouldn’t matter. They’d fade into the background, nothing but noise. He’d make me feel untouchable. Like I mattered.

But that was just a dream. He wouldn’t come. He couldn’t. Not here. Not into this nest of enemies, not when stepping into this place would be suicide. Even he wouldn’t be that reckless.

So tonight, I was on my own. Alone with their stares and their whispers and their judgment. And I’d have to face it, head held high, like I didn’t give a damn.

I straightened my shoulders, took a deep breath, and reminded myself - I’ve survived worse. I could survive this too.

If they were going to look at me, I’d make sure they enjoyed the view.

I wore a flowing black dress, the fabric cascading like shadows around me. A corset cinched my waist, framing my figure just right - smaller where it needed to be, fuller where it counted. My makeup took an hour to perfect, every stroke deliberate. It wasn’t just makeup - it was a mask, carefully crafted in the hope it might disguise me, even just a little.

Dark blues, blacks, and silvers swept across my eyelids. Tiny stars danced at the edges, shimmering faintly. The night would swallow me whole, I knew that. At least this way, I’d meet the darkness halfway.

I turned to the mirror and stared at myself. Deep breath, I told myself silently.

A single tear would be all they were allowed to take from me. I wiped it away quickly and watched as my reflection hardened. My eyes, my expression - they became steel.

One night. Show face. One night.

A small voice in my mind whispered that it wasn’t too late to turn back. Feign sickness. Feign death, even. But I had chosen this role: the hardened emissary between Fael Haven and the Blightlanders. I knew why my presence was integral.

This could be the beginning of Ayrillia’s healing. Everything I had worked for - months of negotiations, battles, bloodshed - it all led to this. And yet, there was no place I wanted to be less. I felt so alone.

Another tear slid down my cheek. I convinced myself it was a raindrop.

They had already taken so much.

My hand balled into a fist in my lap as I rose sharply, kicking the chair behind me.

Head high.

-----------------------

Everything was in full swing. Beautifully dressed women glided hand in hand with men in their finest suits. The violinists sliced at their strings, accompanied by the deep hum of a double bass and the rich tones of a cello, guiding the dancers’ feet. Music, chatter, laughter - and then, the whispers.

Head high. Deep breath. Know yourself.

I crossed the dance floor, feeling unsteady for the first time in a long while. Unsure. Should I stand against the wall? No. I wasn’t a wallflower. But the dark corners whispered to me, promising a quiet, hidden comfort.

All eyes were on me. I made eye contact with no one as I walked toward a servant holding a bottle of red wine and a tray of empty glasses. I watched her throat tighten as I approached. Even the music seemed to shift its beat.

I smiled. “May I have a glass?” I asked, thankful my feigned confidence was convincing enough to steady my nerves - Just slightly.

She fumbled, realising too late she should have already poured the glass. Her hands shook as she hurried to fill it, managing to pour only half before passing it to me.

The rim met my lips, leaving a small stain of lipstick behind as I lowered it. “It’s delicious,” I told her.

She released a held breath, almost stumbling as she practically fled, eager to serve someone - anyone - else.

“Rosewyn Lightspirit,” a sickeningly familiar voice snarled through a smile beside me. “I’m glad you made it.”

Liar.** He’d rather I made it to my grave.

“Glad to be here.” I took a sip of wine, hoping to swallow my disdain along with it.

“And will you be saving a dance for me tonight?”

I’d rather dance on shattered glass.

“Of course,” I said smoothly, my tone betraying nothing. “I’m grateful for the easing of tensions between our lands.” I knew exactly how my words would come across.

“I’m sure remembering your roots helped.”

I could feel his eyes boring into me. Slowly, I turned to meet them, matching his gaze with ice. “I always remember my roots,” I assured him, my voice steady.

This - this was the real danger of coming here alone. Not the stares or the whispers, but the gnawing threat that I might ruin this fragile peace in favour of blood-stained floor tiles. I didn’t realise how much wine I’d drunk until the glass was nearly empty. I should be careful.

“I’m sure,” he said, spitting the words like venom. “Well, enjoy your evening, Ms. Lightspirit.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, just to keep my anger in check.

And then, I felt it.

I sensed him before I saw him. Like a magnet, I didn’t even need to turn around to know he had just walked through the door. Panic caught in my throat, tangled with the unmistakable softening of my heart. My mind raced with fear—and genuine anger at his idiocy. My heart though only wanted to race to him.

The latter won. My feet carried me weightlessly across the floor, like I was being pulled to him by an invisible rope.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I choked out in a low voice, panic flooding over the brief relief. “If they catch you, it won’t be pretty.”

His response? That infuriating smile. I wanted to both scream at him and melt into him.

“And yet,” he said, dragging out the words in a maddeningly casual tone, “here I am.”

I should have told him to leave, to go before it was too late. I should have said I didn’t want to see him here. Anything to get him away. But instead, I asked, “Do you know what they’ll do to you?”

He tilted his head, his lip curling into that half-smile.

“Let them try,” he replied.

His hand reached out for mine, and the anxiety gripping my chest released. Gratefulness flooded in to take its place, so overwhelming it almost buckled my knees. I wanted to collapse into his arms, to sob into his chest and let him carry the weight of it all. But not yet. Not now. I had to get through this ball first.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to do it alone anymore.

He straightened his head, watching me with that knowing look of his. “I don’t know why you’re so mad,” he said softly, “you called for me, didn’t you?”

My dream. He had seen my dream. He’d taken it as a cry for help. And, more importantly, he’d answered it.

I looked up at him, all the strength and false confidence I’d managed to muster crumbling under his gaze.

“I did,” I whispered.