On the morning of the winter ball, a letter arrives for Mero, slipped under the door of his apartment in the west wing of the Imperial School of Mor. The envelope, slightly crumpled from the journey, bears a red wax seal adorned with a stylized boat, the familiar emblem of Mandarine. He picks it up, his fingers brushing the rough paper still imbued with the sea spray of the Green Ocean, and breaks the seal with contained haste. The words, hastily scribbled on a yellowed parchment, are brief but cutting: Mandarine is ill and cannot come. Mero's heart tightens, an invisible weight pressing on his chest as he reads the lines several times, vainly hoping to find a comforting word to ease the disappointment that overwhelms him. But reality imposes itself, cold and unyielding.
He sits on a chair near the massive wooden table in his apartment, a room with walls paneled in dark oak where a mixed scent of wax and old leather lingers, typical of the cool winter air. A tall mullioned window, framed by rough stone, opens onto an inner courtyard where the paving stones glisten under a fine rain; its fogged panes let in a pale light that bathes the shelves laden with bound volumes with cracked spines and rolled maps with yellowed edges. In the black stone fireplace, glowing embers crackle softly, casting dancing shadows on the walls and warming the space despite the cold seeping through the gaps. In his mind, he sees Mandarine: her face pale with fatigue, her black hair in disheveled strands on a bed with linen sheets, in a tavern with walls gnawed by salt, lost on an island of the Green Ocean. She, usually so full of life, confined to bed by illness—this vision torments him. Part of him dreams of abandoning the ball to cross the seas and join her, but the weight of his responsibilities keeps him rooted, tarnishing the luster he had lent to this once eagerly awaited evening.
A short while later, Sven and Dorian enter, their boots clicking on the polished floor, their dark wool tunics speckled with fine raindrops clinging to their shoulders. They had planned to tease him, as they did the previous evening in the study hall with gray stone walls, where parchments piled up near tarnished copper inkwells under tall windows overlooking the weeping willows in the courtyard. But upon meeting his dull gaze, their jokes fade away. Dorian, his damp brown hair plastered to his forehead, places a hand on Mero's shoulder in a simple but heartfelt gesture. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, his soft voice blending with the discreet crackling of the fire in the room.
Sven, standing by the window, nods silently, his dark eyes scanning the paved courtyard where the willows bend under a cold breeze. "We could find an excuse to get you out of opening the ball," he suggests, his voice tinged with an unusual solicitude, his fingers brushing the edge of the fogged windowpane.
Mero takes a deep breath, straightening his shoulders despite the heaviness that oppresses him. "No," he replies, shaking his head with a firmness that poorly conceals his inner turmoil. "I am a son of the House of Sel. I cannot shirk my duties." Yet, the momentum that had driven him these past days, the vibrant hope of seeing Mandarine appear in the grand hall with its marble columns, has faded, giving way to a resignation he hides behind an impassive mask.
He then heads to the secretary's office, traversing gray stone corridors where tapestries with silver threads depict naval battles, their stylized waves shimmering under the flickering light of candles suspended in wrought iron sconces. The atmosphere, usually austere, buzzes with the excitement of preparations: servants carry rolls of shimmering fabric towards halls with vaulted ceilings, while others in gray and silver livery bring trays laden with provisions to the kitchens with black stone walls, where ovens roar under massive chimneys, spreading aromas of fresh bread and roasted meats with herbs. In the narrow secretary's office, with walls paneled in dark wood and shelves buckling under thick registers, a middle-aged woman greets him. Her hair is pulled back into a strict bun, her round glasses perched on an aquiline nose.
"My escort cannot come," Mero announces, his voice steady but tinged with restrained gravity, his fingers brushing the edge of the table where annotated parchments rest near a tarnished copper inkwell. "She had an unexpected impediment."
The secretary jots down a note, her quill scratching lightly on the paper, a discreet smile lighting up her face as she looks up. "Do not worry, Your Highness," she assures him, her voice resonating in the room where a tall window reveals a courtyard bordered by weeping willows, their branches rustling under the fine rain. "We will arrange everything. Another escort will be chosen, and we will come to present her to you before the ball opens."
Mero nods, but his thoughts drift unwillingly towards Mandarine—her black hair dancing in the marine breeze, her laughter defying the storms, a face he will not see sparkling under the candles of the grand hall tonight. Duty, like an overly heavy tunic, brings him back to the present moment, an inescapable burden he shoulders in silence. He returns to his apartment, his boots clicking on the polished floor of the corridors where students bustle under vaulted ceilings adorned with faded frescoes, trying to push back the disappointment that gnaws at him.
As evening falls, two servants knock on his door, their silhouettes framed in the doorway under the flickering light of wrought iron sconces. Dressed in gray and silver livery with impeccable cuffs, they bow with silent deference. "Your Highness, the moment has come," one of them declares, his voice resonating in the room where the fire crackles in the black stone fireplace, diffusing a soft warmth over the shelves laden with bound books and yellowed maps. Mero adjusts his dark silk tunic, the silver embroidery shimmering under the pale light filtering through the mullioned window, then follows them without a word, his steps echoing in the corridors adorned with naval tapestries.
They lead him to an antechamber adjacent to the grand hall, a room with gray stone walls where red velvet armchairs line up under gilded-framed portraits, their subjects frozen in austere gazes. A young girl of about thirteen awaits him there, her slender figure contrasting with the majesty of the place. Her name is Victoria, a distant cousin by marriage of the crown prince of the Empire of Mor. Her dress, a pale blue fabric with delicate pleats falling to her ankles, is simple but elegant; her chestnut hair, braided into a modest crown, frames a pale face with slightly rosy cheeks. Mero guesses that this choice will surprise the students and nobles gathered tonight in the grand hall with its marble columns veined with gray, their murmurs rustling under the vaulted ceilings adorned with faded frescoes.
Victoria bows with timidity, her gaze brushing the floor, underscoring her reserve. "Your Highness," she murmurs, her soft voice resonating in the antechamber where a tall window opens onto an inner courtyard bordered by weeping willows, their branches dancing under a fine rain in the gathering dusk. Mero offers her a reassuring smile, sensitive to the strangeness of the situation for both of them, his eyes scrutinizing her face with benevolent curiosity. "Victoria," he responds, his voice calm but tinged with spontaneous warmth, "it is an honor to have you by my side tonight." A discreet smile lights up his lips at the thought of the rumors that will circulate in the grand hall—the whispers of students in embroidered silk tunics, the intrigued gazes of nobles under wrought iron chandeliers suspended from massive chains. This choice may displease some, but he acknowledges that this prestigious connection could draw unexpected attention on an evening overshadowed by Mandarine's absence. Shortly afterward, the carriage sets off, its wheels creaking on the damp paving stones of the courtyard, carrying them towards the grand hall where candles will soon sparkle on the marble columns and the ample skirts of the dresses.
In the grand hall, where the vaulted ceilings vibrate with the first notes of a waltz played by musicians perched on a carved wooden stage, Victoria remains taciturn. The guests, gathered under tall windows offering a view of the city traversed by the shimmering river of Mor, twirl in silk tunics and dresses with delicate pleats, their steps gliding on a polished parquet reflecting the gleam of chandeliers suspended from massive chains. She dances with applied grace, her movements precise but lacking the lightness that comes with confidence, her gaze often lost in the void, as if seeking an escape from this noisy crowd. The white marble columns veined with gray, like silent guardians, frame a dance floor where couples twirl under faded frescoes with hues of azure and gold, their shadows dancing on the walls while candles diffuse a soft light on the faces.
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The guests observe her with curiosity, their murmurs rising in the air filled with scents of melted wax and floral perfumes, uncertain of the place of this young girl on Mero's arm—her connection to the crown prince stirs intrigued gazes, whispered comments behind feathered fans. Some nobles, in black velvet tunics with silver embroidery, attempt to approach her, their voices resonating in the hall where musicians play a slow melody under the vaulted ceilings. But Victoria responds with distant courtesy, her words brief and her eyes evasive, showing little inclination to lose herself in the buzz of gossip that hums around her like a swarm in a winter garden.
Throughout the evening, Mero notes the tension in her slender shoulders, the effort she deploys with each step as if struggling. Their gazes sometimes cross during the dances, and Victoria seems to seek in him a refuge, an anchor in this sea of unfamiliar faces and implicit expectations. Couples whirl around them, their steps gliding on the polished parquet under chandeliers suspended from massive chains, while musicians on the carved wooden stage chain melodies with melancholic accents, their bows murmuring on the strings. Sensing her discomfort growing, Mero gently leads her aside during a pause, near a tall window overlooking an inner courtyard where weeping willows shimmer under a fine rain glistening in the night.
"What's wrong?" he asks, his soft voice resonating in the antechamber with gray stone walls, where red velvet armchairs stand under gilded-framed portraits, their severe faces lost in the void.
Victoria lowers her eyes, a tremor in her voice as she responds, her fingers clutching the pleats of her blue dress. "I was told it was more proper for me to be with you," she murmurs, her words as fragile as a breath. "But I didn't want to leave my escort. We had prepared together, and he is... like a brother to me. I was assured that it was an honor to accompany you, so I kept quiet, even though it breaks my heart."
She sighs, her slender shoulders slumping under an invisible burden, her usually lively eyes veiled with a sadness she struggles to contain. "I didn't choose this role," she adds, her voice trembling, "and I feel lost here. I would have preferred to stay with him, just the two of us."
Mero listens to her without interrupting, his gaze resting on her with sincere compassion. He recognizes in her the struggle between imposed duty and the desire to follow her heart, an echo of his own struggle in the face of Mandarine's absence. The surroundings—gray stone walls, tall windows open to the garden—fade away, replaced in his mind by the white sand beaches of Mandarine's pirate city, its palm trees bent under a scorching sun, a haven he cannot reach.
"I'm sorry, Victoria," he says, his voice tinged with sincere gentleness resonating in the antechamber where a scent of melted wax lingers. "I didn't want you to feel constrained." He reflects, his fingers brushing the edge of the window where the fine rain traces shimmering lines on the fogged panes. He knows that the last dance of the ball offers some freedom—a custom allowing an escort to yield his place for personal reasons. An idea takes shape, and he turns to her with a light smile. "For the last dance," he proposes, his voice resonating in the room with red velvet armchairs, "I could feign indisposition. You could then dance with your escort."
Victoria's eyes widen in surprise, a glimmer of gratitude mixed with hesitation lighting up her gaze. "Really?" she murmurs, her soft voice resonating in the antechamber where the gilded-framed portraits seem to observe in silence. "But... won't you risk your reputation? People will see you leaving the hall before the end..."
She glances around, her fingers clutching the pleats of her blue dress with visible unease, but the hope of reuniting with her escort, with whom she had rehearsed, wins out in her heart. "However, you're right," she adds, her voice softening, "it would be so much better for me. I don't want to cause you trouble."
Mero reassures her, placing a light hand on her shoulder with a kindness that contrasts with the surrounding austerity. "Don't worry," he says, his voice tinged with calm assurance. "I'll have plenty of time to repair my image later. What's important is that you end this evening as you wish." Victoria offers him a timid smile, her shoulders relaxing slightly under the weight that had been crushing her, her eyes shining with gratitude she struggles to express.
"Thank you," she breathes, her voice trembling with emotion as she adjusts her blue dress. "Thank you so much. I don't know how to repay this kindness." She takes a deep breath, as if to give herself courage, her gaze scanning the crowd twirling beyond the open doors, in the grand hall with its marble columns veined with gray.
Mero signals to Dorian and Sven. They approach, their boots clicking on the polished floor, their curious eyes on him under the pale light filtering through the tall windows overlooking the weeping willows. "I have a plan," he explains. "Victoria had to leave her escort to be with me. For the last dance, I'll feign indisposition, and she can dance with him."
Dorian exchanges a glance with Sven, a mischievous smile on his lips before nodding. "If you're sure," he says, a wink punctuating his words as he crosses his arms, his fingers brushing the sleeve of his tunic.
Sven, more composed, nods in discreet agreement. "It's a kind gesture," he says. "Let's hope Victoria makes the most of it. But make sure to leave discreetly to limit the stares."
They agree to play their roles, their voices blending in a conspiratorial murmur as the first notes of the last dance rise in the grand hall, a slow melody played by the musicians on their carved wooden stage under the vaulted ceilings adorned with faded frescoes. The couples gather on the polished parquet, reflecting the gleam of chandeliers suspended from massive chains, their steps gliding in elegant harmony under the soft light of the candles.
Mero springs into action, his dark silk tunic shimmering under the lights as he stands near Victoria in the grand hall with its marble columns veined with gray. The music swells, and he suddenly feigns discomfort, a hand on his stomach, a grimace contorting his face, his shoulders slumping as if in sudden pain. Murmurs ripple through the crowd, a wave of curiosity stirring the guests as a servant in gray and silver livery approaches, his tarnished silver tray placed on a nearby table. "Your Highness, are you feeling well?" he asks, his voice resonating in the hall under the frescoes with hues of azure and gold.
Dorian, faithful to his role, whispers in the servant's ear with a discreet smile: "Indisposition, no doubt. Some fresh air would do him good." Sven, near Victoria, gives her a reassuring look, his dark eyes surveying the crowd to ensure the smooth execution of the plan.
The decisive moment arrives. Mero leans towards Victoria, his voice low but firm resonating in the antechamber where a scent of melted wax lingers. "I'm sorry, I can't finish this dance," he says, his eyes meeting hers with sincere gentleness. Touched, she hesitates for a moment, her fingers clutching her blue dress, then nods timidly, her cheeks flushing under the glow of the candles.
He slips away discreetly, traversing the dimly lit corridors where wrought iron sconces cast flickering lights on the gray stone walls adorned with silver-threaded tapestries. The surroundings, with their vaulted ceilings and tall windows overlooking the city of Mor traversed by the shimmering river, fade behind him as he returns to his apartment, his boots echoing on the polished floor. The cool night air, lighter than the stifling heat of the crowded hall, caresses his face like a soothing balm as he pushes open the door to his chamber, its paneled walls welcoming him in a comforting calm.
He closes the door, his fingers releasing the handle with contained fatigue, and removes his dark silk tunic, the silver embroidery gleaming one last time under the pale light of the mullioned window before falling onto a chair near the massive wooden table. The evening did not unfold as he had imagined. Yet, a slight smile plays on his lips as he sits near the black stone fireplace, where glowing embers diffuse a soft warmth over the shelves laden with bound volumes and yellowed maps. Victoria will be able to finish the ball with her escort, a soft glimmer in an evening marked by bitterness. He has acted rightly, and this certainty lightens the burden that weighs on him.
