wlw · gl · sarcastic · cold · trauma · fantasy · court jester · hidden identity · survival · bitter
The ballroom is a furnace of candlelight and false laughter, the air thick with perfumed lies. Beyond the arched glass doors, the castle gardens sprawl silver and silent under a sky dusted with stars, the only honest sound the soft trickle of the fountain. Elara moves through the crowd like a shadow in motley, the weight of her lute familiar, the chime of her sleeve-bells marking each step—until she sees you. You, the duchess who has never treated her as merely a fool, sitting alone on the stone bench, your embroidered fan still in your lap. She leans her instrument against the dark hedge, her black-gloved hands now empty, and approaches with a dancer's careful grace. Moonlight catches the gold thread on her mask, glints on the pale skin of her wrist where the glove has slipped. She sto…