Chapter Text
25th of Ethereal Moon, 1179
Names and faces dance endlessly through the ballroom.
The boy looks on, bored. He can always appreciate a good night of partying and feasting, but this, this is no way to hold a feast. Less droning speeches, more singing; less perfectly-scripted introductions, more exchanging odd tales; less swaying around an arm's length apart, more clapping and laughing and dancing in circles.
That's how he'd do it, he thinks, had he been the one planning this ball. Too bad for him that he's not.
He turns around at the sound of unsteady foosteps and a cane tap. His grandfather stands there— just as tired, but experienced enough to not show it.
"Claude. I take it that you've finished greeting the guests?"
The boy has now spent enough months here to respond to that name without flinching. One day it will be the name his most beloved friends call him by, but right now he still finds it odd to hear out of anyone but his mother.
He tells himself that he will— must— get used to it. Tonight's event is to officiate his new status as heir; he thinks that the first impression he makes here will be quite important for his upcoming endeavors.
He's not wrong. But he does not yet know that multiple incidents in his near future will far overshadow this ball in terms of making impressions.
The boy gives a small bow, hoping the motion doesn't look as awkward as it felt. It does, but his grandfather does not comment on it.
"Of course, Grandfather. I'm just taking a short break, is all."
The old man exhales and nods.
"Do keep it short. There are yet more affairs for you to attend to."
The boy holds back a sigh. More, after he went around entertaining all eleven or twelve or thirteen lords and spouses and scions, only to be met with obligatory smiles at best. He finds it tedious, and those other nobles secretly think so, too, not that any of them would admit it.
"I will, I will, no worries."
Best to get used to it, he reminds himself once more, heading to the second floor.
Derdriu is as beautiful as the boy had imagined from his mother's tales. An aquatic city with canals and gondolas instead of roads and carriages, celestial harmonies from conservatories and vivid colors swirling in crystal clear glass. It is all those things she'd told him and more.
The night air is cold, but not as cold as one would expect from a city this far north in winter. The boy leans against the balcony rail, looks out at the waters, and inhales the ocean scent.
This is to be his base of operations for the next several years, and someday will be one of the many places he'll think of at the "home."
But as of now, he has only been in Fódlan for half a year, and he feels awfully homesick for Almyra; even if he thinks it's too early to be, and pretends there isn't much to feel homesick about.
Thinks that he has grown used to the loneliness, that he knows how the world works and that he can navigate it just fine on his own.
He's lost in his internal monologues, until he hears someone coming down the corridor— quiet, but not quiet enough.
The boy is immediately on full alert. He grabs the dagger in his jacket, not yet taking it out.
He waits. He listens to the clicks of heels on marble.
They pause, then scurry to one of the rooms on the opposite side of the balcony. They don't start again.
The boy turns around. One stride, two stride.
"Who is it," he calls out. "Do you have business with me?"
No response, only the creak of a hinge. He continues forward, strides slightly faster, and stops at the door the noise came from.
"Come on now, I promise I don't bite."
A knock. Still no response. Cautiously, he grabs the doorknob.
After counting down three, two, one, he swings it open—
"Ah!"
—and a girl stumbles across the floor, holding a cake platter and a fork.
The cake slice itself, mostly untouched, splats on the hard tiles. It's dark, but the boy's eyes have adjusted and can make out the girl's facial expression— distraught and shocked and heartbroken. (What's on her face is actually only a fraction of how she feels, but the girl has no intention of letting that be known.)
The boy lets go of the dagger and kneels down.
"Are you okay?" he asks, offering his left hand. "Sorry about barging in like that, I thought—"
"I'mfine," the girl replies, getting up as fast as possible on her own. "I'mcompletelyfine."
She stiffly walks past, determined to keep it together. The boy glances down at the top of her head, trying to match it to one of the dozen scions he'd greeted earlier.
"Ordelia. You're the one from Ordelia, aren't you," he says, following her. "What were you doing up here?"
"Absolutely nothing," she declares, which is an utter and complete lie. "No need to concern yourself."
The girl continues with her stilted gait, heels clicking against marble. The boy realizes she'd be even shorter without the stilettos. He figures she's twelve or thirteen, just making her debut into Leicester's high society. Better cut her some slack, he thinks, blissfully ignorant of how much that observation and conclusion would anger her if said out loud.
"Was that the last slice?"
Pause, no response.
"Can't do anything about the cake, but they keep plenty of other sweets in the kitchen," he says, leaning over slightly to match her height. "I can help you sneak some out."
The girl steps forward a few steps, then turns around 180 degrees with an indignant click-clack-clack.
"As I told you, there's no need to concern yourself with whatever I was doing here," she says, voice rising. "And you're quite wrong, if you think I'll be easily appeased by promises of sweets like a child!"
Another click-clack-clack, and she continues towards the staircase. The boy stays still to watch, wondering how she got up the stairs without tripping.
At the end of the corridor, the girl pauses, takes her shoes off, and picks them up.
The boy shrugs and turns around, heading to another staircase on the opposite side of the hallway.
Neither realize a long journey has begun.