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In the depths of her soul, there lay a vast expanse of emptiness, a desolate realm untouched by hope or emotion. The mask she wore, face painted with a hollow smile, concealed a heart drained of its feelings, for there were none left to conceal.
Amidst the grandeur of their celebration, a well-rehearsed masquerade unfolded. Noble courtiers vied for a fleeting moment in her presence, eager to pledge their fealty to the crown. Yet, it was a celebration founded upon deceit, a false victory cloaked in pretense. No true peace had been won, and everything seemed to have been lost. She returned, not with her loyal Champion by her side, but more devastatingly, without Briala. It signified nothing.
A ball, ostensibly to revel in victories she had not earned, unfolded before her. Their loyalty was as genuine as the masks adorning their faces, ready to betray at the slightest opportunity. She wearied of this charade, even as she thrived within it.
The Empress of Orlais played the Game with finesse, a virtuoso of pretense. She swayed gracefully to the rhythm of their dance, smiled in response to their praises, laughed at their conversations, and strode proudly as they admired the crown jewel of Orlais, blind to anything but their own narratives.
It meant nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Beneath her royal balcony sprawled an garden, open and vast, devoid of hiding places for anyone seeking clandestine encounters. No guards patrolled beneath her window, for she dared not risk anyone overhearing the echoes of night's passed cries of passion. In her second year of rule, she had orchestrated this garden event. Now, it lay bare beneath the night's sky, an open canvas.
On this warm and humid night, a stroke of foresight had determined an outdoor celebration. They had wisely chosen not to hold the revelry directly beneath her chambers. Tents and pavilions were visible from her vantage point, a safe distance away, neither near enough to peer into her private world nor far enough to escape her gaze.
The nobles congregated under the white pavilions, like ghosts in the moonlight, like ants scurrying, hoping to find importance in their existence. White silk stirred only in the wake of passing souls, concealing the rotten within. The civil war might have supposedly ended, but it bore no semblance of such. She had lost all that had ever truly mattered.
With dawn's arrival, a soft rain began to fall, its gentle cadence punctuating the quietude of the morning. Through the window, she watched the royal blue cake, its frosting slowly melting away under the delicate touch of the raindrops, as if the heavens themselves wept for the losses she could not bear to express.