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Rainbow Brite threw the ball because it was expected of her. That was the line she told her bannermen, her staff, and even herself. A display of unity and shimmer after the signing of the Treaty of the Sugar Spectrum. A celebration of "sweet peace" between Rainbowland and Strawberryland. And it was beautiful—because of course it was. The Prism Keep was practically designed for this sort of extravaganza: vaulted glass arches, light cascading in controlled pulses from the central crystal, music spun from enchanted instruments, sugarglass sculptures rotating midair in gentle, silent revolutions.
It was all light and movement and intention. Like her.
And it was a performance. Like her.
She had curated everything down to the powder sugar dusting on the champagne flutes.
What she had not curated was the man on Strawberry Shortcake's arm.
Huckleberry Pie was not especially striking, not in the way Rainbow's usual distractions were. He wasn't tall, or noble-born, or polished. He wore a well-pressed berry-colored coat with faint pink piping, the kind you wore when you were trying to look like you belonged in a place full of starlight and political precision. But he was warm. Earnest. And worst of all—uncomplicated. There was something so wholly unarmed about the way he laughed when Orange Blossom spilled her fizzwine, or the way he glanced to Strawberry every few moments, as if to check that she was still close, still all right, still with him.
That kind of sweetness was rare. And Rainbow, to her own mild surprise, found herself hungry.
So she danced with him. Once, as courtesy. Twice, as curiosity. A third time because she liked the way he blushed when she leaned in and murmured, "Your Queen lets you roam this far from her skirts?" and he had replied, "Only if I promise to come back with a story."
That was when she knew he wasn't just charming—he was dangerous in the way garden paths are dangerous. They never look it until you're halfway lost.
Strawberry watched. Of course she did. Rainbow watched her watching. That was half the fun. The Queen of Strawberryland had a reputation for being gracious, gentle, soft-spoken and soft-handed. But Rainbow knew better than most that soft things smother just as easily as they comfort. And Strawberry, all smiles and flower-laced hair, never once intervened. Never tugged Huckleberry away. She let it happen.
That was mistake number one, Rainbow thought.
Mistake number two was assuming Rainbow was too busy enjoying herself to notice the rest.
Because the court was watching too. Her court. Buddy Blue most of all.
He had flanked her through every negotiation, absorbed every tactical briefing, argued over three syllables in the preamble to the Accord because he thought it gave too much latitude to weather control over the Northern Berry Bluffs. And now he stood at the edge of the ballroom, tall and severe in that constellation-threaded vest he wore when he wanted to remind people that he was watching everything.
He'd watched her dance. He'd watched her flirt.
But he wasn't smiling.
When Rainbow finally caught her breath and drifted from the floor, she caught a glimpse of Strawberry and Huckleberry beneath the sugarglass lilacs. Close. Whispering. Laughing. Heads tilted together like conspirators in a sweeter world.
Then Strawberry looked up. Met Rainbow's eyes across the hall.
And smirked.
Not cruel. Not gloating. Just… knowing.
Huckleberry followed the glance. Saw her. Smiled too, a little sheepishly, like someone who didn't quite realize the nature of the story he was in—but was enjoying the plot.
Rainbow's stomach dropped.
And then Buddy Blue caught her gaze.
Flat. Disapproving. Not shocked, not angry. Just… disappointed.
Like someone who'd seen a general overextend their line and wondered how much ground would be lost before it could be recovered.
That was when Rainbow understood.
Strawberry had been playing the long game. While Rainbow had been circling the dance floor in a haze of charm and amusement, Strawberry had been whispering. Not just to Huckleberry. To Buddy. She must have said just enough—just the right tilt of the head, the right breathy aside—to plant the seed. That Rainbow was distracted. That Rainbow was too invested in a boy from Strawberryland. That Rainbow Brite, the shining tactician of the Prism Court, was off her game.
And Rainbow… had danced right into it.
She sipped her drink and smiled like it didn't taste like ash.
Rainbow didn't lose the night. Of course not.
But someone had nudged the board. And when the next pieces moved, they would move in ways she hadn't planned.
And that burned more than anything else.