The Vellion estate buzzed like a hive of fashion emergencies and emotional denial. In the heart of Arila's room stood Rila, her expression stern with the unrelenting calm of someone who had tied battle corsets in hurricane winds.
"Stand still," she said, wielding a curling wand with the solemnity of a holy relic.
Arila, outfitted in her signature cocktail dress—pearl-stitched bodice, pleated black skirt that twirled like dramatic foreshadowing, and navy wedge heels so deceptively comfortable they deserved their own shrine—gripped the arm of her vanity chair like a prisoner awaiting sentence. Her hair curled just at the ends, soft and shiny, framing her face like an anime model caught in a magical girl transformation. Her makeup was light—nothing flashy, just a gentle kiss of shimmer on her eyes and a peach tint on her lips.
Effortlessly beautiful. Accidentally stunning.
"Why do I look like I'm about to get summoned into a romance manga?" she muttered.
"Because I'm good at my job," Rila answered, completely unmoved by Arila's existential dread.
Ninko watched from the windowsill, fully visible, like a divine creature judging a mortal makeover montage. His tails twitched in aesthetic approval.
Down the hall, Evelaine Vellion stood before her full-length mirror, inspecting the last placement of a sapphire brooch with military precision, while Caelan attempted to find his most intimidating cravat.
"Do you think they'll notice if I glare hard enough?" he asked.
"They're royalty, dear," Evelaine replied. "You'll have to blink eventually."
Back in Arila's room, final preparations were underway. Rila stepped back with a nod of artistic satisfaction.
"There. You look like the scandal everyone's been warned about."
"I hate how that might be true," Arila muttered. She turned to the mirror, tilted her head, and sighed. "I look... grown-up."
"Good," Rila said. "Because you are. Now go downstairs before your mother charges up here like a glitter bomb."
The carriage ride to the Royal Palace of Vellitia was calm. Too calm. Which, of course, meant something was about to go emotionally sideways.
Ninko lounged visibly across Arila's lap like a pampered ice spirit on a field trip. She fed him slices of candied lemon with one hand while nervously crunching a chocolate biscuit with the other.
Evelaine looked over from her seat and raised a perfectly arched brow. "Darling, you've already had three. That's enough sugar to bribe a duchess."
"Bribery is a survival strategy," Arila replied. "Besides, what if someone tries to dance with me? I might need to escape through the windows."
"Just say you're cursed," Caelan offered, adjusting his cuffs. "That used to work in my day."
"Only because you looked like you actually were cursed," Evelaine said sweetly.
"Don't be dramatic," he grumbled. "I was handsome."
Arila stared out the window, brushing a thumb over Ninko's ears. "I'm not panicking," she lied aloud, voice high enough to summon bats.
"You're twitching," Rila observed from across the seat.
"I'm not twitching. I'm... preparing emotionally. This is a major quest hub. There will be branching dialogue. Multiple romance flags. Probably a stealth section."
Everyone blinked.
"Ignore me," she added quickly. "That was metaphorical."
As the palace came into view, all conversation stilled.
The Royal Palace of Vellitia looked even more overdramatic up close. Its spires gleamed like enchanted blades, and the massive silver-and-blue banners flapped with regal authority. Music floated from the grand ballroom like the world's most expensive ambiance setting.
The carriage rolled to a smooth halt. Arila inhaled like a person about to disarm a magical bomb. Ninko leapt from her lap and landed softly on her shoulder, shimmering briefly before vanishing into invisibility.
"Here we go," she murmured. "Please let me avoid flirt-based fatalities."
Rila reached across and gently smoothed a fold in Arila's dress. "You've got this."
"Does 'this' include royal judgment and emotional whiplash?"
"Yes."
Arila stepped out into the sun.
Inside the palace, the ballroom was already humming with nobility, like a peacock migration dressed in imported sparkle. High above, floating chandeliers glimmered like icy stars, and the enchanted dome ceiling glowed with soft twilight hues, regardless of the actual time. Servers floated between crowds with trays of jewel-toned drinks and desserts so delicate they looked illegal.
At the top of the grand staircase stood the welcoming line. Prince Lucien Alaric stood poised and impeccably composed, wearing a fitted coat of deep midnight blue embroidered with silver starlight. To his right, Julian Vexhart leaned slightly against the railing, grinning like a flirtatious pirate who had just spotted treasure. Vincent stood beside them, arms folded, eyes scanning the crowd like he was solving a murder. Behind them, Darian—Lucien's loyal knight—stood dutifully like a castle carved from frowns.
Julian leaned in slightly. "If a cute girl walks in wearing something unreasonably fashionable and says something sarcastic, I call dibs."
Lucien didn't look at him. "You said that about the last five girls."
"None of them made fun of my shoes. I'm waiting for fate."
Lucien exhaled slowly. "Try not to explode."
"I might," Julian said. "With feelings."
Vincent gave an exhausted blink. "I regret everything."
Then Arila appeared at the top of the stairs.
The ballroom fell into a silence so sharp it might have cracked the chandeliers.
All heads turned. Gasps were heard. One noblewoman dropped her fan. A duke's monocle hit the floor like punctuation.
The girl descending the stairs wore a cocktail dress that revealed her arms, her hands, her knees—fashion choices so revolutionary in Vellitian nobility that someone audibly whispered, "Is this legal?"
Arila ignored them all. Or rather, she pretended to. Inside, her brain was short-circuiting.
Walk steady. Don't trip. Smile slightly. No finger guns. Don't do the anime pose. Dear stars, don't say anything about boss battles.
Ninko remained invisible on her shoulder, vibrating with barely contained smugness.
At the foot of the stairs, the king and queen waited. King Alaric wore a long ceremonial cloak that shimmered like stormcloud silk, his posture regal and terrifyingly tall. Queen Arlisse, in a gown of twilight and stardust, looked upon Arila with that classic queenly expression: elegant curiosity with a side of judgment.
Arila curtsied with practiced grace, channeling every memory she had of noble cutscenes and dramatic anime openings.
"Lady Arila Vellion," Evelaine announced from behind her, voice clear and proud.
King Alaric gave a polite nod. "You've made quite the entrance."
"I tend to," Arila replied dryly, before realizing she may have said that out loud.
Queen Arlisse's lips twitched ever so slightly.
Julian took two steps forward, eyes bright with delight. "I knew it," he whispered. "It's you. The flour storm."
Arila blinked. "And you're still narrating your thoughts aloud."
Vincent stepped forward next, eyeing her with a slow, measuring look. "So you are a noble."
"I'm many things," Arila said. "Some of them less believable than others."
Lucien finally moved. "Lady Arila," he said, his voice formal but eyes unreadable. "Welcome."
Arila bowed her head slightly. "Highness."
Darian, ever-silent, just nodded. Ninko flicked an invisible tail across his shoulder in greeting. Darian blinked but said nothing.
A courtier nearby whispered, "She's not even wearing gloves!" and Evelaine nearly turned and hexed them with her hairpin.
Caelan, watching proudly from the side, leaned toward a nobleman.
"That's my daughter."
"She's... not wearing sleeves."
"She's the future," Caelan said flatly.
As the music swelled and couples began drifting to the dance floor, Arila caught her reflection in a polished mirror—wind-tousled curls, light shimmering on her skin, a dress that refused to apologize for being bold.
"I look like I wandered in from an alternate dimension," she whispered to herself.
Ninko, invisible, flicked her ear in agreement.
She sighed and accepted a glass of sparkling citrus wine from a passing tray.
"Let the cutscene begin," she muttered.
And somewhere in the crowd, four love interests watched—amused, intrigued, and completely unprepared.
To be continued...