010 The Ball
Zora Ritter hadn’t come to the ball for the music, the wine, or the idle chatter of nobles pretending they weren’t always at each other’s throats. She came for marriage, plain and simple. That was why she spent the better part of her morning curling her hair with heated tongs, dabbing rouge to her cheeks, applying a touch of citrus perfume behind her ears, and slipping into a gown that was elegant but deliberately restrained so she wouldn’t outshine the debutante. There was still grace in subtlety, especially for a woman like her. Young, yes, still in her early twenties, but aging fast in the eyes of aristocratic society.
The Ritter family had once been respectable. Her father used to be Viscount Ritter of the western plains, a man who dined with ministers and hunted with princes. But fortunes change quickly when your name is whispered in the wrong court. She didn’t know all the details. Her father never told her much before the day the soldiers came. But what she knew was enough: the Ritters had been accused of treason, stripped of their titles, and cast out. She had been the only one to survive the fall, a girl too quiet and too clever to be caught in the storm. Now she bore the Ritter name like an unwanted surname on borrowed invitations.
“Cheers,” Zora said softly, her crystal glass clinking gently against Ron’s.
He smiled, warm and a little awkward, and sipped beside her. They sat off to the side, away from the main chatter and dance, the candlelight softening the hard lines of his face. Ron had a quiet ruggedness to him… coarse around the edges but composed in the way he carried himself. His clothes fit surprisingly well for someone who clearly wasn’t a noble by birth, but she knew the blood of a man had little to do with his gait.
She hadn’t expected him to catch her attention, but there was something refreshing about a man who didn’t try to impress or posture. When she searched for a husband, she wasn’t hoping for a prince or a scholar… just someone with coin, strength, and enough sense not to gamble it all away. So far, Ron hadn’t disappointed.
“So,” he asked, swirling the wine in his glass, “what do you do for a living?”
Zora took a sip, letting the dry wine rest on her tongue a moment before swallowing. She looked at him with a smirk that softened the edge of her words. “Why do you think I have a job? I’m a pampered girl, as you can see.”
The truth wasn’t so simple, but that was how most men liked it: easy, flattering, and unthreatening. Besides, in their world, it wasn’t like women were expected to work unless circumstance demanded it. If they were born with wealth, they stayed idle; if they weren’t, they served. And even the daughters of noblemen weren’t above trading their bodies to gain influence or to pass the time.
Zora had no illusions about the hypocrisy. She had met noble ladies who acted prim by day and entertained lovers by night. She wasn’t one of them. Despite her fallen status, she’d guarded her chastity with a stubbornness that had more to do with pride than purity. She didn’t want to be wanted for her body; she wanted to be chosen for her value.
In other words, if she was going to have a husband, she wanted to be taken seriously.
Ron raised his brows slightly.
“You look disappointed,” she teased. “Is a woman with a job so desirable?”
He shook his head, his expression genuinely thoughtful. “It’s not like that… It’s just that you’re so eloquent, witty… I don’t know. If I didn’t know better, I’d have taken you for a wandering bard. Or maybe a diplomat. Or, gods help me, a preacher.”
Zora let out a genuine laugh, covering her mouth with slender fingers. “A preacher? A woman preacher?” Her voice took on a lilting, musical quality as she chuckled. “There’s a reason they call them Men of God.”
When her laughter faded, she glanced at him sidelong. “You flatter well, Ron.”
He looked like he was about to defend himself, but instead, he tilted his head curiously. “So… do you have any hobbies, then?”
The question caught her off-guard for how simple and sincere it was. Most men didn’t care what a woman enjoyed unless it served their pleasure. She studied him for a moment, then gave her answer.
“Theater,” she said.
His eyes lit up with interest. “Do you mean watching it… or performing in it?”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she took a slow sip of wine, letting the moment linger. When she lowered the glass, her eyes gleamed with mischief. Her smile didn’t change, but something in it deepened, a secret folded in velvet.
“Does it matter?” she said, tilting her head just enough to be coy.
“Well,” Ron huffed, the corners of his mouth twitching as if fighting a grin, “I’d love to hear recommendations. Never managed to see one, even in my free time. I try to live frugally, but… I think I’d like to watch one. Maybe in the foreseeable future.”
Zora blinked. Her smile remained polite, but inwardly, she let out a small sigh. She had half-expected, hoped, really, that he would invite her. A simple, “Want to come with me?” or even the faintest suggestion of companionship would have sent her heart fluttering. But instead, he dangled the idea of a vague “foreseeable future” like a carrot she couldn’t reach. If she wanted anything to happen between them, it seemed she’d have to make the first move.
“Harle doesn’t exactly have a theater,” she said, trying to sound casual, “but maybe in the capital?”
It was a baited line. The capital was the great equalizer in conversation… glittering, dangerous, and desirable. People loved to talk about it, whether they'd been there or not. Yet Ron simply hummed into his glass and took another sip of wine, as if the capital were a back alley bakery instead of the shining heart of the kingdom.
“Ever been to the capital?” she tried again.
“A few times.”
“What do you think of it?”
“I don’t know,” he said, almost apologetically. “Never really thought about it.”
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Zora straightened in her seat, setting her glass aside. That was the end of it, then. The momentum slipped through her fingers like sand. She started to blame herself for asking such flat, uninspired questions. Was she trying too hard? Too eager? No, maybe it was better to take a step back. Force never bore fruit. She let herself sink into silence.
A sudden clink of glass rang out through the ballroom, catching everyone’s attention. Count Harle stood at the center with his usual relaxed authority, spoon tapping the rim of his goblet.
“It’s a pleasure,” the Count began, “to have all of you here tonight to witness a great milestone. Today marks my daughter’s coming of age. So, let us welcome the lady of the evening. Please, a wave of applause to my lovely daughter… Riane.”
Every head turned toward the grand staircase. Descending with practiced grace was Riane Harle, her chestnut-brown hair curled in soft waves, and her gown a mesmerizing swirl of royal purple and black. A single shimmer of silver thread ran along the seams of her dress, catching the chandelier light as if the gown itself whispered nobility. Count Harle met her halfway down, handed her a flower… which she tucked into her bodice with delicate poise… and then gently led her to the center of the ballroom.
The musicians began their gentle strings. Father and daughter danced with careful synchronicity, evoking sighs and smiles throughout the crowd. Zora, watching from the side, felt something stir bitterly in her chest.
Jealousy.
Of course, she envied Riane, but not because of the gown or the title or the applause. No, what Zora envied was the warmth. The support. A father who held his daughter’s hand not for display, but with love. A room that genuinely celebrated her. Zora let out a breath and smiled faintly at her own envy. No matter how different she was from other noble ladies, she wasn't special… not really. She wasn’t born to be a centerpiece.
But Riane? Riane Harle was the image of grace. The kind of woman noblemen wrote ballads about. Born and raised in a household of integrity and respect, she was known for her soft-spoken kindness and impeccable conduct. She wasn’t just admired. She was beloved. A rose among hedges.
Zora’s eyes drifted back to Ron, hoping, maybe foolishly, that he would turn to her, offer a hand, and ask for a dance. The guests were beginning to gather in pairs, stepping into the ballroom as the music swelled. It would be the perfect moment.
But Ron didn’t turn to her. He looked troubled. His brow furrowed slightly, lips pursed, deep in thought. For a moment, Zora wondered if she had done something wrong and said something to upset him. Then, without a word, Ron stood up.
Her heart leapt, barely contained behind the quiet beat of her chest.
But he didn’t turn her way. He didn’t offer his hand.
Instead, Ron walked straight toward the center of the ballroom. Zora’s breath caught in her throat as she watched Count Harle step aside, smiling like a father proud of more than one child. Ron reached Riane and took her hand with a gentle nod. The two of them began to dance.
Zora’s mouth fell open slightly in disbelief. Her face flushed instantly, the heat crawling all the way to the tips of her ears. She covered them instinctively, cheeks burning with shame and confusion.
“Zora, you stupid girl…” she muttered under her breath. “What were you thinking?”
Of course. Of course he hadn’t been idly standing around. This was a noble ball, and tonight was Riane Harle’s coming of age. There was a tradition at such events… eighteen dances to honor each year of the debutante’s life. And Ron… Ron must have been chosen as the second dance. That kind of invitation didn’t just fall from the sky. He was close to the Harle family, perhaps closer than Zora had realized.
She looked away, swallowing her embarrassment with the bitterness of warm wine. Ron danced with Riane under the glittering light of chandeliers, the crowd clapping politely around them. He moved stiffly at first, but Riane’s practiced steps softened his pace. They looked… well-matched.
“May I ask the lady for a dance?” asked a smooth, confident voice that sent an immediate chill through Zora’s spine. She turned and froze, her breath caught in her throat. Standing before her was a man she recognized far too well… an all-too-familiar figure of nobility, cloaked not just in elegance, but in memories she had long tried to forget.
A golden-haired youth stood with one hand extended. He looked to be in his early twenties, slender of build with a lithe grace honed through years of swordplay and courtly polish. His posture radiated charm. His face was clean and striking with refined cheekbones, clear skin, and narrow, smiling eyes. He had been hailed across the kingdom as the pinnacle of masculine beauty. His golden locks shimmered under the chandelier light, the symbol of his highborn blood more resplendent than any badge or sigil.
Zora’s skin prickled at the sight of him. “W-what are you doing here?” she whispered, voice barely above the hum of the music.
“Zora,” he said gently, his smile spreading wider. “It’s been too long.”
His name didn’t need to be spoken for his identity to be known. In the Kingdom of Crestworn, hair like his… the brilliant gold that caught even moonlight… was not just a mark of prestige. It was the crest of kingship, the signature of the royal line. Only those of the king’s blood bore it. Among them, none were spoken of more fondly by the common people than the Fourth Prince: Prince William Thornecrest, or simply "Will," as he liked to be called in less formal company.
Zora stood stiffly. Her hands curled on her lap, trembling slightly.
“H-his Royal Highness…” she stammered. “I…”
Her mind spun. What was he doing here? No… of course she knew. He had always found a way to appear wherever she was, like a shadow that grinned instead of loomed. Still, seeing him in person, so close, brought back the familiar discomfort that no distance or time could dull.
Will chuckled softly and lowered himself into the seat beside her, completely ignoring the coldness in her voice. “Please, we can talk casually,” he said, brushing a nonexistent speck from his pristine lapel. “Didn’t you like my surprise?”
Zora shuddered under his gaze. His eyes, ever unreadable, seemed to look straight through her, seeing things she didn’t want seen. A sense of helplessness spread in her chest, quiet and suffocating.
She steadied herself. “Prince Willia—”
“Just ‘Will,’” he interrupted, placing a finger gently on her wrist. “Please.”
“No,” she said firmly. Her voice cracked slightly, but her tone held. “I refuse.”
Will sighed and leaned back, lips parting in a thin line of feigned disappointment. “So cold,” he murmured. “It seems you still resent me.”
Resentment. That was one word for it.
The fall of the Ritter family had always been whispered about in court… some said treason, others claimed financial scandal. Few knew the full truth. Fewer still knew about the prince’s role. Zora didn’t have the luxury of forgetting, even for the fact she knew too little herself. Still, that didn’t mean she was completely ignorant of who was the cause of her family’s ruin. And yet, here he was, smiling as if they were still children chasing each other through marbled halls.
“You see,” Will continued, tone softening, “I did all of that… for your sake.”
Zora felt her stomach twist. She didn’t understand it then. She didn’t understand it now. Whether it had been obsession, jealousy, or a warped form of love, she didn’t know. And she didn’t care. All she knew was that the person beside her was the same boy who once swore to protect her… only to become the one who had stolen everything.
“I never asked you to do anything for me,” she said.
But her voice trembled, and she hated that it did.
Just when the pressure in her chest felt like it might snap something inside her, a new figure approached. A shadow against the gleam of golden hair and polished marble.
“May I have this dance?” Ron asked.
His voice was calm and steady. A lifeline tossed into stormy seas.
Zora turned her head toward him and, for the first time in the evening, felt something like relief. Ron stood with his hand outstretched, looking not heroic or gallant, but simply… dependable. He was no prince. No noble. He didn’t dazzle, didn’t sparkle, didn’t suffocate with politeness. And yet, in that moment, she could have sworn he was the most beautiful man in the room.
She didn’t hesitate. Zora rose to her feet and placed her hand in his. The warmth of his palm against hers felt grounding, anchoring her back into her own body.
“It would be my pleasure, Sir Ron. You’ve arrived just in time… “
She rose gracefully, placing her hand in his, her touch light yet firm.