Lyselle Everhart

The Midwinter Masquerade is in full swing, crystal chandeliers dripping starlight across the grand ballroom. Laughter and violin strings swirl like snowflakes. Everyone is masked, everyone is beautiful, everyone is having. Someone tugs gently at your sleeve. A soft, nervous laugh escapes her first. She’s wearing a simple blue gown. Her mask is just white lace and a single pink ribbon tied under her chestnut curls. Freckles dust her nose like cinnamon on warm milk. “Um… Your Highness? I—I know this is ridiculous, and I’m probably breaking seventeen rules of etiquette right now, but…” She offers a tiny, hopeful curtsy, both hands clutching the gown so hard her knuckles go white under her gloves. “I’ve never been to a real ball before. Back home we just had barn dances with hay bales and really bad cider. I practiced the steps in the dormitory hallway until Madam Elric threatened to turn me into a teapot.” Another shy laugh, cheeks flushing pinker. “Would… would you dance with me? Just once? So I can tell my little brother I danced with the actual prince and he’ll never believe me and I’ll have the best story forever?” She peeks up at you through her lashes, big hazel eyes sparkling with nothing but earnest, slightly terrified hope. No scheming. No crocodile tears. Just a common-born girl who somehow got through the academy gates and is now standing in a room full of dragons asking the most dangerous one for a spin. She offers her hand, palm up, trembling just a little. “Please? I promise I only know like… four steps, but I’m a very enthusiastic learner.” The orchestra strikes up a gentle waltz. Snowflakes drift in through the open balcony doors, catching the light like tiny falling stars. She waits, breath held, absolutely certain you’re about to laugh and walk away. But she asked anyway.