Soiree for the Fallen
In the heart of Frasier Fine Frippery, past the rows of fine fabrics and neatly arranged garments, at the top of the stairs lay a kitchen steeped in warmth and quiet charm.
This kitchen belonged to Frasier Fine Frippery, a modest yet well-respected clothing shop. The ground floor housed the store, its shelves lined with bolts of fabric, lace trims, and finely crafted garments. A small bell at the entrance would chime whenever a customer arrived, but at this hour, all was still. The workday was winding down, and only the soft light of the late afternoon sun streamed through the windows, casting a gentle glow over the space.
The first floor served as the living quarters for the Frasier family, but it was in the kitchen, tucked at the heart of the home, where the family truly gathered.
At the centre of it all stood a sturdy well-made wooden table, its surface smooth and shine brilliantly even after years of use, set for an afternoon of quiet indulgence. A porcelain teapot rested among delicate cups, steam curling into the air, while a tray of warm cupcakes and sugared cookies invited idle hands to reach for a bite.
The modest yet tastefully furnished kitchen exuded warmth, its stone hearth crackling with a steady fire, casting flickering shadows across the wax wooden floor. The scent of freshly baked bread mingled with faint traces of herbs—lavender, rosemary, and yarrow—bundled together with twine and hanging from the ceiling beams.
A hazy glow filled the air, dust motes drifting lazily in the golden light filtering through the small kitchen window. The late afternoon sun slanted over the wooden table, illuminating the soft curves of porcelain teacups and the graceful movements of the two seemingly noblewomen, Catherine and Emeline, as they held their cups with practiced elegance. The warm light traced their features, lending an ethereal softness to their composed expressions, as if the very air around them carried the hush of a fleeting, tranquil moment.
Seated across from them, the two little girls were bathed in the same glow—one carefully mimicking her mother refined gestures. While the other hardly even care about her surroundings.
Leyla, Emeline daughter, sat upright, sipping her tea with careful grace, determined to match the adults. Meanwhile, Kimmi, Catherine daughter, had somehow taken her mother lesson about table manners way too far.
Atop her head sat a precariously stacked bundle of books—Leyla and Kimmi stories books. The very books Leyla had fought over Kimmi at her room just hour ago, only to find them now precariously balanced on Kimmi head like some kind of bizarre crown. In her right hand, Kimmi held another book flipping through the pages with casual focus, and in her left hand, she raised her teacup to her lips, sipping without a hint of hesitation.
Catherine had always known her daughter to be a little odd or unconventional. Kimmi had a habit of doing things that made little sense to anyone else, but even Catherine had to admit—she had never seen her child so agile before. The way she effortlessly balanced the books, turned pages, and drank tea without spilling a drop was unnervingly smooth, almost practiced.
Actually no, now that she thought about it, she had seen something like this once before—when Kimmi was running away from her after making a mess at her house. That day, her daughter had darted through the hallways, jumping down to stairway to the ground floor and land safely without trouble, such nimbleness that Catherine had been left speechless.
And now here she was again, demonstrating that same strange dexterity and agility—but this time, with teacups and books.
Leyla, watching Kimmi out of the corner of her eye, furrowed her brows. She set her cup down and hesitated before finally asking, "Kimmi… what are you doing?"
Kimmi turned a page in her book, still not looking up. "Multitasking."
"With my books?" Leyla curiously asked.
"Oh." Kimmi blinked as if she had just remembered. "Yes. And it's our book," she reminded Leyla, recalling their deal to share it.
Leyla rolled her eyes at Kimmi remark, but her antics still amused her.
Leyla lips parted slightly in disbelief. "And why are they on your head?"
"Mother told me balancing books helps with posture and table manners." Kimmi took another sip of tea as if this explanation was completely reasonable.
Leyla let out a long sigh, rubbing her temple. "You were supposed to use one book, Kimmi. Not all of them."
Catherine, who had been watching with a soft expression, gently placed her cup down and smiled. "Sweetheart, I did mention just one book."
Kimmi tilts her head and shrugged, causing the stack to wobble but miraculously not fall. "I thought it had to do something with the weight of the book, more books would increase it weight and help make my posture better."
Leyla shot her a flat look. "That's… that's not how it works."
Emeline, also amused by Kimmi antics, started to wonder. She picked up an apple from the table and handed it to Kimmi.
She smirked. "Try adding the apple too. It should help even more," she said sarcastically.
Kimmi took the apple and placed it on top of her head, still managing to balance everything without trouble.
Emeline, who had been entertain by Kimmi, sighed and took a sip of her tea before speaking bluntly. "Kimmi, darling, you look like a traveling performer who lost their stage."
Kimmi finally looked up, blinking. "Thank you, Aunt Emily, for the compliment." She clearly did not understand.
Emeline exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of her nose. "No, dear. That was not a compliment."
Catherine let out a soft, amused chuckle and reached over to gently pinch her daughter cheek. "Kimmi is just full of creativity."
Emeline snorted, setting her teacup down with a soft clink. "Creativity? No, that's pure oddity. Any other child would have laughed her out of the room by now."
Kimmi perked up at the idea. "I think I could balance the tea pot too…" She was confident of her abilities.
"No." Emeline and Leyla cut in at the same time.
Catherine, ever patient, only smiled and took another sip of tea. "Well, at least she's practicing balance."
Emeline sighed, giving Catherine a look. "You're far too kind to her."
"She's my only child," Catherine said warmly and tad sadness in her voice.
Meanwhile, Leyla was still staring at Kimmi, waiting—hoping—for her to acknowledge just how absurd she looked. But Kimmi, ever unbothered, remained blissfully unaware.
Finally, Kimmi seemed to register her friend expression. She tilted her head slightly, sending the stack of books and the apple teetering precariously—but, against all logic, they remained balanced. She took a calm sip of tea. "What?"
Leyla folded her arms, her lips pressing into a thin line. "You're weird."
Kimmi blinked at her, then shrugged. "Didn't you know? You always say I'm weird."
Leyla narrowed her eyes, puffing up indignantly. "Yes, I did, and somehow you keep outdoing yourself." She gestured vaguely at the books, the apple, the sheer ridiculousness of it all. "This—this is a new level of weirdness."
Kimmi smirked, plucking a book from the stack and replacing it with the one in her hand. "How weird? Be specific."
Kimmi wanted to know what she was truly like before. 'Could she do the same things she did now?' She thought.
Leyla ignored Kimmi and took another bite of her cookie, chewing thoughtfully. She knew better than to entertain Kimmi endless curiosity—especially when the only topic Kimmi ever seemed truly interested in was herself.
After resolving the book ownership dispute, Kimmi and her mother were invited for tea by Emeline, Leyla mother. As the afternoon stretched on, Catherine and Emeline became engrossed in conversation, their words weaving through topics both light and serious.
From the bits and pieces Kimmi picked up, she gradually realized that her mother had been invited to a party. What kind of party, she was not entirely sure—but what did catch her attention was the fact that she was also expected to attend.
It seemed Emeline had extended the invitation as well and had even suggested they all go together as a group. This meant the Frasier and Gustmill families would arrive as one, a gesture meant to symbolize their long-standing bond—a bond that, from Kimmi did not notice and sees.
However, Emeline had one particular concern—Kimmi manners. With a pointed look, she explained that before attending such a gathering, Kimmi needed a bit of refinement. That was precisely why she had given her the book—to train her posture, to teach her to walk properly, and most importantly, to ensure she sat up straight at the table.
Catherine, well aware of her daughter tendency to slouch, had merely sighed in agreement. Kimmi, meanwhile, had taken the lesson to heart in her own way—by stacking multiple books on her head. It was a method, certainly. Just not the one Emeline had envisioned.
"Catherine… if it were me, I'd be worried. She's your only child, after all," Emeline said, her concern clear. The last thing anyone wanted was for Kimmi to cause trouble with the wrong people at the party.
Catherine, however, remained unfazed. "I trust my daughter to behave herself," she said with quiet confidence.
Emeline sighed, giving her a pointed look. "Then you've only got a few days to make sure of that."
As they spoke, both women took slow, deliberate sips of their tea. Catherine remained composed, her expression serene, while Emeline arched a brow over the rim of her cup, clearly unconvinced. The warmth of the tea did little to ease her lingering concern.
As the conversation carried on, Kimmi ears perked, subtly tuning in to every word. She glanced at the adults, her curiosity piqued, thoughts swirling in her head. Then, shifting her gaze, she found Leyla—who had already lost interest in her entirely, now far more invested in her cookies and the tea she sipped without a care.
Little did they know, Kimmi had initially refused to put the book on her head, dismissing the idea as utterly ridiculous. The only reason she eventually gave in was because of an odd, nagging urge—one she could not quite ignore. So, she listened to it. At the very least, balancing the book kept the urge from pestering her further, allowing her to focus on more interesting things—like eavesdropping on the adults as they gossiped.
Kimmi believed she had no trouble controlling herself—especially when it came to pretending to be proper. To her, manners felt more like acting than anything genuine. She had no desire to pretend to be high and mighty. Her family was still just ordinary folk—and she saw no reason to act otherwise.
Kimmi swayed from side to side, deep in thought, pondering what she should do next.
A crown of pages, stacked so high, balanced beneath her curious eye.
Soiree for the Fallen
A knight stood at the edge of the training grounds, watching the soldiers drill relentlessly under the pale light of the sun.
He was an older man, bald with a greying goatee, his expression as unreadable as the night surrounding them. A hooded cape draped over his broad shoulders, concealing most of the full suit of armour beneath.
The rhythmic clash of steel and the sharp bark of commands filled the air, yet the old Knight barely heard them. His thoughts were elsewhere—on the empty spaces in his ranks, on the officers he had lost.
His gaze swept over the soldiers before him, assessing, calculating. He needed a new captain, someone with the discipline and skill to lead. But as he watched them train, a grim realization settled in his chest—none of them measured up.
These men were competent, but they lacked the refinement of a knight.
Becoming a knight was no simple feat. A soldier needed more than discipline and experience—they required a decent amount of magical pull, enough to manifest Aura onto their weapon. Without it, they could never truly stand among the kingdom elite, never wield the strength that separated knights from ordinary fighters. And that was the problem. Most of these men, no matter how skilled, lacked the magical potential to even begin training in Aura manifestation.
Edward Gustmill name surfaced unbidden, a ghost in the old knight mind.
Edward had served as a lieutenant in the knight order, one of the rare foot soldiers capable of manifesting an Aura Blade. Limited though it was, it had earned him a place among the elite regiment—a position few common-born soldiers ever reached. He could have been a captain, a stabilizing force in the chaos of battle.
But he was gone.
He had fallen in a recent skirmish at the border of the Cursed Lands, where he had been tasked with leading a provisional order to supply the front lines with resources and reinforcements. But his unit had been intercepted. Ambushed. Annihilated.
The details were scarce, but from what little intelligence the old had heard, the enemy force had been led by a master.
The old Knight exhaled sharply, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword.
Replacing the fallen was difficult. Replacing true leadership was nearly impossible.
Edward strength had never been in raw magical power alone—it was in how he wielded it. Unlike most who struggled to maintain even a faint trace of Aura, he had refined his technique into something far deadlier. He could imbue his wind element into his Aura, sharpening his blade to an unnatural degree. A single swing could cleave through armour, the cutting force amplified by the unseen currents swirling around his weapon. He could also enhance his body with magic, increasing his speed and agility beyond that of an ordinary knight.
For someone with only a modest magical pull, it was an extraordinary feat. Most knights with limited reserves barely sustained their Aura, let alone fused it with an element. Yet Edward had pushed beyond those limits, turning what should have been a weakness into his greatest strength.
That was why he had stood among the elite knights—why he had earned the respect of his peers despite lacking the overwhelming magical power others relied on. Skill, adaptability, and sheer discipline had carried him further than talent alone ever could.
But even that had not been enough.
Edward should have been a captain long before his demise. His leadership had been proven time and time again. Yet in the rigid hierarchy of the knightly order, merit alone meant little. High-ranking positions, especially those of captains and above, were almost exclusively reserved for nobility.
It was not law, but an unspoken rule woven into the foundation of the military. A soldier could train relentlessly, perfect their swordsmanship, and earn the loyalty of their comrades, yet without noble blood, their ascent was always hindered by unseen chains. Edward had been a prime example of that injustice.
Suddenly, the sound of approaching footsteps pulled the Commander from his thoughts. A group of knights, clad in heavy armour of distinct colours and design, strode toward him.
He turned, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "What is it, House Knights? You're interrupting my thoughts."
One of the knights, his armour polished to a mirror sheen, stepped forward and saluted. "Knight Commander, sir. You have been summoned to the banquet."
The old knight let out a sigh, rubbing his temple with a gauntleted hand. "Another banquet?" His voice carried a trace of exasperation. "Haven't we had enough of those? I'd rather spend the evening at the barracks playing cards than waste time entertaining those snobbish nobles."
The knights exchanged glances before another stepped forward. He lowered his head slightly, breaking protocol. "Sir… it's the Soiree for the Fallen."
For a moment, silence hung between them.
Then, Lord Howard chuckled, a rare, weary smile tugging at his lips. "Ah… well, if that's the case, then it would be an honour."
Straightening his posture, he gestured toward the knights. "Very well. Lead the way."
With that, the group turned and made their way from the training grounds, leaving the sound of clashing steel behind.
No clash of swords, no cries remain, only whispers of duty chain.
Meanwhile,
At the grand main gate of Lime Light City, a convoy of carriages stood in a long, sluggish line, their exteriors dusted with frost as the pale winter sun cast a weak glow over the wet streets. The air was sharp with the bite of cold, every exhale turning to mist as armoured guards moved methodically through their inspections, their breath visible in the frigid air. Beyond the towering walls lay the White district—home to the king and nobility, where only the privileged were permitted to pass.
The wall itself loomed high, an imposing structure of stone and steel, yet the gate was surprisingly narrow—just wide enough for two carriages to pass through at once. Its intricate design, with sharp, unwelcoming patterns carved into the metal and stone, seemed less like an entrance and more like a silent warning. As if the city itself wished to remind outsiders that they did not truly belong.
Menacing statues lined the walls, their hollow eyes seemingly watching every traveller who approached. The gate itself was no less intimidating—its iron bars curved like jagged thorns, a cruel imitation of a beautiful rose, alluring yet treacherous. It was as if the very act of stepping inside was an invitation to be ensnared.
Armed guards patrolled the area in disciplined formations, their leather armour and pristine uniforms a testament to their preparedness. Some stood atop the walls, crossbows at the ready, while others paced along the gate, hands resting on the pommels of their swords. Their expressions were stone-cold, their presence a constant reminder that Lime Light Cities heart was not open to all.
Among those waiting to be let through were the Gustmill and Frasier families, their carriage stuck in the slow-moving line.
Inside, Kimmi slouched against the seat, absently chewing on the pink ribbon that had once been neatly tied in her hair. She wore a lovely pink chemise under a grey kirtle, but the elegance of her attire did little to mask her restlessness.
Without warning, the ribbon was snatched from her mouth.
"Oh dear…" Catherine sighed, holding up the now thoroughly chewed piece of linen between her fingers. "Kimmi, must you gnaw on everything? Are you hungry, sweetheart? We're almost there."
Kimmi huffed, crossing her arms. "I'm not hungry. I'm bored."
"Then perhaps you should entertain yourself in a way that doesn't involve ruining perfectly good ribbons," her mother chided, shaking her head before tucking the ruined ribbon away.
Kimmi leaned back against the cushioned seat, her gaze drifting lazily toward Leyla, who sat across from her. The other girl had a similar ribbon—soft and silken, but in a deep shade of purple.
Leyla felt the stare before she even looked up. Instinctively, she clutched her ribbon tight, shielding it as though Kimmi were a hungry wolf eyeing fresh prey.
"You can't eat mine," Leyla warned, narrowing her eyes in suspicion.
Kimmi pouted dramatically. "But yours looks prettier."
Leyla scowled. "It's not food, Kimmi."
Kimmi merely sighed, shifting her gaze toward Ameline instead, only to be met with a flick of a red fan, blocking her face. The only thing visible were Ameline amused eyes, elegantly concealing most of Ameline face.
"This is rather interesting, Cane," Ameline mused, her voice laced with amusement. "I don't think I've ever seen Kimmi this quiet while being stuck in one place for so long. Quite the improvement, wouldn't you say?"
Her words were light, but there was an unmistakable undertone of disbelief—after all, Kimmi patience had never been her strongest trait.
Kimmi exhaled dramatically, letting her head loll against the back of the seat. "I'm conserving my energy," she murmured. "If this takes any longer, I might actually freeze to death before boredom gets me."
Kimmi felt a slight tingling nip in the air. Though she did not feel the pain of the cold, she knew the air was frigid.
Ameline chuckled, tapping the edge of her fan thoughtfully against her chin. "Ah, but if you froze, dear Kimmi, you'd make quite the tragic winter tale. The Ribbon-Chewing Girl, forever lost to the cold."
Kimmi groaned dramatically, burying her face deeper into her cloak. Then, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, she peeked at Leyla. "Then at least let me have your ribbon as a final meal."
Leyla gasped, clutching her violet ribbon as if her very life depended on it. "Absolutely not!" she huffed, shifting away.
Catherine let out a soft chuckle, her warm hands reaching out to pat her daughter's knee. "Oh, my dear," she cooed, her voice rich with affection. "Come closer to mom if you're cold." She spread her arms wide, an inviting embrace that promised warmth and comfort.
Kimmi wasted no time. She shuffled onto her mother lap, nestling into her arms as Catherine wrapped her in a protective hug, her warmth seeping through the layers of winter fabric.
Across the carriage, Leyla watched with thinly veiled envy, glancing between Kimmi and the way Catherine so easily cradled her. She hesitated before stealing a glance at her own mother.
Ameline, ever observant, caught her daughter gaze. With the grace of a elegant and the precision of a motherhood, she flicked her fan open and pointed to the space beside her—a silent command.
Leyla hesitated for only a second before obeying, shifting closer to sit by Ameline side. Her mother gave the faintest smile, lowering her fan just enough to gently pat Leyla hand—a quiet, elegant acknowledgment of the unspoken request.
For a moment, the chill of winter felt just a little less biting.
Tap Tap Tap
Then, a sharp knock echoed against the carriage door—a signal.
The wheels lurched forward as the convoy was finally allowed to proceed. As the carriage rolled past the towering gate, shadows swallowed them whole. The world outside vanished, the last sliver of daylight snuffed out as they entered the tunnel leading into the White district of Lime Light City.
The air grew still, damp with the lingering chill of stone. The rhythmic clatter of hooves and wheels against the cobbled road was the only sound in the heavy silence. For a fleeting moment, it felt as though they had passed into another realm—one where time itself slowed, where the darkened tunnel stretched endlessly with no end in sight.
Then, like the first break of dawn, light returned. The tunnel gave way to open space, and with it, the scenery transformed.
The White district was a world apart from the rest of Lime Light City. Here, the streets were pristine, untouched by the mud and wear of the outer districts. The buildings stood taller, grander, their architecture a testament to wealth and status. Unlike the varied, practical structures beyond the walls, the White district exuded uniform elegance.
Every building was constructed from smooth, white stone, their walls immaculate and gleaming even beneath the overcast winter sky. The black-tiled roofs provided a striking contrast, adding to the refined aesthetic of the district. The artistry in their design was undeniable, as if the very culture had shifted the moment one passed through the gate. This was no longer a city of commoners but a realm of nobles, an exclusive haven where only the privileged could walk.
Further in the distance, looming above all else, stood the colossal heart of Lime Light City—the royal castle. Built directly into the mountain wall, unlike the buildings below, which were grand in their own right, the castle defied scale itself.
Kimmi peered out from the carriage window, her eyes wide with wonder before narrowing in thought.
"Everything's so… proper. Too much order, too much restraint." She huffed, resting her chin on her hand. "Being 'high and mighty' must be terribly exhausting."
Compared to the lively, cluttered streets of the outer districts, this place felt eerily perfect—too pristine, too controlled, as if it belonged to an entirely different world.
As the carriage continued along the smooth, well-maintained road, the towering presence of the royal castle grew ever larger, its sheer scale becoming more imposing with each passing moment. Soon, the convoy reached the grand castle gate—an entrance as formidable as the walls that surrounded it. The iron gates, adorned with intricate blue hue metal, stood wide open, welcoming the arriving guests into the maw of ruler class.
Beyond the threshold, an expansive courtyard stretched out, serving as a designated space for the many carriages that had arrived before them. The area was vast, yet already bustling with activity. Footmen hurriedly assisted passengers as nobles descended from their carriages, their elegant cloaks billowing in the cold winter air. The soft glow of enchanted lanterns lined the courtyard, casting a muted light over the polished stone ground.
But what caught Kimmi's attention most was the withered garden nestled beside the courtyard. Stark and lifeless, it stood in contrast to the splendour of the castle itself. Once a place of beauty, its skeletal trees and frostbitten flowers told a different story—one of neglect, of time forgotten. The air carried a faint whisper of decay, a silent testament that even within a place of grandeur, there were things that were left to rot.
"It's a cycle…" Kimmi muttered as she looks at the withered garden.
The carriage rolled to a stop, and the familiar creak of the door signalled it was time to disembark.
"Move, Kimmi, move!" Leyla's voice bubbled with excitement as she eagerly scooted forward, barely containing her energy.
Kimmi turned her head lazily to glance at Leyla, her expression unreadable, before shifting her gaze back to the carriage door. The moment the well-dressed coachman stepped down and moved to open the door, Kimmi acted.
The instant the door swung wide, she leaped out without hesitation, landing perfectly yet unexpectedly before anyone could react. The coachman flinched in surprise, nearly stumbling back, while a few nearby attendants exchanged startled glances, their composed demeanour momentarily disrupted by the girl impulsive dismount.
Leyla, seeing Kimmi sudden jump, instinctively prepared to follow—but before she could, a firm hand caught her wrist. "Not you," Ameline said smoothly, her grip light but unwavering.
Leyla pouted, glancing longingly at the ground where Kimmi now stood, but she knew better than to push her luck.
Catherine, Kimmi mother, let out an awkward chuckle, casting an apologetic glance at Emeline, who merely sighed in quiet exasperation. "Your daughter," she murmured, shaking her head. "Her lack of decorum is astounding."
Catherine could only offer a helpless smile in return. "Ah… well, the long ride must have got her nerve."
"That's one way to put it, the Nerve" Emeline snapped her fan shut with a soft click, watching as Kimmi straightened her cloak, completely unfazed by the fuss she had caused.
A second later,
A tall, silver-haired man dressed in fine grey attire approached Kimmi. His piercing gaze settled on her for only a moment before shifting toward the carriage behind her.
"Ah, finally, you're here," he remarked, his voice smooth but indifferent. His focus lingered on the carriage as if expecting someone more important to step out. Without another word, he dismissed Kimmi entirely and strode past her.
Kimmi blinked, feeling slightly irked by the blatant disregard, but before she could react, she noticed the coachman stepping aside, almost reverently, as the silver-haired man reached for the carriage door himself.
He raised his hand toward it—and just as it swung open, Leyla delicate hand emerged.
With practiced ease, he caught her hand in his own, guiding her down from the carriage with a kind of poised elegance that seemed more like a rehearsed dance than a simple act of courtesy.
Kimmi frowned slightly, a strange feeling stirring in her chest as she watched.
Leyla, who had been brimming with energy just moments ago, now bore a composed, almost demure expression. Her usual liveliness had vanished, replaced with an air of graceful stoic restraint.
Kimmi narrowed her eyes. 'She's controlling her emotions? Where had all that excitement gone?' She thought.
The man let go of Leyla hand and then stood beside her before turning back toward the carriage. With the same measured grace, he reached up once more. This time, it was Emeline who accepted his hand. A bright smile graced her lips, as if she were greeting someone long familiar.
"He must be Mr. Leighton," Kimmi guessed.
She knew that Leyla was often afraid of her father, and with his silver hair bearing a striking resemblance to Lawrence, her suspicions felt all but confirmed.
Emeline chuckled lightly, her voice carrying warmth. "Husband, you didn't have to come in person, you know." Her sharp eyes studied him playfully. "Aren't you busy?"
Leighton took her hand and, with effortless poise, helped her descend from the carriage.
"True," he admitted. "But I am the head of this house. If I were to leave you unattended, what would people say about the Frasiers?" He arched a brow, his tone carrying an air of both jest and certainty. "Here, valour and honour are everything."
His gaze then shifted toward Catherine, and a knowing smile played on his lips.
"Mr. Leighton Frasier," Catherine greeted, offering a slight bow of her head in respect.
"Ah, Mrs. Gustmill," Leighton mused. "You've brought your daughter here… I must admit, I was concerned. But no matter—I've made special preparations."
He stood with impeccable grace before extending his hand to her.
Catherine hesitated for only a moment before accepting it, descending in the same refined manner as Emeline before her.
"Now, let's head to the soiree," Leighton declared, his voice carrying a sense of urgency as he turned on his heel.
With that, the Gustmill and Frasier families moved as one, their footsteps echoing softly against the polished stone path.
Kimmi walked in step with the group, yet her thoughts drifted elsewhere. Something about the atmosphere unsettled her. It was not the cold or the looming presence of the nobility—it was something deeper. A quiet, insistent feeling that gnawed at the edges of her mind.
She did not belong here.
A painted smile, a borrowed grace, Yet longing pulled her far from place.