"So, umm… Fallias…"

Gods, I was stumbling over the words. My tongue felt like it had swollen three sizes too big inside my mouth. I swear, every syllable scrambled out clumsy and stammering. And of course, I definitely noticed the way the rest of the girls scattered the moment I stepped in—like startled birds suddenly ruffled from their roost, each barely containing their giggles as they hurried away. Whispered conspiracies and high-pitched squeals trailed behind the door like ghosts of mischief.

I sighed and rubbed the base of one of my horns, an old grounding habit from childhood when nerves got the best of me. My fingers caught on a small ridge, and I ran them slowly down, trying to pull myself back from the brink of awkwardness.

Then I drew in a long, steadying breath.

Then another, deeper this time.

And a third, just to be sure.

"Fallias," I finally said, standing a little straighter, trying to sound confident even if my heart felt like it was tap-dancing inside my chest. "There's a ball I'm required to attend. And I would like to cordially invite you to join me for the dance, the feast… and the merriment."

I tried to keep my voice calm and level, like I hadn't spent the last twenty minutes running simulation drills, practicing and re-practicing that exact sentence until the Gloss told me my tone was "appropriate and effective."

Behind me, someone squealed.

I flinched.

Twitched.

Half-turned.

And caught Fractal, Ten, and Ranah pressed against the edge of the doorway, eyes sparkling like they'd just discovered a secret treasure, smiles barely concealed.

Cordelia's dry voice cut through the mess like a whip. "Out. All of you."

The girls scattered at her command, except Fractal lingered just a moment longer with a cheeky grin, before she vanished like smoke.

Fallias, meanwhile, had gone crimson. Her entire face was a sunset of shimmering scales, burning with embarrassment. She cleared her throat, glanced down at her hands, and then asked quietly, "How… how much of that conversation did your aura pick up?"

I scratched the back of my neck, glancing aside. "All of it."

Her eyes widened in sudden horror.

"I did tell you—and Cordelia—that if I'm in the building and you're in the building, I can feel the vibrations in the air. Voices are just waves, really. Once you tune into the hum of a person…" I shrugged with a smirk. "You might as well be whispering into my ear."

She groaned softly. "Oh."

"You haven't answered my question, though," I said, stepping a little closer, letting the weight of the moment settle between us like dust. "Fallias."

She looked up at me, silver hair catching the lantern light like quicksilver, her lips parting—searching for the right syllables.

"Well… um… I…"

"I fell in love with you on sight," I said plainly. "I'll admit that."

That silenced everything. Even the whispering girls in the hall froze mid-giggle.

"We haven't exactly done anything 'couple-like.' And I don't expect anything from you. But in many ways… you were a princess locked in a tower. And I—I had to slay a beast just to reach you."

I didn't reach for her hand.

I didn't make it some spectacle.

I just spoke.

Softly.

Sincerely.

"So let's make this official," I said, voice dropping a little quieter. "Fallias. Will you allow me to escort you to the ball?"

A sharp inhale.

Then, from the other room, Ten's voice cut through the silence. "Damn. He got smoother. What happened?"

I let out a sigh and muttered loud enough for all of them to hear: "Practice."

There was a beat of quiet.

I continued, almost begrudgingly. "While you all were having your little emotional war council, I was in a Gloss Simulation."

"You… trained for this?" Fallias asked, stunned.

"Yes," I said flatly. "On public oration. Formal etiquette. I also picked up the skill [Diplomacy] again. And [Oration]."

Fractal's voice drifted in, tinged with amusement: "That is the most Alexander thing I've ever heard."

"I had to," I muttered. "There was no way I was walking in here sounding like a lovesick goat. Not when it's you."

Fallias said nothing at first. Her eyes shimmered—not with tears, but with something warmer. Something deeper.

Then she nodded—once, slow, regal.

"I would be honored," she said, voice quiet but resolute. "To attend at your side."

I exhaled. For real this time.

"Good," I said. "Then I'll be the luckiest one there."

From behind the wall, Cordelia muttered something suspiciously close to "gods, that was almost romantic."

Ten coughed.

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Fractal squealed again.

Ranah offered a slow, sarcastic clap.

And Fallias? She didn't even notice them anymore.

Her attention was entirely on me.

We were gathered in the parlor, sprawled across sofas and carpets, all with our respective interfaces open to the Gloss. A constantly shifting catalog of wearables, attunables, and prestige-fueled nonsense, it made the simple task of choosing clothes feel like preparing for war.

The room was dimly lit, save for the flicker of holographic projections and the occasional gleam from the display table where Fallias had conjured three rotating mannequins to model potential ball gowns.

"I don't get it," Wallace grunted, flipping through filters with his thick fingers. "Why do men's formal suits have ruffles now?"

Fractal, lying upside-down on the couch with her feet hooked over the top, giggled. "Because Bast thinks men should look like blooming flowers, obviously."

"She thinks everyone should look like blooming flowers," Cordelia muttered, curled in an armchair, legs tucked under her, swiping through swatches of black and beige fabric with annoyed precision. "Except women. We get to look like dried petals in a funeral arrangement."

"Dark brown or beige can be elegant," Fallias murmured, barely audible, her eyes flicking back and forth between two floor-length gowns—one with obsidian beadwork, the other creamy silk embroidered with foxglove blossoms.

"It's not the color," I said, flipping through my own options with increasing dread. "It's the philosophy. Bast wants men to shine and women to be refined. I'm pretty sure she designed half of these suits just to make me look like a clownfish with opinions."

"You'd still look good," Fallias said softly.

The room went quiet for a half-beat too long.

Ten, to her credit, didn't tease. She just kept scrolling through options one-handed, the other fiddling with her ankle cuff as always. "I'm wearing something I can kick someone in."

"Why are you assuming someone needs to be kicked?" Wallace asked.

She stared him dead in the eye. "Because someone always needs to be kicked."

That earned a low laugh from V, who had silently appeared from whatever corner he'd slunk into, sitting cross-legged on the windowsill and flicking salt particles like tarot cards, letting them scatter across his display grid and generate randomized suggestions. "Honestly? Valid."

"Back to topic," Cordelia said crisply. "Alexander, what are your options?"

I sighed. With reluctance, I projected my current shortlist into the center of the room.

Four mannequins appeared.

One was draped in a radiant fuchsia coat with golden paisley and pants that shimmered like fish scales.

The second was a high-collared turquoise number with translucent sleeves and a corseted waist.

The third was a lemon yellow tailcoat with orange undershirt.

The fourth? A nightmare of stripes. Blue and red, vertical and horizontal, somehow stitched together to make me look like a toy soldier who got dressed in the dark.

Ten burst out laughing.

Wallace shielded his eyes. "Dear gods. That's offensive."

Fractal clapped. "Number three makes you look like a citrus prince!"

"I'm going to be sick," Cordelia said. "Where are the normal suits?"

"I asked the same question," I grunted. "The only 'normal' option Bast offers is 'Crimson Regret'—which sounds like the name of a perfume designed by a widow."

"Let me try," Fallias murmured. She slid closer to the central table and extended a hand toward the projection, fingers delicate, movements measured.

The mannequins shifted, and her suggestions began to populate.

A midnight blue suit with glimmering silver thread, cut tight around the waist.

A charcoal three-piece with sharp lapels and crimson lining that gleamed as the model turned.

A pearl-white tunic with geometric silver panels, evoking a knight's formalwear rather than a court jester's.

"Better," I said, nodding. "Why didn't these show up on my filter?"

Cordelia raised an eyebrow. "Did you leave your personality setting on default shineboy?"

"…Possibly."

"I'll build the suit," Fallias said. "I know your measurements."

My mouth opened. Then closed.

"Right."

Ten grinned. "Are we just going to ignore the blush that exploded on his face?"

"Yes," Cordelia said.

"No," Fractal chirped.

Wallace coughed awkwardly. "Well. I guess I'll pick something simple."

He projected a series of standard bastion military dress uniforms, modified for formality.

A dark blue coat with burnished silver trim. Clean lines. High boots. A subtle shoulder pauldron polished to a mirror shine.

Regal without ostentation.

Fractal leaned forward. "Wallace. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to look handsome."

He blinked. "Is that a problem?"

"No," she said quickly, then rolled over and stuffed her face in a pillow. "It's fine."

V was next.

His selection was… a tapestry of contradictions.

Pinstripes layered over faded denim textures, with accents of salt-white woven into the cuffs.

Somehow it looked like he was going to a rave and a funeral at the same time.

"V," Ten said. "That outfit is illegal."

"Fashion is a crime," he replied smoothly.

Fallias, meanwhile, was still cycling through gowns. Her fingertips brushed through shadows and light, silks and metallics, filtering everything through Bast's irritating preferences.

"I want… understated," she said. "But still…"

She trailed off.

"Striking?" I offered.

She nodded.

A dress rendered slowly on the display: deep brown velvet, sculpted into a form-fitting silhouette with sleeves that trailed like ribbon. Thin amber beadwork curled along the hem in spirals, catching light like candle flames. The back dipped low. Modest in color. But unmistakably regal.

The room hushed again.

"That one," Cordelia said softly. "Absolutely that one."

"It's Bast-approved?" Fallias asked.

I checked the specs. "Yeah. All boxes green. Even the 'mood' tag says 'shadowed jewel' or whatever that means."

"It means you're going to kill half the ballroom on accident," Ten muttered. "With elegance."

Cordelia finally settled on a flowing obsidian gown lined with raven feathers.

It shimmered when she moved, like a void pulling in stars.

"If I have to wear Bast's palette, I'll weaponize it."

Ten picked something short and sleek.

Technically dark brown, but the texture shimmered red-gold under light.

It had slits along both sides of the skirt for mobility—and mischief.

Fractal chose a beige sundress somehow enchanted with flowing, luminous trails of dancing butterflies.

It was somehow the most her thing possible.

"I don't care what Bast wants," she said, spinning in delight. "I'm going to look like a faerie who stole someone's dreams!"

Wallace chuckled.

"You already do."

Fractal beamed. "Aww, thank you~!"

I finalized my suit—Fallias' midnight and silver selection.

I added a subtle shift-cape, something that folded and vanished when not needed but flared with layered texture when I moved.

It looked almost like pages fluttering.

"It suits you," Fallias said.

"You always look best when you're hiding something."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Should I be flattered?"

"You should be aware."

By the end of it, our room looked like a fashion warzone.

Discarded projections and color swatches littered the air, half-complete ideas spinning lazily in stasis, auto-recycling after thirty seconds of disuse.

"You know," Cordelia said, stretching, "we could've done this after breakfast."

"No," Ten said. "This was perfect."

"I got to bully Alexander and look hot."

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