DILLON

The Imperial Palace of Orris is a fever dream; a noise of chattering royals, a swinging crystal chandelier of lights, the extravagance of expensive heels on a marble floor and the soft clinking of glasses; it is a future many people thought they wanted.

With its long winding corridors decorated with plush rugs, exotic antiques and endless rooms; it is hard to compare my life to the lives of these men and women. They live a life of excessive luxury. More, more, more, until they are so ravenous that nothing is enough to sate them. Nothing fills the void.

They call the Imperial Palace a place of dreams, but does anyone call it home?

A dozen pairs of eyes rove up and down my frame as I weave through the lavish ballroom with three bottles of their finest wine. It is an old Khronish red. Ironic, but I do not have the heart to laugh.

I slouch in the corner of the veranda, hiding from their stares and whispers. Out here with warm air caressing my skin, I can pretend I am elsewhere; back in old Yrigtzé with its vast mountains covered in white snowy peaks where I am tending horses at the stables or drinking ale with the boys from my village. I remember the smell of grass and wildflowers and the chill northern wind in my hair. That life no longer exists except in my memory. But, the longing remains.

No one disturbs me here, not even my old comrades. I drink and drink but I do not feel a thing. I wish so badly for the numbness to take over. To feel the ecstasy of inebriation. Nothing comes and I remain lucid and bored. Have I become immune to the effects of my life's water?

A clacking of heels makes its way towards the veranda and the door shuts lightly behind them. I smell her floral-scented perfume before I see her. She grips the vine entangled railings with shaking hands. Her grip is so tight that her knuckles turn white.

I watch her silk black hair adorned with blue petals sway in the light breeze. She sobs silently into her hand. The longer I watch, the more I feel like I am invading a moment of privacy, as if I should be ashamed of myself.

But, I was here first.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, hoping not to be noticed but my foot knocks over a wine bottle on the ground. I grunt lightly at my clumsiness. Perhaps I am intoxicated after all.

I watch her spin around in a panic and her large silver eyes find mine.

The famous zivrét d'Arcana. Contrary to popular rumours, her eyes are not as bright or terrifying as those would believe. They are a colour of grey so light when it catches in the light it appears silver. Mesmerising, indeed.

Her features are soft and demure. Her cheeks are flushed. But, there is a fire behind her eyes; that anger I know so well. It is a part of me. But, to see it in another is a different thing entirely. A tear runs down the curve of her jaw. She bites her lip, embarrassed.

"P-pardon, sir, I did not know you were here." She spins to wipe her tears away with a shaking hand.

"I am no sir." When she looks at me again, she gives me a small smile. There is something in her gaze that makes me feel melancholic. Like listening to a slow ballad, or reminiscing of a long-forgotten heartbreak.

Without thought, I take two strides to the railing and stand next to her. I feel her eyes follow mine, like a cat observing prey. I offer her my half-drunk bottle of wine, hoping she finds some sort of comfort in the gesture. I would use words, but I do not know what to say. Her nervousness dissipates and she raises a graceful brow and gives me an unamused look.

"There's hardly anything in that bottle, sir." She grumbles but snatches it from my hand anyway. I smile lightly. She chugs the entire bottle in mere seconds, winces and sighs as the wine travels down her throat. It is not a behaviour I expected from someone like her. A laugh escapes my lips.

"How generous of you to share some of this fine wine, good sir," She raises a brow and leans forward to count the other bottles by the side of the bench. Her lips purse in disappointment.

"Of course. I am, after all, a gentleman." Her eyes narrow just a touch but then she gives a small mischievous smile. I feel lightheaded, drinking in the image of her. I explore the curve of her jaw, the red of her lips and the sorrow behind her pale eyes. Has the effect of that wine finally caught up to me? She brushes past me lightly and places the empty bottle beside the others.

"What is your name, sir?" She asks although she knows who I am. Her eyes plead as if she wants me to play along, just for a little while.

I bow deeply, "My name is Sir Ecklington Dantoz of Nessaz, my lady. A pleasure."

She gasps, "The famous Sir Ecklington in the flesh! I am Lady Noel, so pleased to make your acquaintance!" She curtsies and chuckles. It is a lovely sound.

She holds up a slender hand suddenly and commands, "Stay put, sir!" Then, she backs out of the veranda and into the ballroom only to skip back a moment later, hands hidden behind her back.

I look at her puzzlingly. A grin is etched across her face when she pulls out two bottles of wine from behind her slim frame. I burst into laughter.

"Lady Noel, you flatter me." I grin as I watch her cheeks flush.

"I am a gracious host, Mr Ecklington." We sit side by side on the wooden bench. It feels so small now that she is here. We tap our bottles and start to drink. Out here, on this veranda, soaking in the afternoon warmth and light cool breeze; I feel worlds apart from the party beyond. A door separates us from reality.

It is easy to speak to her, to pretend that I am just a man and she is just a woman and we are free to share jokes and talk. That there are no obligations or expectations for us.

Luxus did not lie; she is something to look at. But, I'd rather not make it a habit, after all, she will soon grow to resent me. We are playing a dangerous game.

"Tell me a story, Mr Ecklington." Her voice is almost a whisper, carried by the wind. I sense her mood shift, a sadness blankets her.

"I'm afraid I don't know many." She gazes into me as though she can read all of my thoughts. I feel exposed and raw but I cannot pull my gaze away.

"Hmm," She tilts her head, thinking. "I shall go first." She turns to me and clears her throat. She sits close and comfortable, legs almost touching mine. Close enough that it is the only thing my simple brain can focus on. Shivers crawl down my spine, along with a hint of guilt.

"There was once an Angel named Zarxos," She lowers her voice as though this is a performance. "He fell in love with the daughter of the God of Light, Angel Rhymethas, but she was promised to another. Zarxos offered all his riches for the chance to be with her, but Rhymethas refused. Thus began a millennia-long journey of courtship, of course, one-sided and completely unrequited. Zarxos would build worlds and create mystical creatures to appease her, but every time, she refused him." She gives a small smile.

"She was promised to another, surely, that is a sign your Angel should cease his pursuits."

" That is also what I think! Though, others find his behaviour romantic." She shakes her head in disapproval.

"But, one day, Zarxos decided if she would not take his riches or the gifts he created for her, then he would give her the only thing he had left. Himself. Thus, he made an entire world with his blood. He filled rivers, carved mountains and created jewels with colour so deep red, it looked like it was formed in the pits of Hell."

My heart quickens at the mention of a blood-red jewel. But, before I can think on it further, she touches my leg slightly with her knee and continues. I take another drink.

"Eventually, she said yes." She looks down and fidgets with the lace on her gloves.

"A happy ending, then." I smile, looking at her downcast eyes.

"Do they really exist?" She asks. I don't reply to that.

Sensing the mood shift, she asks, "Now it is your turn, good sir." I chuckle awkwardly and look away.

"There once was a boy who was loved. He lived in a small village, hidden between towering mountains," I smile. "He wasn't very wealthy. His family owned a small piece of land, and some sheep. But, his life was full of riches. Friends, family," She leans in close to listen, resting her slender jaw on the back of her hand. The smell of her is enough to make me feel heady, like wine.

"Lovers?" She asks, beaming.

"Only one."

"Was she beautiful?"

"Not to others. But, he thought she was charming, and beautiful, too. Once he got to know her," I chug the wine with fervour, afraid to continue. Afraid of what I might say.

"She must've been a very lucky lady." She says softly and frowns when she sees my solemn expression.

"No," I smile. "He was the lucky one."