The first indication that the club was outside Edward’s price range was the fact that the security guards by the swinging doors wore liveries and not the usual vests. The second indication was that the majority of people who were let inside (accompanied by courteous half-bows by the guards) wore very expensive tailor-fit brand dresses and suits, and were arriving by skycars whereas Edward had had to ride the Kent monorail line for six stops to get within walking distance of Guildenstern Street.

Like all students, Edward lived off-campus, renting a small apartment (the regular kind) near Albany Square in eastern Cordelia. Cordelia was split into ten zones, roughly corresponding to the cardinal and intercardinal directions as well as Upper and Lower Inner City, split relatively evenly in two by the Goneril River. Each of these zones contained a varying number of wards, again divided into districts. And that was simply metropolitan Cordelia; the number of suburban wards was the same number as the inner city ones. So while Edward lived in the district of Albany Square, in the ward of Roccham, in East Cordelia, the Queen Marie’s Metropolitan University was located in Montagu, Lysander-on-Goneril ward, Lower Inner City, some eight kilometres away in a direct line.

Luckily, Cordelia had an impressive collective transportation system; monorail lines were ubiquitous and fast, the lines moving across, between, and in some cases, through the raging high-rises and towers (“skyscraper” as a term was not able to underscore how massive these raging super-constructs were). Skycar landing towers were also frequent, as were underground parking houses for groundcars. The Goneril had thousands of fast and free drone-ship ferries and taxies running up and down the river. Towering over it all was the absolutely titanic Cordelia Tether, almost too large for the human mind to comprehend as it stretched into the sky, constantly shipping people and goods between orbit and the ground. So despite the size of the city, getting to and fro wasn’t as much of a hassle as might be inferred by the city’s size, but commuting was still a considerable time sink. The extreme juxtaposition of hypermodernity and the old style architecture was both jarring and fascinating for people not used to Auroran architecture, but the same thing occurred on the major cities of all the Kingdom’s worlds, such as Amaranth, Cymru, Westernesse, and Kitezh.

The Pale Peacock technically lay on Guildernstern Street, the infamous party street that ran for nearly a kilometre along the western bank of Goneril, the establishments in the centre or out on the artificial garden islands in the river the most expensive and fashionable. And the Peacock had an island all of its own, complete with a private skycar landing tower. It had a bridge leading to it with large beds of flowers and bushes along the sides to serve as railings, and a large tiered system of smaller gardens under the main level which contained the club itself. Edward tried his hardest to not fidget as he waited outside the pristine white exterior of the club for the others to arrive, feeling as out of place as he had never felt before.

“Booh.”

As the word was just whispered into his ear he jumped and spun, eliciting ferocious giggling from Adea and Sandy, the latter of which was the source of the sound.

“Oh my, what reactions, Heatherland,” Sandy breathed between laughs, “you should take up fencing or some such with that level of agility.”

Straightening his shirt, Edward snorted in annoyance.

“Don’t be stupid, I can’t do anything that might damage my hands and fingers, I’m advised to stay away from even simple activities like table tennis and volleyball.”

Sandy’s laughter died down at that and she shrugged somewhat sheepishly.

“Ah well, it will be the fencing world’s loss when they’re deprived of such a magnificent talent such as yourself.”

Edward blew air out of his nostrils, this time in wry amusement.

“Oh yeah, I am sure.” He paused for a bit, trying to figure out how to phrase his next sentence correctly. Screw it, shoot from the hip.

“You look gorgeous,” he said, colour creeping into his cheeks and ears, “both of you.”

After meeting Valerio and getting invited along the day before, Edward had walked stunned over to a very annoyed Arvind Dahon who had been waiting a long time in the cafeteria for him, but who had turned more and more incredulous as Edward had relayed what had transpired. Edward had finished his story, and after picking his jaw up from the floor, Arvind had dragged Edward into the nearby Hopkins Supermall, where they had spent several hours looking for a fresh outfit. Edward had been forced to spend an uncomfortable amount of stipend money, but at least he looked the part. Or so he had thought when he had showed up and had been bedazzled by the dresses and outfits on display, each easily costing more than what he received in both stipend and loan money each semester.

He was wearing a tight white shirt with red and yellow flower patterns winding their ways up alongside the sides and shouldersof the shirt, ending on the collars. He also wore a pair of roughly lower shin-length black dress trousers and black monk-strap shoes. Arvind had done his best to make his hair look extra wavy, and had even lent him a gold chain bracelet that had belonged to the first Dahon to settle on Aurora, with an accompanying description of physical violence he would visit on Edward should he lose it.

Sandy wore a white v-neck, ruffled summer dress that reached her knees, with an accompanying white, laced cloth belt, and a black velvet choker with an emerald pendant. Her choice of shoes was black t-strap heels, and a small tan Valhallan oxen-leather bag with a cream cloth strap. Her strawberry blonde hair was tied into a tall ponytail with a jade studded clasp. Alexandra Barham wasn’t nobility, but her family were from the upper part of the gentry, the country esquires, and were in a way Royal Navy aristocracy given their tight association and long tradition of service. In other words, the Barhams weren’t short of a bob or two.

Adea, on the other hand, was simply dazzling. She had opted for a long-sleeve skater dress with asymmetrical shoulders, where the arms and upper band around her shoulders and breast was white, and the rest of the dress a deep pink. Over her legs were sheer white stockings, completed by black flats decorated with golden embroidery. Her velvety red hair was slightly curled and flowed across her one bare shoulder. Almost obscured was a small black pouch bag fixed to her dress at the small of her back by an almost invisible hook. Around her neck she wore a row of silver chains from which hung an assortment of pale grey and pale blue gemstones.

The two girls were visibly slightly taken aback, but Adea giggled again and spun around on the spot to show off her outfit, sending her skirt swirling.

“You’ve smartened up quite well yourself, Heatherland,” she said teasingly, and Edward felt the heat in his face increasing. He was thankful that the sun was already starting to set, hoping the orange light was hiding his embarrassment.

“Well, well,” a confident voice said, “if it isn’t the Amaranthine from yesterday. You’ve decided to join our little troupe for a few tall ones after all?”

Valerio Greco Sciacca (Edward had looked him up on the web, and knew he had fallen out with his father, and therefore only used his mother’s surname) was wearing a ruffled white short-sleeve shirt, tucked into black dress pants not dissimilar to Edward’s, but had golden embroidery around the top and hems, and heeled suede shoes that were still called Chelsea boots, a millennia after their inception. His golden yellow cravat and the ruffles covered up his chest, but the short sleeves gave a good window for his impressive biceps to make an appearance. God, I look like a prawn next to this Greek hero.

“Of course he came,” Sandy shot in, grabbing Edward by the upper arm, oh sweet heavens no, “he’s a well brought up and polite young man, who knows its bad manners to turn down an invitation. Especially when the invitation specified free drinks.”

“Well, we’re still waiting for Narissara and Georgiana,” Adea shot in, “but they’ll know where to find us. Shall we then?”

She held out her arm and Valerio took it in his, which sent a small spear of envy into Edward’s heart, but he could feel Sandy squeezing his arm. He looked down at the shorter woman, and she blinked up at him with an accompanying smile. With Adea and Valerio leading the way, the four of them made their way to the red carpet entrance. For some reason, Edward expected the liveried guards to stop him, say something about him clearly not belonging, but as they made their way up the stairs to the main entrance, they simply half-bowed courteously as Adea proclaimed, Lady Sélincourt and friends. And then they were inside.

The Pale Peacock, as the name suggested, was a totally white imitation Avant-Gothic five-story building with wings on the outside, but the inside was a collection of what Edward could only describe as several “biomes” of large rooms of differing architectural styles, some very nightclub-y, some more like a club’s version of a drawing lounge, all stretching up for four floors with walkways and hoverlifts crisscrossing. Drones carrying drink orders filled the air, swooping in between hoverlifts, other drones, and patrons. Edward was unsure if this was the loudest cocktail bar or the quietest nightclub he had ever visited, until he realised the individual rooms and floors were fitted with privacy shields, muffling the music and people talking inside them to the outside world. He felt like he had walked into a literal holodrama, and he had an eerie sensation of that he was going to wake up from his dream soon. Instead, he was dragged by Sandy up a flight of stairs and into a room with a number of upholstered couches and chaise lounges and small tables for drinks and snacks. Before he had time to completely get a grasp of his surroundings, he was veritably pushed into a couch next to Valerio, who smiled perhaps a bit too wide.

“What do you say, Heatherland?” Valerio asked in a tone that Edward couldn’t quite figure out, “how do you take it, and how much?”

He blinked a few times.

“Pardon, Sir?”

“Your drinks, man,” Valerio responded with a wide grin, “what do you want? I was thinking of starting with a ’33 Venediger, and perhaps a short arrack from New Jharkand. Does ’45 sound good to you, or should we go for a ’68? Bit more joven, I know, but I have it on good authority it was a good vintage.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I understood anything you just said,” Edward responded truthfully. Valerio was about to say something more, but instead yelped as Sandy’s sharp shoe dug into his shin from the opposite couch.

“Don’t be an arse, Valerio,” she chastised, “you know full well Edward isn’t used to this kind of establishment, nor this type of catalogue of drinks. Go easy on him, please.”

It seemed like Valerio was preparing a comeback, but instead he sighed and relaxed his shoulders just a bit.

“Alright, Edward,” he said while turning back to the very uncomfortable Amaranthine, “what is your choice of poison?”

Edward looked from Valerio, to Sandy, to Adea (who was trying hard to hold back laughter) and back to Valerio.

“Well, I’m partial to mild whiskeys, reds and rosés, if that is anything to go by…” This is going great, you’re truly showing you’re a man of the world.

Instead of saying something sarcastic or humiliate him further, Valerio instead clapped Edward on the shoulder.

“Heatherland, the Peacock sports almost every brand of alcohol in the known galaxy, just name a drink and they’ll surely have it. Remember, this place’s sole reason for existence is to cater to the need of the children of the nobility of the richest star nation in Human Space. Have some imagination, my friend.”

That last “my friend” rung quite hollow in Edward’s ears, but he wasn’t about to comment on it. A waitress in relatively poor taste facsimile of a maid’s uniform had materialised and Adea was busy listing her order.

“If that’s the case,” Edward tried again, “could I perhaps ask for a glass of Nemeian Hill Gold?”

Sandy and Adea suddenly looked at him with something approaching pity, while Valerio was struggling to hold back laughter.

“What?”

“Honey,” Sandy said in a tone that was unmistakably commiserative, “they don’t do single glasses of such a common whisky here, only full bottles.”

“Oh,” Edward said dead-pan. “Could I please have a 0.7 then?”

The waitress curtsied politely in confirmation and wrote it down in her old fashioned notebook. Edward suddenly felt a wave of uncharacteristic boldness swell up.

“Actually, could you make it a 0.7 of Persephone Aquamarine? And a bottle of spritzer?”

Valerio slapped him on the shoulder blade.

“Hell yeah, Heatherland,” he announced with a smile, “that’s more like it. Let’s get the night started!”

Edward, beaming, was about to ask the waitress for some snacks when he noticed Adea looking at him with her glacier eyes and their eyes met. If this is a dream, please don’t make me wake up soon.

The light reflected off the Dionysian crystals of the large chandelier hanging from the acacia wood ceiling, and shone a rainbow of colours into Artemisia’s eyes. She winced and turned halfway around in annoyance, the long hems of her tightfitting black-and-cream robe à la française whirling along the panelled floor as she did, and she once again internally cursed the impracticality of the nobility’s choice of fashion. That was not to say it was not pretty, even Artemisia was willing to admit that, but the sheer bother of getting in and out of the several layers, composed of corset, bodice, two sets of skirts, vest, lace ribbons, and of course the tight stockings and garter belt was out of this world. The end result of all the effort of putting on the whole ensemble was an absolutely lustrous ball gown, with fine white silk lace along the hems of the skirt and the plunging neckline, a black a-line skirt, a tight black bodice, complemented by flowery embroidery in alabaster and an inner skirt and a vest in pearl. Her father had mentioned something about the total cost of the getup, as well as the fees of the tailor, but Artemisia hadn’t been paying attention at the time. She had become inured and even quite blasé when it came to dresses and formal wear; her father kept throwing the latest in aristocratic haute couture at her with such frightful regularity that she had become complacent. Her near-white hair had been expertly combed by one of her many maids to lay cascade-like across the shoulders of her dress, with noticeable bangs over the top of her forehead, held in place by small clasps inlaid with pink crystals. The grand ball room was comfortably lit by chandeliers and natural candlelight hanging from the pillars, casting an orange hue on the dark blood-oak panelled floor and the golden-yellow walls. All around the large room were men and women dressed in pompous finery conversing in small huddles, nursing glasses of alcohol. On a podium, a solo grand piano and a string quartet was playing what sounded to Artemisia like Schumann.

“I say, Lady de Vere, you certainly do hold an exquisitely decorated apartment.”

Artemisia turned towards the man who had spoken, and performed a polite half-curtsy, lifting her skirts with one hand as she did.

“Many thanks, Your Grace, though it falls quite away short of your own humble abodes here in the capital city.”

She looked up from the floor and her pink-grey eyes met the indigo ones of Edmund St. Algernon de Lune, the Duke of Dawnshire. He was one of the most notable and influential voice of all the Tory politicians in the Lords, especially regarding foreign policy and defence. Considerably tall, blonde-haired, and immaculately dressed in a purple, cream and gold court uniform of similar cut and style as had been a la mode in the Edwardian period in old Great Britain, he was certainly noticeable. The fact that he wasn’t exactly welcome at court, despite being part of the extended royal family, made the wearing of the official court uniform slightly ironic. The monarchs of the Kingdom of Aurora were historically slightly left-leaning politically, seeing as their entire reason for existence was to be a counterbalance to the nobility, although the seeming contradiction of hereditary power and privilege that was imbued into a single person championing the masses was not lost on those interested in politics. Edmund de Lune was a black sheep, a second cousin to King Nicholas I, and was probably third or fourth in the entire Conservative party in terms of political clout; only outshone by the likes of Baroness Redgrove, Viscount New Kingston, and Artemisia’s father, Duke Trewellynshire. Dawnshire’s eldest daughter and heir, Amelia Euxina (one of Artemisia’s childhood clique) had opted to join the Royal Navy in direct opposition to her father, and had recently been promoted to lieutenant-commander and was awaiting re-assignment. This all ran through Artemisia’s head as she held her hand out to the duke.

The duke took her offered hand in his and lightly kissed it. Hadn’t Artemisia been presented at court and with at least a full Season under her belt (she was eighteen), that would have been an extreme faux pas. However, by the standards of nobility, she was now an adult, and when addressing a duke’s daughter during a social event, it was custom to kiss her hand. She strangled the immediate need to wipe the back of her hand against her skirt before continuing.

“I must admit though,” she continued after the brief interlude, “that I have not seen the inside of Hallowheart Hall since Lady Amelia left for her posting in Valerian.” She felt her heart jump a bit when she noticed the tiniest of squints in Dawnshire’s blue eyes.

“Ah yes,” he continued seemingly undeterred, “you must hop on over one day, the whole ball room, seating lounge, and dinner hall has been refurnished with authentic Earth oak furniture, and Amaranthine mahogany flooring. It is simply exquisite; I do hope you and your father can join us for dinner one of these days. I have a new chef who comes highly recommended by the Marchioness of Greenlake, and he certainly is worth his wages, I can tell you as much.”

Artemisia grabbed a long-stemmed glass of Cymran spumante rosé from the tray of a passing footman in red and gold livery, and took a polite sip. Anything to catch a brief respite from this bombastic asshole.

“I will certainly bring it to the attention of my father, but we may be detained this coming week. A certain gentleman from the Alliance embassy is expected to dinner here at Verius House, and father is very excited to see him.”

“Indeed I am.”

Michael de Vere, the Duke of Trewellynshire, was old, old even by 29th century standards. He was closing in on his two-hundredth and thirty-fifth birthday, and while in his youth he had been an athletic and handsome man, Father Time had not been kind to him, his once copper hair now completely white, very much like his daughter’s, and his body slightly stooped over, something his exquisite and quite expensive navy blue suit with large lapels and long coattails couldn’t hide. But he had lost none of his fire and drive, and his speeches in the Lords were the stuff of legends. Due to the average life expectancy, he was only the ninth duke of Trewellynshire on Angevin, despite the title being awarded the family in 2493, almost four-hundred years prior. However, the fact that Michael de Vere had been a widower for nearly forty years did raise some very awkward questions about Artemisia, questions she had been forced to live with her whole life. She had had siblings, but they had all died long before she had been born; one son had died in a skycar accident, another had hanged himself after years of severe depression. Michael de Vere had gone off on a long “business trip” twenty years ago, and upon his return almost two years later, he had brought a fair-haired infant with him. Artemisia knew why they all whispered behind her back, but after nearly two decades of it, the murmurs was only unimportant background noise.

“I say, Dawnshire,” Michael de Vere continued, “it certainly has been some time since your last appearance in the Lords. We have missed your insight and cutting tongue, and it shames me to say Lord Howeland and Lady Darkmoor have been leading us somewhat in circles.”

“Not to worry,” Dawnshire replied, snapping his fingers for a new glass of Summer Isle cognac, famously the most expensive hand-wrought alcohol in the Kingdom, “I’ll be making my return by the end of the month. God knows you need me, especially now that Koyanagi has been replaced by the belligerent hot-head Donegal and his partners-in-crime.”

“Quite right, Your Grace,” a third voice cut in. It belonged to the fiercely moustachioed and bald Earl of New Odessa, dressed in a light grey suit much like Duke Dawnshire’s in cut. Now, Artemisia didn’t really mind New Odessa, as long as the man didn’t talk about foreign policy. The Conservative Party was more a common association than a coherent political platform, and the hardliners were often almost as opposed to the proposed policies of their own party’s so-called moderates as to the opposition. Nicknamed the “Whigs”, the more central-leaning Tories (whom Artemisia had the most sympathy for, since she was only a Tory by association) were fiscally conservative, but had a more centralist view of foreign policy, especially regarding defence and the all-important Royal Navy. But somehow, the Earl of New Odessa had gotten his wires crossed, and had instead become centrist-leaning fiscally and socially, but very isolationist when it came to foreign policy.

“Donegal and his ilk,” New Odessa continued, his walrus-esque moustache bobbing up and down as he talked animatedly, “are a threat to the continued peace and prosperity of our Kingdom. There surely is nothing more detrimental to our security than blindly following the path of naval armament and escalating this frightful frequency of warship construction that now exists between Aurora and Elysium?”

“My Lord, aren’t you being a bit insular in your argumentation?” It took a while for Artemisia to recognise the icy voice as her own, but by now she was in too deep, and she continued while clutching her wine glass tightly.

“Surely a man of your intelligence must see the discrepancy between the orbital industrial capabilities of the Independent Systems Alliance compared to the Kingdom’s? Forgive me for saying, but is it not naïve to believe that if the Royal Navy cuts back its expansion, the Alliance Space Navy will do the same?”

As she sipped from her rosé, Artemisia could in the corner of her vision see her father slightly scrunch up his face in annoyance, but she remained unperturbed. New Odessa cleared his throat, but it was the Duke of Dawnshire who picked up the baton.

“My Lady,” he said in a sweet tone that made the hairs of the back of her neck stand up, “I am sure that you are excelling in the subjects of your chosen major at the QMMU, uh, which was again?”

Oh, you pretentious ass.

“History, Your Grace, Post-Exodus History more specifically, though with a smattering of Classics as well, such as Ancient Rhetoric and Ancient Literature.”

“Well then, Lady Artemisia,” Dawnshire continued as he received the glass of cognac he had asked for by a quickly retreating footman, “you must be quite aware of the Peloponnesian War?”

Where was he going with this?

“Of course, Your Grace,” she replied with as much courtesy she could muster. She could veritably feel her father staring daggers into her, but she continued unperturbed.

“The Peloponnesian War, as far as we know through mainly the works of Thucydides, is that it was an internecine conflict between the city-states of Athens and Sparta, and their respective allies, that lasted for the better part of thirty years with neither side able to claim a convincing victory, and which ultimately led sixty years later to Greece’s conquest by Macedon…”

Aw shit, I’ve just walked right into it, haven’t I?

“Quite right, My Lady,” Dawnshire veritably gleamed, “your daughter surely knows her history well, Your Grace.”

Trewellynshire graced him with a polite nod, but still spared a moment to shoot his only surviving offspring a baleful look.

“Yes, it is as you say, Lady Artemisia,” Dawnshire continued, and by now more people had started to throng around the conversation, and the musicians had switched to one of Mozart’s divertimentos.

“The Peloponnesian War is indeed a suitable analogy of the current interstellar political situation. On the one hand, very roughly I might add, you have the Royal Union playing the part of the League of Delos, with Athens as its centre. That would be the most apt equivalent of the Kingdom of Aurora. Economically and culturally the hegemon of the entirety of the civilised world; our navy is also the largest and most capable. To paraphrase an antiquated phrase coined a thousand years ago, the sun cannot set upon our empire. On the other hand, you have the belligerent yet still completely trustworthy and honourable equivalents of Sparta, and their own Peloponnesian League, who might have somewhat differing political practices than our own, are still a force to be reckoned with…”

“You forget which of the two was the oligarchy and which was the monarchy,” Artemisia hissed under her breath, but no one seemed to take notice.

“And as Lady Artemisia here can confirm,” Dawnshire continued, “both great powers came to an end because they actively sought conflict with each other. Such has been the fate of all nations locked in martial competition. Consider then Great Britain and Imperial Germany nine-hundred years ago, who both sought to establish the greatest sea-faring navy, and partially through that desire ended up in direct conflict, a conflict which snuffed out the lives of millions of young men and women. Have not we as a collective species come along further than that since 1918 CE? I would like to trust my fellow human and that ‘indeed, yes we have’. And therefore, for solely moral reasons, I implore every good citizen of the Kingdom to abstain from seeking violence with our neighbours, whomever they may be.”

Polite applause followed that impromptu speech by Dawnshire, and a muted chorus of “hear, hear” by some. Artemisia didn’t exactly know what happened, but suddenly a few of the lords and ladies closest to her were subduing shouts of surprise and mumbling among themselves. Then she realised she had snapped the stem and indeed the glass of her rosé, and was bleeding from her palm and fingertips, the sticky wine mixing with the crimson of her blood.

“Excuse me, Your Grace,” she said while doing the same half-curtsy with her good hand again, “I appear to have had an accident. Please pardon me as I make my retreat to have this repaired.”

She didn’t wait for a response from Dawnshire, but she could veritably feel the glances she received as she walked briskly towards the nearest exit from the ball room, as tears of anger and frustration ran rampant down her cheek, fucking up her makeup. You cretins call me a monster, but the only monsters are the ones you see in the mirror each day.

Edward was having a hell of a time, making moves he never thought he had to the beats of intense vocal hardstyle neü-wave trance tunes. He was also very drunk and quite aware of the fact. The few unaffected brain cells left in his head was screaming for him to cool it and just take a seat and drink a huge sip of water, but drunken Edward didn’t listen because he was dancing alongside Adea and Narissara. Narissara Roxburgh was a tall and spindly woman, with long dyed white hair, who somehow managed to get into the Peacock wearing a similar version of Sandy’s dress, only more skimpy and with more pale gemstones decorating the hem of the dress. Well, somehow wasn’t really correct, she was the daughter of a major Marquess, but Edward didn’t complain, the white dress suited her dark olive complexion very well. It also helped that these last few dances they had been very close to each other. Had he been more sober, he might have noticed the glances he was getting from Adea and Sandy, but instead he was paying more attention to the signals he was receiving from his new best friend Valerio Greco. Said tall dark handsome youth was dancing away with Georgiana Percy-Assiotis, who was wearing a dark orange maxi-dress adorned along the shoulders with faux-rubies, but also wore a black-velvet choker with a huge actual diamond as its centre piece. He felt another pang of confirmation as Valerio flashed him another white-toothed grin and a thumbs-up. Yeah, Edward’s inhibitions had given away after the fifth or sixth drink of soda-whisky, and now he was on a real bender, completely unaware how much he had drunk.

The trance beat died down and Edward slumped breathless down on the couch and reached for his whisky glass and downed what was left in it. Wait, was that his glass or Valerio’s? Ah, didn’t matter, they were best friends now after all. Narissara slumped down right next to Edward and immediately cozied up with a stein of beer in one hand.

“Those were some fucking moves, Edward,” she purred and Edward realised he had slipped a hand across her shoulders.

“Just don’t get used to it,” he heard himself say, somewhat distantly, “this doesn’t happen under normal circumstances. Most of the time I just play the piano and not much else.”

“Alright,” Valerio said somewhat out of breath, “who’re ready for next round?”

“Valerioh,” Sandy piped up, spread out as she was on a chaise longue, “don’t yah thing we’ve had enough? I mean it’ss…” She managed to fish her handcom out of her bag, but had troubles activating it to check the time, and after fumbling around, Adea took the device from her and thumbed it to life.

“02.13, which is pretthy fuckingh late,” she said, also slurring, which seemed inordinately funny to Edward. He managed to check his laughter when he realised he only had to return home to a roomie in the form of Arvind Dahon, wait was the bracelet still… oh thank the Gods, and not one of the most notable aristocrats in the whole kingdom.

“Alright,” Valerio managed to stand up in one fluid motion, something Edward was pretty sure he was unable to at this stage. “I’m sorry to tell you, Lady Sélincouth,” he slurred, “but the bill must be paid, and you so oh-gallantly volunteered –nay– demanded to pay for it all.”

“Why of chourse,” Adea slurred back, trying her best to sit back up in the couch, pretending to be more sober than she was. The whole evening had been a good old naval battle, the amounts of bottles of extremely expensive alcohol consumed had at first baffled Edward, but at this stage, he was more amazed that he was barely cognizant than anything else.

“Drone!” Adea snapped, “fetch me my bill.” A small audio pick-up drone the size of a palm was always hovering in every room in the Peacock, but at the sound of Adea asking to pay, a larger drone, with a credit counter machine inlaid, materialised almost quicker than sound.

“If My Lady would like to place her finger on the faceplate?” the uncanny machine-voice sang out, and Adea did exactly that, with a few fumbles managing to place an index finger on the screen of the drone.

“Thank you, Lady Sélincourt,” the drone said without any hint of contracting such a complex name, pronouncing it in a perfect French accent: “I hope you and your company have enjoyed your stay, and would you perhaps like a skycar back to your residences?”

“Yesh, thank you, that wouldh be very musch appreciated,” Sandy finished for Adea, and the drone flew off immediately.

“So, dancer boy,” Narissara veritably hummed into Edward’s ear, “you coming back home with me, or not?”

Edward experienced in that moment a very real sense of being pulled into two veritable paths of destiny. Despite his drunken haze, he could almost envision a scenario where he went with Narissara, and they had a good thing going for a few years before eventually losing each other. The other path offered pain, extreme pain which he could almost feel on top of his chest, and he almost breathlessly gagged, but he managed to control it; it might be more painful, but…

“I’m shorry,” he slurred, “I would like to do d’this again, but I’m not usually that type of man. I scincerely hope you don’t take that poorly. You’re a wonderful girl, and…”

Next thing he knew he awoke fully clothed in bed, and with the mother of all headaches.