fantasy/YA imagines

Ballroom Scene

"Dria, darling, could you pass me the powder?"

Alexandria smiled and obliged, reaching across the mess of her vanity and handing the palette of powder to the girl opposite her. She then went back to applying blush to her already-flushed face, tuning out Persephone's excited chatter.

"I can't believe the ball has arrived so quickly! It feels as if it was just yesterday that we were being sized for our gowns. Don't you agree, Dria?"

Alexandria winced slightly at the nickname. Ever since adopting the identity of Lady Alexandria of Winchester, she had struggled with her true persona fading, and Alexandria taking its place. She shook off the discomfort before Persephone could notice.

"Yes, of course, my lady."

"Oh, please, enough with the formalities," Persephone scoffed. "Within these quarters, I am not a princess. It's tiring enough to have to be someone I'm not with the entire kingdom watching. I've told you enough times, please call me Perry."

Alexandria nodded, a small smile playing at the edge of her mouth. Persephone was undoubtedly the oddest princess she'd ever encountered.

"Alright." Persephone stood up suddenly, her blonde curls bouncing along the nape of her neck. "You ready?"

Alexandria stood up more cautiously, more gracefully, and peered in the mirror. Her hair was piled up into a fashionable twist, with small green jewels embedded throughout. Her emerald ball gown was almost the exact same shade as her eyes: rather, they were the same shade as her colored contacts. She couldn't risk being discovered so late into the con, not to mention how striking they made her look.

"Ready as I'll ever be," she replied.

"Don't be so dramatic," Persephone snorted. With that, she scurried out of her quarters, her magenta skirt flying out behind her.

Alexandria looked back at the mirror a final time, and instinctively touched her thigh, feeling the dagger strapped in place. The comfort of the weapon was enough to bring her nerves from a boil to a simmer. Alexandria looked deep into the mirror, searching for the girl she once was, but could no longer be. She reminded herself of her given name: Zia.

She sighed and smoothed her gown, not wanting to leave the safety of the princess's quarters. She could have remained there forever, if it weren't for Persephone rushing in, and dragging her out of the room and down the candle-lit corridor.

---

Félix leaned against the wall of the ballroom and tugged at his collar, watching the sea of aristocrats as they laughed and danced and drank. He tried to occupy himself by guessing their names. The posh old woman covered from head to toe in gold would probably be Old Lady Rosalind Cunningham of Unnecessary Wealth, and the young man on her arm (her grandson, he hoped) would be Sir Bartholomew Bainbridge of Privileged Upbringings. Félix chuckled despite himself, and continued to scan the crowd for any familiar faces. Unfortunately, he found one. Percival Wade, one of the Royal Guardsmen and Félix's least favorite companion, was sloppily sauntering in his direction. 

"Félix, my good man! I never expected The Fox to make an appearance at an event as extravagant as this. How have you been, comrade? It's been far too long since we last crossed paths." Percival was talking loud enough for the neighboring kingdom to hear, and taking swigs out of his goblet every now and then. Félix noticed that he was still dressed in the silver-and-magenta garb of the Guardsmen, confirming his suspicions that Percival was drinking on the job. Again.

"Good to see you too, Percival," Félix muttered. "And I'm not here to enjoy myself. I'm on the clock, so if you don't mind..." Félix hoped Percival would take the hint and leave him to sulk in peace.