𝕳𝖊'𝖘 𝕷𝖎𝖐𝖊 𝕬 𝕳𝖞𝖆𝖈𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖍

{ Proverbs 27:4 }

Chapter 24's song: Last Things First By Balthasar Thorgrimson

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{ "Wrath is cruel and anger is a flood, but who can withstand jealousy?" }
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Two people chase one another down a long intricate corridor. Doors aside the right side of them and enormous windows line the opposite side. The sun is absent in the opaque, navy sky with the speck of white dust that has millions of raindrops escorting it. The friend to the sun is out observing the world, casting its glowing white light between the window panels.

Pitter-patter sounds to accompany the strangely silent hallway as the waves of laughter to the two beings dance along to the quietude. Mocking it for their theatrical release to life flowing within the people.

One of the people is a woman. She's wearing a crème white crinoline dress, intricate sky blue leaves scattered around her burgundy red rose pattern sown into it. The gown has a shorter layer on top and a longer one on the bottom. The edges of these layers were rounded and white laces down on the short sleeves. Her hair is pulled up into a bun, and a few strands escape the restricting pins.

Her hands are firmly gripping her crème skirt, moving up slightly off the ground to chase the delinquent who initiated the thrill. The soft clicks to her boots are perceived louder than the other's black dress shoes. "Dépêche toi (Hurry), renard." The person ahead exclaims abruptly recognizing the gentle melody of a piano being played in the gigantic red mahogany doors.

"It would be easier if I didn't have a dress on!" She complains, automatically generating a swift head turn to the man ahead. "I surmise my little sœur (sister) can effortlessly beat you." He jokes around to priorly yield his actions to the door. Eventually, the teenager follows his movements to entirely be right next to him as the two men on the side push the entrance. "Your little sister? When did you receive a sibling?" She fervidly questions.

"Oh, merely six years ago." The older gentleman: Émeric promptly sets his tanned slender hand on the left side of Y/n's waist, resulting in his body being positioned close enough to brush against one another's hips, shoulders, and clothing. A feeble gasp slips out the teenager's lips, laughter commences to embrace her astonished expression.

They commence walking into the huge room, people swaying along, some being welcomed by Émeric's parents, people depleting their expensive wine being impetuous enough to spew gossip amongst the aristocrats. Then there are guests ogling at the arm candy the young Émeric has on him. They whisper at the unexpected woman appearing on him the next day of a meetup. "Just smile, Y/n. This isn't your first time at a ball party." His voice is escorted by his aggravating yet reassuring laughter weaved in his sentence.

She pivots her head a tad. "Well, having your hand on my waist quivered me." She murmurs, Émeric's hand suddenly slips away from off of her, and the emptiness on her left waist leaves her wanting his palm back on her for some peculiar reason. "Je m'excuse (I'm sorry.) My parents are being onerous, right now." He confesses, his body's currently a few feet away from her. Y/n's eyes become soft of the past predicament still being as irrelevant to this day.

"Still can't find a perfect lady?" She blurts out, her head tilts to the side seeming as if she's exhibiting pity towards the young duke. He solely rolls his eyes at this response, his conscious mind muting out this conversation since he hears it every day. "Also why is there another party the next day?" She inquires, her right eyebrow arching upwards to the stupor complexing her inner mind's work.