a frost-kissed envelope, covered in glittering black script. the sort of invitation that cannot be denied⸻the type that vanishes once it's been read, melts into sourcewater in the hands of its subject. even her most willful follower would not deny such direct summons, so why tarnish paper where snow will suffice? they are slid under doors, brought to windows by the winter wind, all with the same message; beneath the moon, in zapolyarny's ballroom. a sendoff for the fair lady.
tonight, all will attend. their space is haunted by northern lights and chandeliers, where crystalline aspects sit in replacement of torches. cryogenic fog spills across the floor and into the air, obscuring vision. her own eyes peer from between thorns, black mask and crown both atop a frigid visage.
below, on a floor polished to mirror-shine, dance fatui of all ranks; dressed well, as best as they can, parading the image of wealth and splendor. in this aspect, her harbingers blend quite well. where they differ is attitude⸻subordinates, foot soldiers, and frivolous members of the court enjoy a rare night of freedom and indulgence. once you bear the tsaritsa's mark, however, you become bound to responsibility, and even a lavish ball comes with duty.
it is not the mask that brings dottore to her attention. his is both a veil, and the only thing that reveals the mind now clad in attire more fitting for a prince. no, his shuttered visage does not rat him out among the edgerunners. instead, it is the way he carries himself⸻above it all, distinctly aware, and yet, frigidly uncomfortable. the sight is enough to bring the dredge of a smile to her lips, picking out his discrete silhouette. it's ... amusing.
she deliberates. of all the events she has ever held, this one sits on the cusp of something crucial. a century of crafting stratagem, slowly encroaching on the feet of the heavenly principles; a ball, to bid farewell to a harbinger who will return with a gnosis clutched in their hand, or as a cooling body. this will do, as one last unfettered moment of entertainment. the tsaritsa rises from her seat, and takes tender steps down stairs that lead into the throes of warmth and movement.
the sea of bodies parts for her. humans tilt and fold like off-kilter dolls, and silence themselves as she passes. even the music quiets, though it starts anew once it realises she has no intentions of address. instead, her gaze pinpoints on one; a man who, surely, has realised his fate the moment she stood.
a thin, cold hand, gloved by lace, is extended. if there are soft giggles, appreciative looks thrown by his admirers for drawing him from the verges, they are ignored. il dottore is drawn into the embrace of winter.
the world draws closed as the music flourishes. some movements are rigid, but she is at ease. after all, it is of no matter whether she sits above or waltzes below; there will be attention on her regardless. this action is to share it.
“ you are capable enough, doctor. ” evidence: as the song swells, so does each motion, and they reach the centre of the floor, where aurora glints against polished reflections. here, there is a faint glint in her eye. if all that mattered was their dance, then yes⸻the director, or regrator, or marionette, perhaps. but an archon's intentions are never so simple.
“ you did not speak at the last ball, ” she says, his words brushed aside in favour of her own. there is no need to linger on a conversation that does not serve her, lips curling slightly. surely, he knows her intentions? perhaps he even suspected the moment her pale eyes laid across his mask. “ nor the one before that. have you no words of encouragement for your fellows, lest they fail? ”
