seeking truth

“Is that all you think about here?”

An odd question, one that probably made more sense if he had the means of understanding it from the realm outside of the sim. Instead, he sighed, feeling the weight of the court falling onto his shoulders. Claude didn’t know anything outside of these boundaries, outside of the world that dawned itself in laces and expensive jewels. The court was his life, his wits knotted together as they played him as a puppet. Perhaps he was used to this treatment ; perhaps he hadn’t known anything better. Either way, her perspective was interesting.

“You sound offended,” he noted, glancing at her. “But I don’t really understand why. Those who have been part of the court know this is normal, this is their livelihood. If you don’t show up and entertain, you’re forgotten and easily replaced.” Just like his father.

Minerva.

A new name within the ancient court. No wonder he was intrigued, her face unfamiliar amongst the crowd of old riches. He couldn’t quite figure out why he was drawn to the unusual, to a stranger which he had no prior connection. Fate worked in mysterious ways, and perhaps he needed the distraction tonight. Minerva might’ve not been part of the overarching court, but she certainly proved to be unique compared to his other companions.

She didn’t know him ; she didn’t know the games he played.

It felt like a blank canvas, his facades stripping away from the honest encounter. What could a surgeon possibly expect from him? From someone who played with the court, engaging them in trivial manners and humor. Claude knew his place in the grand scheme of things ; he knew of his own insignificance. These were the damned cards life had handed to him, the cards the predicted his past, present and future.

“Why are you ‘drunk’ and not dancing with some lady wearing her own weight in silk?”

His fingers let go of her hand, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Because she’s either married or looking for the perfect engagement.” Neither of which interested him.

“The court is more complicated than you might think ; not everyone gets to choose their place. Not everyone can escape their title.”

“What brings you here?” why hasn’t she ran away?

She supposed she couldn’t hold not knowing what she meant against him. Entertaining others had just about never mattered in her life. “Those who haven’t been part of this court don’t have the time, energy, or resources to worry about the height of their hair. We may not look regal, but if we aren’t starving, then it evens out.” There was not a hint of derision in her voice this time. If he was going to speak to her so sincerely, a pleasant surprise in the court, then she would return the favor.

“I genuinely don’t own anything nicer than this,” she added, gesturing to her dress with the hand he was not still holding. Funny, that. If his hands hadn’t been so warm, she might have forgotten the contact entirely.  “And I bought this just so I could do my work here without being completely out of place - which clearly, I admit, it was not adequate for.” She tossed him a half-smile that said so laugh, because even I know it’s a little bit funny. He didn’t need the lecture about the number of meals she could have gotten with that money. Yet, anyway.

Minerva bit back the diatribe she had ready for his note about titles and choices, too. No one gets to choose where or with what they are born, but some get to choose what they do with what they have. But what would be the point? She didn’t know this man, his status, or his struggles. Perhaps he was a seventh son, destined to get nothing. Maybe he didn’t really care to do much of anything regardless of what he had.

Or maybe he was just a stranger, and she shouldn’t waste time on what she could convince him to do to further her own ideal world, because it was really none of her business.

She watched his expressions change, trying to decipher who he was now that all pretense had been dropped. There was a quick wit hiding under there. He wasn’t afraid to volley his quips right back, or to point out her own myopic understanding of the scene around him. It made him all the more intriguing, though she retained her skepticism. A well-meaning rich man insulated from the outside world’s troubles was still a rich man, after all.

“No perfect engagement for you, then?” She didn’t even attempt to hide the sardonic edge her words took on. She did not want him to think she was flirting just because she was genuinely curious. If he wasn’t worried about securing a wife or an heir or whatever it was marriage was good for here, then what did he spend his time doing? “Have a bumped into Casanova on his smoke break?”

As for his question, though, she could at least continue the honesty. “It’s not an entertaining reason, unfortunately. I was here looking after a patient, and then... I decided to stick around. Observe a little.” She shrugged. “I did notice what you mean about the search for the perfect engagement. I hate to be the one to tell you, but dating out there is barely different from courtship here.” Tossing him an amused look, she added, “There are fewer choreographed dances, though.”

It was a… pitiful attempt at a curtsey, which idly—generously—Elodie supposed wasn’t exactly the other woman’s fault. She didn’t know a tremendous amount about life outside of the simulation seeing as she’d been raised here and taught that this was the only world she needed—and she’d taken that a step further by ensuring this world was exactly what she wanted it to be—but she knew the world outside the simulation wasn’t like this. It didn’t answer to the same rules and she was sure if they switched situations, if Elodie were the one trying to find her way Minerva’s world, she’d fail profoundly.

It made the attempt no less ineffective, only that awareness coupled with her position ensured she didn’t laugh. However, her entourage didn’t have the same reservations, nor the same position to mind; Elodie smiled slightly and the other ladies laughed, one whispering none too quietly, a child could do better.

Elodie ignored the comment altogether, as Minerva greeted her and then to her misfortune forgot to mind her tongue. There was admiration, of a kind, in the way Minerva managed a small smile and an insult to match her own, but she didn’t much like it. Lips pursed slightly, though she wasn’t quite sure what she wanted to say before the same lady spoke once more, loudly murmuring, how dare she! she ought to be disillusioned.

In a gesture that appeared to be entirely testament to the way she could flip moods and favorites like it was nothing ( it was nothing, but that wasn’t what was happening here ), she ignored Minerva for a moment, and turned her gaze on the woman who’d spoken. “Marie Louise, you speak out of turn. Perhaps you should go elsewhere and think on your conduct.”

The other woman simply stared at her for a moment, as if expecting her to laugh and say she was joking, because this was hardly anything to be punished for, but when Elodie simply stared back and then raised brows lightly, the woman nodded once, dropped her gaze, murmured an acknowledgement as well as an apology, and then she executed a low, perfect curtsey.

Afterward, she started to walk off, only she paused in front of Minerva for a moment and before anyone could say anything, she reached out and grabbed both sleeves of the dress she was wearing and pulled down hard, and then did the same to the neckline of the dress, rendering it embarrassingly unwearable.

“Louisa!” Elodie chided, but there was a laugh threaded into the nickname making it clear that even as this was not precisely to Elodie’s specifications, it certainly was to her pleasure, and the other woman threw her a mischievous smile before following the initial dismissal to end, walking off, without Elodie punishing her further.

Elodie should have apologized for the other woman’s conduct, considering as Queen the conduct of her ladies was her responsibility. She knew this. She didn’t bother, both because she thought the ruination was funny but also because she didn’t think the surgeon would take it; life outside the simulation was different and she doubted her apology would be sufficient. People from the outside tended to like their apologies from the offending party directly no matter the circumstance.

Instead, her eyes flicked over Minerva, newly ruined to some degree, as a small smirk slid into place, before she answered the question that had been standing for long moments. “Well, I’d say mine now.” A pause followed, before she added, “I can help you with that if you like. I hate to say it, but you do so need it.”

It was downright fascinating to watch the Queen in her element. Not that Minerva had seen much of her in any other context, but still. It was more than just the pristine clothes and the carefully cultivated atmosphere that built the simulation - and more beyond the sim, too. It was each practiced curve of her lips, every specific point in the room she looked to that altered her expression. The intention behind each syllable as she chided her companion. They were developing an accent all their own, the denizens of the sim, alongside their culture.

She knew exactly how to command respect with just a hint of intimidation, too. The look she shared with Marie Louise was practically electric. Minerva watched, her curiosity only just contained. They flocked to her like hopeful dogs - probably more hopeful than the actual hunting dogs the royal family insisted on breeding - fluttering their fans to hide every frantic current of emotion that crossed their faces. The Queen could make or break their social standings with merely a gesture. That was hardly nothing. It also meant every allowance they got to be outspoken, they leaped at, just in case it put them further in her favor. Minerva didn’t much care that she had been insulted; that was to be expected from these rich types. Their understanding of what it took to be polite was wildly different from hers.

What it took to be rude, not so much. Minerva was not prepared in the slightest for the fingers that gripped her sleeves, nor for having much more skin exposed in an instant. Her mouth dropped open in a silent cry of distress. The sleeves were a small problem to her, as bare shoulders out in the real world hardly mattered, but she was not flush or frivolous enough to own a corset. Unfortunate, because a corset would have at least covered her chest even after her dress was torn. 

The real affront was that this dress had cost her something, even if it was a tiny fraction of what the real thing was worth, and now it was - well, not worthless, but the time it would take her to sew it back together...

As it was she found herself holding the front of her dress together, too stunned to even glare at the retreating silk-and-ostrich-feather tornado. Whether or not she cared about showing a little skin, the court certainly would not accept it. She couldn’t very well wear her lap coat over it, though she had half a mind to do so.

The Queen’s offer, however blatantly two-faced, was nearly as much a surprise. Minerva looked to her, eyes darting over her warily. Accepting aid from someone who would without a doubt hold that debt, however small, over her left her stomach squirming. The alarm bells were a cacophony in her head. But, she wanted to continue her observation of the court, and she doubted she would be given an expensive set of silks to keep.

Some oft-ignored part of her wanted to see what it was like to dress like someone on the other side, too.

So despite the gut feeling telling her to run from the wig pretending to be a woman, she dipped her chin in appreciation. “I imagine no one else would be better suited to tell me what I need in this moment,” she said. God, but she hated how cowed she sounded.

Once upon a time there was a child, nothing more than a little slip of a thing, who’d known to smile sweetly, sit quietly and act the part given to her, one without lines and an awful lot of one-dimensional characterization: the pretty little fool, the darling daughter.

Only that child had grown up and developed teeth and claws and desires, and had learned how to camouflage all three behind the part given out of sheer necessity; the silly young woman pretty enough to catch a king and from a good enough family to marry him wasn’t supposed to want because wanting for anything other than children and happiness or other such concepts was dangerous.

Wanting led to learning and learning led to quiet nights in a place she certainly ought not be and mornings that greeted Versailles’s court with change. She’d been careful to do it slowly, to make her alterations in the places where no one looked first and to make the bigger ones stepwise. After all, there was such art to being the pretty thing about which a court spun, to being the power behind the throne, to crafting a simulacra of the man she’d been married to and made to please until it was so realistic she could use it to replace the very thing she had been programming an imitation of.

She had practiced by gradually replicating her husband and then she had replaced him and she wasn’t the least bit sorry.

Elodie was Versailles, and though there were those within the court that could be called clever she was certain none of them knew the truth so wholly, knew that their King was nothing more than lines of code crafted to mimic a man altered slightly to her pleasure. After all, she played innocent well, had the role crafted to perfection; even in the places and spaces where she let the facade fall, where she called people to her for an audience and commanded, she always framed it as under his authority and sometimes went so far as to offer a falsely sympathetic smile or a platitude.

At worst, she figured, let them suspect; she was fairly certain they all knew better than to accuse or try and do something about it even if they were reasonable sure in their knowledge. After all, everything she’d done was testament to a clever mind and a dangerous skill set; there probably wasn’t a worse enemy to have than the woman who controlled an entire universe and could pretend she wanted nothing more than company with a ready laugh and a court that looked pretty.

Perhaps that was why the evening suited her so well. She liked nights like this, nights made of beautiful things and little bits of decadence, nights where she found her amusement and was made to laugh and could forget, for a little while, that she wanted so much and didn’t quite know how to satisfy it anymore. She hadn’t known that the cost of getting what she wanted was only learning to want more and forgetting how to be satisfied with what she had.

Or rather, the night suited her well, but for one marring individual in the crowd; Elodie didn’t know the surgeon well, hadn’t bothered to make acquaintance of a figure meant to be transient in her court, but Elodie had marked Minerva after she’d tried to gain an audience with her marionette husband. That sort of thing could be dangerous.

She hadn’t known the surgeon was meant to be here tonight, but she wasn’t exactly surprised the other had decided to join the festivities. She wouldn’t even have minded if the other woman had bothered to obey the dress code. It was one thing to flout it during transient visits; Elodie didn’t like it, but she was willing to ignore it for the greater good. It was quite another to intrude on her party, and ruin the pleasing visual spectacle.

Her irritation at the other’s appearance didn’t go unnoticed and fruitlessly, the company she’d opted to keep tonight had poked fun, attempting to make her laugh about it by conversation of bets and suppositions, hoping the mean-spirited amusement would satisfy her and let her forget, but they’d only managed to incite a sort of cruelty, a desire to see the principle of conformity obeyed.

When she alighted from her perch, her favorite of tonight’s company followed ( what was a Queen without company? ) and in short order, despite her dress and its volume, she found herself standing near Minerva.

“We’ve been taking bets,” she said, tone light specifically to hide the iron and displeasure that lurked right underneath, though it had the side effect of making her sound that much less sincere. “What, exactly, are you wearing?”

A flock of petticoats and panniers descended around her before Minerva could so much as blink. She had her wits enough to look unruffled, to curtsy as low as physically possible (and as her unprepared ankles would allow). It likely looked exactly as ridiculous as it felt, but that was what they did in the sim, and she was loathe to draw attention to herself any more than her obvious fish-out-of-water status already did. When Her Royal Majesty the Queen approached, one bowed, head dipping low as if to say I am not even worthy to look upon the eighteen full meals you wear on your body in pearls alone and I know it. The whole Versailles charade was so laughable that Minerva had stopped finding reason to laugh at it years ago.

Impossible to ignore, she watched the queen as demurely as she could manage, gauging the politics and etiquette of the situation as best she could. Nobody taught commoners like her the rules of the court unless they went looking. After her attempt to meet with the king had been brushed off, however, Minerva had done her research. She knew to curtsy, knew to wait to be addressed, knew to find a pair of acceptable gloves to go with a silk skirt and petticoat that cost only a tiny fraction of what the real thing must, and still took a sizable chunk out of her budget nonetheless. 

“Your Majesty,” she said in greeting, much of her willpower devoted to not spitting the words at her the way she would on her own streets. She didn’t greet the rustling crowd of ladies around them because, well, she didn’t even know where to begin with that. They were all trust fund daughters, children of tycoons and dictators and whoever else had the fortune and arrogance to move into a palatial city like this one.

Her lack of manners wouldn’t be stopped there, apparently. All her life, Minerva had a bad habit of saying exactly what was on her mind. A flame had lit in the pit of her stomach long, long, long ago, brought high in the breeze of the lace fans each lady at this nonsensical ball fluttered by their throats. She’d learned to watch her tongue as she grew, but sometimes watching her tongue only turned it from razor to silver without fully blunting its edges.

A small smile graced her lips. “This? Forgive me, but I’m not sure why you’re asking. You’re wearing essentially the same thing.” And at the most basic level, there was no denying that; both women were indeed wearing dresses. Comparing her own slapdash attempt to look decent enough to linger at the palace with the grand concoction of lace and whalebone that Elodie wore was almost certainly a major insult - but said in the same simpering tone the queen had used, who could accuse her of anything but ignorance?

Let her think that, if that’s her conclusion. If Minerva’s suspicions were correct, Elodie wouldn’t dismiss her so easily. Would that be better? Better the queen be the potentially world-threatening destruction than her husband? Did that one degree of separation from such extensive power matter?

Probably not.

Ah, shit. The only one who really saw through the elaborate act had been Elodie ( which was a rather irritating truth ). The court was something he knew how to spin, how to play with all its little pieces so they didn’t cast him out. This was his livelihood after all … even if it felt empty at times. Most of his life, wigs and extravagant clothes meant nothing. It was all routine, all for the delicate hierarchies of power. What he hadn’t known was that there was a whole entire world out there, a world that would kill for even an ounce of his facade.

Which is why when he turned to see who interrupted his blissful time alone, Claude nearly chuckled. What was she wearing? More importantly, who was she? He couldn’t stop the wicked grin from blossoming onto his face, the laughter bubbling in his chest swallowed down immediately. No matter, it would be rude to laugh at a lady. Even if her dress robes were something out of a book.

“Alright, alright. You caught me,” he admitted, raising his hands as if the man were guilty of something.

Was it a crime to act through life, pretending as if he felt on cloud nine? The court wouldn’t have it any other way … but she didn’t seem from the court. Not with the way she spoke or behaved or dressed. All the observations were causing him to shake his head, hoping this encounter wouldn’t land him in the dungeons ( even if Elodie did enjoy tossing him there occasionally ).

“I’m not drunk, not entirely. Just don’t tell anyone, otherwise we’ll both get into trouble.”

His feet hit the floor as he hopped off the ledge, walking towards the unknown lady. Hovering around her, glancing back at the ballroom before he chose to lean closer, wondering, “ … speaking of trouble, did you really have to wear that?”

It was a fair warning — the court wasn’t something to be taken lightly. There were egos that were battling for their position at every corner, gossip brewing as liquor filled the rim of each and every cup. Pure indulgence was the theme, an indulgence that was hidden behind an uglier picture. Claude always wondered why they wore wigs, but as he grew older he realized that most people didn’t want to expose how much hair they had lost; such valuable images and reputations lacing through court like poison.

No, this wasn’t just a game; it was reality.

“If you want attention, you’ve certainly got it,” Claude admitted, giving her a quick glance. “Otherwise you’ll run into an actual drunk noble who could spin a story of how you’ve offended him by your choice of attire. The rest is history, the dungeons being no place for a lady. Trust me.”

He knew those bleak walls and cells like clockwork, the darkness somehow always turning into peace after a long night of royal fuss. Sometimes he behaved ridiculously for the sole purpose of being sent there ( especially when he didn’t want to play the game that particular day ). The court thought they controlled everything but Claude liked to think he found a loophole with this technique. As crazy as that sounded.

“Ah, forgive me,” he stated, finally looking at her fully. The sound of a waltz could be heard vaguely in the distance, the glass doors and curtains blocking out most of its melodic splendor. The beat hummed throughout instead, carrying itself outdoors where he could feel it run between them. His fingers reached for her hand, kissing her knuckles briefly for an introduction.

“I’m Claude. And who may you be, Miss — ?”

His request is, dare she think it, rather intriguing, and Minerva cast him a look from the corner of her eye, scanning him again with this new information in mind. He wasn’t not charming when he told the truth. She brought her fingers to the corner of her lips and mimed zipping them shut just seconds before realizing zippers did not exist at the court, and he might not have any idea what she’d just said. Her lips curved up just slightly at the absurdity of it.

The smile was gone just as quickly as soon as he turned the conversation, if it could be called that, to her clothing. Not this again. “Is that all you think about here?” she cut in with a sigh, turning away from him again and looking out into the night. The court was poison, she hardly needed to be there to see. Surrounded by it now, she felt...

Like her skin crawled anytime any actual drunk noble looked her way. Without looking at her balcony companion she let her acid tongue take over. “Not all of us have the means to drown in lace and pearls and- whatever the latest fashion is these days. You realize you’re dancing with women carting steel baskets around on their hips, right? That seems right to you?” But of course it would, because that simply was court life. If she looked at it kindly, perhaps that was all he’d ever known. Or cared to know, the sharper edge of her mind added in. 

Sighing again, this time under her breath, she said, “You concern is noted. Appreciated, even. I just grabbed something that I thought might pass for acceptable. No ankles and all that.” Why she was confessing this to him, she couldn’t say. Maybe his honesty about his state of mind spurred her on. 

“I’ve already offended with it, never fear,” she added as an afterthought, thinking to the Queen and her snide comments. Her thoughts were sidetracked by his plea to her, however; she found herself tilting her head to him, eyes curious as she found him looking back. He reached out and she almost yanked her hand away, only remembering seconds later that this was a normal greeting for him. The next thought after that was I’m glad I added the gloves on after all. They were short, made of coarse fabric, and not at all the court style, but his lips were warm enough to cut right through them. A kiss on her bare knuckles felt... too intimate even for her.

Claude. Hmm. No title or full name in sight. How strange for a sim nobleman. “Minerva,” she said, annoyed that her voice did not come out as commanding as she intended. “The surgeon they’re outsourcing now. I’m not really supposed to be here-” Again with the unexpected honesty! “-but I was... curious, and I still have a little time left on my guest pass.”

Curious, she’d warned him. “Why are you ‘drunk’ and not dancing with some lady wearing her own weight in silk?” she asked almost teasingly, her brows rising as she watched him for his answer. 

CLOSED: @ofproseandmusing​ & @wisdomlistening​

“a little party never killed nobody”

The nobles laughed at his antics, their expensive wigs nearly tumbling off with too much movement. He supposed he should’ve been the court jester … although that would’ve meant entertaining Elodie and he wasn’t too keen on that idea. Parties like these were standard routine — a gathering of the elite to sit and talk about their frivolous, mundane life. He would ‘drink’ a little, tell some grand stories, piss someone off, possibly get sent to jail, and then bailed by his father. A simple, well rounded routine for the son of a nobleman … except there were a few changes now. The biggest one being that his father passed away recently from an accident yet life carried on with its merry way; the lords didn’t even bat an eye, laughing at his jokes despite how plastic his smile felt.

The court worked like clockwork, the machine of sorts in which Claude hadn’t figured out his role. All his life, his father had been the one shining their family name and honor. No one expected much from him … no one really needed him ( unless they wanted to wild time at such extravagant balls ). To be frank, he wasn’t sure how to fit in … despite how popular his character of ‘belligerent drunk’ fared amongst the nobles. Once the clock struck 10pm, Claude excused himself as he fumbled out for some fresh air, his pace of step becoming completely normal once the moonlight greeted him.

La lune, ma seule amie.

The balconies were perfectly crafted for hiding, especially when the splendor seemed trapped inside of the ballroom. No one would have a reason to come out here — unless they were looking for a scandal. Lovers waltzing away from the dancing crowd, affairs brewing in plain sight; half the time, he knew about cheating before the news even broke out. It didn’t matter though, not when no one would have any reason to believe in the local drunk. His fingers pulled the white wig off his head, never liking how it felt and aged his appearance. His fingers dug into the silk cravat, pulling it out as he loosened the buttons of his justeaucorps. The good thing about playing drunk meant no one could question his disrobing habits — he might’ve felt warm beyond belief. Or he could’ve vomited all over these fine silks.  

Either way, the long jacket revealed a vest underneath, the breeze feeling welcoming underneath all these layers. The bottle of wine that he had stumbled out with remained full, his fingers tapped against the glass as he opted to sit on the ledge ( which was not advisable when actually inebriated ).

Claude closed his eyes, sighing as the sights and sounds of the party almost faded. His act for the night was complete, the nobles carrying on with their agenda while he stayed hidden until it was time to officially leave. Of course, the sound of footsteps couldn’t quite go unmissed, even if he refused to look at the stranger that interrupted his nightly brainstorm.

“ — m’still drunk,” he faked.  

How did any of them do this night after night?

The glamour, the decadence, the petty gossip and strict etiquette and stifling clothes - Minerva couldn’t fathom the appeal even if her life depended on it. The way the queen’s porcelain smile had nearly cracked at her very presence (never mind her appearance) indicated an untimely demise wasn’t entirely out of the question. Sizing her up was an interesting experience. If she really was Power, Minerva ought to be sincerely afraid of her. She did have a certain subtle command to her presence... Yet, all she could think about was the little girl who’d come by her home the other day, barefoot with a throbbing infection that could have been avoided if only she could afford shoes.

Somehow and only if her hunches were correct, this court was supposed to contain the people who could fix that kind of inequality. Who wielded magic unlike anything the world knew. Who, life after life, brought the world to and back from the brink of destruction. And now they danced their nights away in ridiculous corsets and powdered wigs like nothing mattered but their own fleeting desires.

She had lingered well beyond what was appropriate for her as a ‘peasant’, so they called people like her, but her insatiable curiosity was at risk of being overpowered by her fatigue at courtiers flagrantly boasting about their wealth. Maybe figuring out if these legends she’d stumbled upon were real wasn’t worth it. Not if she had to suffer through... this.

Sighing, she shook the thought out of her head and smoothed the front of her skirts. If only. The world’s demise was more important than any passing discomfort she felt. And besides, she was a little lost in all the grand palatial rooms and still struggling to find the exit. It wasn’t hard to tell she wouldn’t find it when she headed toward curtained windows, but fresh air was better than nothing.

The balcony was occupied, but she only spared her company a glance long enough to register who he was. Claude, perched on the guardrail, bottle in hand. Ignoring him, she leaned her elbows against the railing and looked out into the night, soaking in the crisp air. He spoke and she almost ignored that too as she was supposed to, given her rank relative to him. But then again, what would they do to her if she broke their precious etiquette rules? Ostracize her?

Every time inside the simulation felt like her first. Minerva, somehow stumbling her way into a ball instead of an exit, was nothing short of dizzied by spinning silks and chandeliers dripping diamonds and foods in all manner of shapes and colors piled high. The excess of it all was astounding. That was the magic behind the simulation, though; keeping alive a history of decadence long forgotten by the rest of the world was essential for keeping the world’s wealthiest happy and carefree.

The disdainful, nagging voice in the pits of her mind urged her to get out of the palace as quickly as she could, as if lingering would erode her decency. These people have brain rot that they freely pass out to those around them. Not knowing even a breath of struggle did that to a person. The sneering voice always started up when she was anywhere near the palace, even if her only purpose within was to do her job as required of her.

Curiosity, fear, and hope were far more powerful than contempt, though, especially when they banded together in her head. More unraveled beneath these slippered feet and marble floors than any of the dancing nobles dared know. If all her research was correct - or at the very least, pointed her to something real - then somewhere at this court were three people with a piece of the world itself in their hands.

One, she was beginning to pinpoint with certainty. Her first few visits to the palace driven by this curiosity had led her to the king himself, because who better to represent Power than the one who wielded it all? Now she knew better. She couldn’t get anywhere near the king, which wasn’t all that surprising, but the way his pretty doll of a wife steered her away from considering such a meeting suggested something more beneath her vapid smile and practiced curtsy.

Minerva watched the revelry unfold from the side of the room, conspicuously out of place and therefore avoiding attention by staying put. It only worked so well. She was dressed as best she could be for both being within the palace at all and for doing her job - surgeons, after all, need not look impeccable to work. The skirts had already been a nuisance during the check-up, though a necessary one, as court-goers frequently reacted poorly to pants. They were nowhere near as lush and sparkling as those around her, but it mattered little in the end. She had her guest pass, the glowing mark on her wrist fading slowly with passing minutes. She could linger and no one had any right to stop her. Even the wealthy need a doctor to check in on them every so often, no matter that doctors grow up in the slums and do not fit into royal life.

From her perch she observed what she could. Dancers wove across the room. A tall nobleman told a story as he leaned against a table, clearly already drunk even though the evening was still young. The queen lounged with her sycophants, all of them in their colorful attire looking hardly different from the cakes stacked nearby.

Minerva’s eyes narrowed as she watched the queen. She appeared so unassuming. Her expressions were light, her laughter and gestures clearly practiced for the utmost grace, her every expression calculated to be as endearing as possible.

The practice it took to look that innocent was no small feat. What is she hiding? Minerva let her gaze wander for a moment, scanning the room for anyone else who stood out. If the queen was Power, Courage couldn’t be far behind, if only she could figure out how to look.

Her eyes landed on the drunkard again. His show was more disruptive of those in his immediate vicinity by the minute. She had learned his name a few weeks ago. What was his name? Claude. He was among her spoiled nobles who could represent this cycle’s Divine Hero of Courage.

Just as much as she hoped it was him, she hoped it was not. Building up the energy to approach him as he entertained his crowd with slurred words was hard enough on its own, before adding an afterthought about legacy and prophecy. 

Wisdom was nowhere to be spotted, and again the nasty voice in her head piped up. None of them operate enough brain power to contact an AI. How could any of them represent wisdom for the world? Why would it ever be some spoiled rich kid who’s never set foot outside the sim, who has never fought for pocket change or a meal, who has no idea how much of the world outside the court needs protecting? Caught up in these thoughts, Minerva lost track of the people around her, hardly noticing when someone approached.