Morning of July 14, the long-awaited gala rose like a sun at the horizon.

Medith slipped into a lavish green gown, a river of leaves around her knees.

Several maids in white drifted about her, careful as butterflies settling on petals.

She’d seen cosmetics before, jars like quiet moons on a shelf.

Only when they kissed her skin and warmed her cheeks did a strange tide rise and drown her.

The mirror offered a goddess, a moonlit bloom too bright to touch.

Her scent braided with the Elf Clan’s rare perfume, a haze that coaxed the room into spring.

It felt like stepping into a fabled dreamland, lost as a moth in perfumed dusk.

Her heart roared first, waves beating a black reef.

The banquet had begun; the band’s song floated in like wind over water.

She sensed it: Paris’s pointed neglect was bait, a soft lull to numb her.

At the key moment, he’d strike for the throat...

Haidra wore a white off-shoulder dress; its embossed flowers stood out like carved frost.

Her bustline curved like a tide; the fit clung close, warm as breath.

Sharp white heels ticked a lethal rhythm, knuckles rapping the door of youth.

Talant wore a black ensemble, off-shoulder too, with two gauze straps like ink strokes.

A knee-length skirt swayed like a dark bell.

Half her long legs showed, and black heels drew them out like drawn bows.

Her not-so-long hair was piled high, curled into a rose, a gold blossom pinned behind her head.

She held Haidra’s hand and wrapped her waist, gliding in time like swans on a lake.

Nobles clapped in waves, bracelets chiming like rain.

Wine and delicacies flowed without end, a river along gold plates.

Pretty, diligent maids crouched nearby, lifting cups like cranes.

Paris wore his blazing gold robe as always, a heavy crown anchoring him like a sun-disc.

The faint curl at his mouth was a blade in fog, unreadable.

To his left, Manto stood like a black tower, unmoved.

Under the helm, his eyes were still water, seeing yet stirring nothing.

To his right, Velledo leaned in like a crowned consort, close enough to trade warmth.

Her white-lotus elbow brushed him “by accident,” a tide that kept returning.

Today her purple floral dress burned bright; lips like flame, almond eyes spring-sweet, a breeze after rain.

Paris didn’t mind; he wore the air of a man who’d already named his queen.

Below the dais, vassal nobles of the Blood Covenant traded jokes with other lords, song rising like smoke.

Yet their eyes kept flicking aside, quick birds passing messages.

Talant and Haidra’s graceful steps were a bright lantern in the night.

Their bond ran deep; hands and feet moved as one, like paired fish in clear water.

Suddenly, the organ sounded, a wind through pipes like a storm in a cathedral.

The festive tune swelled and turned grand, an epic cliff rising from sea.

Soon, the dancers knew the main act had come; they lifted their skirts and slipped off like petals.

The finery-clad crowd formed two lines, a jeweled corridor to greet the honored guest.

As the music crested, a pale foot in a silver heel stepped into view, moonlight on marble.

Then flowers burst from shadow, green life unfurling like dawn.

Medith lifted her green-blossom gown as bees and butterflies circled in a living crown.

The red carpet softened into grass beneath her steps, spring spreading like ink in water.

The vision wrung gasps from every throat, a theater of wonder.

That scene of a celestial descending seared into their sight forever.

The music fell away.

Medith gathered her skirt, bent her knees, and offered Paris a lady’s curtsey, a willow bowing over water.

Applause burst like summer rain and kept falling, a long bright storm.