Chapter 37
Once a year, the crystal conservatory—a structure topped with a glass oculus that symbolized Karsan’s politically laced desire for transparency and unity—would open its doors for Kindling.
Unlike the black stone facade of Hearth, the conservatory was made of sheer panes of colored glass arranged in complex mosaics and held together by black metal tracery, along with quatrefoils and finials in looping patterns.
The structure was multi-leveled, with all of the central balconies overlooking the ballroom on the ground floor.
Tapestried banners hung from the ceiling, displaying noble houses, insignias, and royal crests from generations past. Their rich, silken embroidery was infused with metal strands, gleaming in the light. Dotted between them, sumptuous chandeliers dripped with chains of crystal and jewels.
The Saranov crest was displayed most prominently atop a marble pedestal at the head of the ballroom, with which peace accords of the lands between Drenvar, Grastel, and Kraal were inscribed. On top of the pedestal sat a brilliant golden chalice.
At its stem, a ring of a hundred tiny swords radiated outward like a sun, with swirling gold filigree and a mirror in the center that reflected the approaching person’s gaze.
The cup itself was clear and crystalline, accented with emerald spikes in a gold band wrapping around its middle.
Brimming with wine, it shone like a ruby-red beacon in the afternoon sunlight filtering through the domed glass.
Behind it, on a platform, was a long table with many seats, but most prominently, a high-backed throne at the center.
Ksenia tugged on the ribbon laces at the back of her corset, which was stifling her breath. Her dossier from Bohdan had relegated her to playing the role of a handmaiden, which she had hoped would have more reasonable attire.
A gold-chained headdress in a diamond pattern weighed down her wavy locks with ruby teardrops glistening at every point. Around her neck, a matching velvet choker boasted a dangling cabochon pendant.
Beneath her dress, a burgundy lace bodysuit fit her like a glove, starting from her collarbone and pulling down to her forearms and wrists, ending in a delicate loop fitted over her middle fingers.
The entire ensemble was cinched at the waist with a pomegranate-velvet corset and matching dress, its neckline plunging and whose split sleeves gathered at her elbows with silken ties.
Every inch had been designed for pageantry, making her want to vomit.
Instead of conducting reconnaissance, she had been gathered with the other handmaidens since early morning to review the itineraries and responsibilities and prepare to serve the guests that evening.
No two maidens matched in their brilliant red dresses. They ranged from a rusty crimson to the deepest mulled wine. Their sparkling smiles and glittering eyes were a stark contrast to Ksenia’s half-lidded glower in the corner.
“And of course, the reason why you all volunteered to do this: the Thread of Grace.” A smattering of applause echoed through the crystalline prison.
Ksenia rolled her eyes.
“The Lord King has declined to perform the Thread of Grace for the last few years, so we should prepare in case Bohdan steps in once more,” the event coordinator said.
Ksenia’s ear pricked.
“Now, to be clear, ladies. I want decorum and elegance! No jostling or fighting for the ribbons; they are all the same, and you have as much chance as the young lady next to you to dance with him. But of course, there will be a single winner by the end of the ceremony.”
Whispers clustered around the room as girls gossiped about who danced the year previous and the drama that ensued: whom Bohdan had bedded afterward, and his colorful reputation as a lover.
An odd feeling burned in her chest, much like acid in her stomach, churning like a poison that reddened her cheeks and set her jaw on edge.
“Quiet, quiet!” The event coordinator’s horn-rimmed glasses were askew on her face.
In her hand, a simple wooden sword had been tied with dozens of lengths of red ribbon. The coordinator stood in the center of the ballroom. Obediently, the girls lined up and followed one another in a single file to retrieve a ribbon end.
Ksenia sulked forward, earning a pointed stare from the older female coordinator, who then cleared her throat. “Remember to smile, dear.” A muscle twitched at the corner of Ksenia’s eye as another twitched at the corner of her mouth. Her hands itched to wring the woman’s neck.
The girls moved to form a perfectly spaced circle around the coordinator, who then thrust the sword above her head.
Then, they began to weave. Every other girl crossed in front of the other, with measured ease.
Had the sword been real, the ribbons would have severed and frayed with each twist.
“Many of you have performed this literal song and dance, so I don’t need to explain too deeply. When a single ribbon remains, that lucky maiden will dance with Bohdan, concluding the opening ceremony of Kindling.”
Why did the gods forsake her so? A splintering headache struck her as Ksenia willed herself to survive the evening. Tonight, she would be expected to mingle with both the Grastelian and the Kraalian nobility. Make them feel welcome, at home, and essential.
All social niceties she loathed.
“You should be witty and disarming enough to loosen people’s tongues, but forgettable at the same time. The mark of a good operative is not to be memorable, but to get in and get out without a single trace.”
Mirko’s words echoed in Ksenia’s mind as the event coordinator’s cries of “Again!” punctured her ears, and she refrained from elbowing her in the sternum.
Dressed in sumptuous fabrics, nobility from Grastel and Kraal arrived—cliques and pockets quickly forming as they thronged amongst familiar faces and gossiped about the others.
Sighing, Ksenia gathered her first tray of wine and made her rounds—an act that soon became an exercise in not dumping the liquid directly onto guests.
The afternoon sun shifted, and the southwest and western walls ceased to exist. They didn’t let in light; they became light itself. White and incandescent. Impossible to look at.
Her eyes watered to the point that she had to keep her gaze low and forward, navigating the crowd through her peripheral vision and sheer instinct.
The crystal-encrusted chandeliers became secondary sunsets—violet and gold shards thrown in every direction, multiplied by the polished marble floor beneath her feet.
The room felt twice as tall, twice as vast, twice as punishing.
The jewels swayed with the warmth and movement of the crowd filing into the upper balconies, beams of light shifting with them in a way that churned her stomach.
Jostled toward the center of the crowd, the glasses were whisked off her tray faster than they were replenished, which was the only thing going right. She found herself in a sea of faces she couldn’t read. The light made everything wrong.
Hollows that were supposed to be dark were light. Cheeks that caught the light were shadowed. Everyone’s expressions were unintelligible. Jewels at their throats, wrists, hands, fingers, throwing light independently so that her eye kept snagging on those glittering points rather than their faces.
She was about to vomit on their well-polished shoes.
Made worse by her unnatural hearing, all the glass, polished stone, and crystal assaulted her sensitive ears. Warbling music and foreign and common tongues, stripped of their context, arrived in fragments from every corner of the room.
Things had never been so bad that she did not want to exist in her body.
She resolved to get through her first mission with grim efficiency: get everyone as intoxicated as possible, as quickly as possible.
Kindling operated under the guise of unity and peace, but every sober person in this room understood it to be an unprecedented night of espionage on all sides.
She was blindly navigating through the crowd on her second pass when she pulled back hastily, successfully avoiding collision with an icy figure, her beauty only sharpened by age.
Lady Milena’s hair was woven into a rich brunette crown, braided with silver thread.
She shot Ksenia a look that could cut glass, and the fractured chandelier light hit her cheekbones at a vicious angle. She was dressed in a rich sapphire gown, trimmed with brown and black minx fur. She wrenched her train behind her with a glare.
Not a single drop of wine had spilled, but that didn’t stop the woman from stalking forward with a vicious sneer.
“Watch yourself, peasant.” Her breath was sour with wine. “The king will have your head if you ruin Kindling—and I won’t hesitate to name you.”
“Yes, my Lady. Thank you, my Lady,” came Ksenia’s practiced reply, her jaw tightening as she bent her head in apology.
Milena swept past her, a floral musk hitting Ksenia in the face as her heavy dress dragged past her foot. She fought the intrusive thoughts telling her to step on it.
A ringing cut through the air as Lord King Karsan delicately chimed his silverware against his crystal goblet.
“Friends. Welcome to another Kindling. Look around you—see the faces who have chosen wisdom over folly, prosperity over chaos. For generations, this hall has witnessed the Kindling, a celebration born from the ashes of old conflicts and nurtured by those wise enough to choose unity.”
His hand gestured to an empty set of tables and chairs on his left.
“The absent remind us why the present company is so…precious. Let’s celebrate what we have built together and what we shall continue to enjoy as long as we remain of one mind.
” He nodded at the Grastel and Kraal nobility seated stiffly to his right.
A resounding roar of applause echoed his sentiment.
The sun had mercifully set, purples and deeper blues transforming the conservatory.