The memory of Catalina's words that day refused to fade. Yet Roland found himself lingering in the shadows of a lavish private party, masks concealing the faces of every noble in attendance. The murmurs of finely dressed men and women filled the hall, wine glasses clinking softly, laughter rising and falling like gentle waves.
Roland moved among a circle of other nobles, their conversation light but pointed, speaking of estates, politics, and the endless minutiae of aristocratic life. He sipped from his glass, nodding politely here and there, but his mind wandered.
Then—something caught his attention. A flash of red hair among the crowd. The kind that seemed to have its own rhythm, flowing and vibrant even under the dim glow of chandeliers.
"That red hair…" one of the men murmured, leaning closer. "Could that be Lady Heather?"
Roland's eyes narrowed slightly, intrigued. Lady Heather… it has been awhile since she was last seen in high society. He hadn't expected to see her here.
Another noble scoffed lightly, swirling his wine.
"Invite-only, isn't it? And no one knows where Lady Heather currently resides. Could just be some other red-haired noblewoman."
A third added thoughtfully, "My wife is quite fond of Lady Heather. She mentioned that Lady Heather took on a… particular assignment. That might explain her absence from these events until now."
Roland listened silently, the words piquing his curiosity more than he expected. He set his glass down, remembering a conversation with Lady Heather months ago.
There was something in her words—something quietly magnetic—that had lingered in his mind. And now, here she was again, seemingly appearing by chance in a crowd of strangers.
His brow furrowed. What were the odds? He rarely attended these gatherings, and she—well, she rarely ventured into such circles either. Yet here they were.
"This… might be her," he thought, the pulse of curiosity quickening.
Without another word to the men around him, Roland excused himself, threading carefully through the masked nobles, eyes fixed on the streak of crimson that might very well be Lady Heather.
The grand hall shimmered under chandeliers, crystal prisms scattering light across the masked faces of the attending nobles. Masks hid the faces of all who attended, preserving anonymity, yet the elegance and poise of each individual spoke volumes.
Lady Heather found herself in a cluster of masked noblewomen, their delicate laughter fluttering like silk.
"Your gown is exquisite," one whispered, leaning closer. "The emerald green… it suits you perfectly."
"Ah, but it pales in comparison to your sleeves," another replied, fanning herself lightly, "so intricate. Who is your tailor, my lady?"
Erika as Lady Heather, inclined her head with a faint smile. "If you're interested, I can give you his card—he takes commissions for those who wish to have something truly unique."
A soft giggle rippled through the group.
"And the hem—oh! Such subtle detail," a third woman chimed, her voice hushed. "Truly, a work of art. You must be the envy of every noble here tonight."
Erika allowed herself a moment of pride but kept her tone measured. "I only hope it pleases the eye. Fashion is, after all, fleeting, but a well-crafted dress endures in memory."
A pause followed, then one of the women leaned closer, her voice barely audible over the music. "Have you heard? There's stirring news from the North."
Lady Heather let a polite smile grace her lips as the noblewomen whispered around her. Compliments, envy, flutters of fans — all notes in her mental ledger.
Another tilted her head. "Oh? What sort of news?"
The first shook her head slightly, her eyes wide with curiosity behind her mask. "I'm not certain, but whispers say that the imperial soldiers are being deployed in great numbers. Something significant must be brewing."
Erika's ears perked at that. A deployment of troops… Each snippet, each rumor, was another piece of the puzzle. These gilded halls, the whispers, the masks — all of it was a library of knowledge, more valuable than flattery, more enduring than any gown.
Every interaction, every observation, sharpened her understanding of high society and politics alike. This was why she endured it all, as Lady Heather.
She was listening intently when she felt a sudden brush of movement behind her. The ladies in front of her covered their faces with fans, muffled giggles escaping from between the folds.
Erika turned, her expression composed despite the faint startle. Standing there was a man in a fine suit, wearing a golden bird-shaped mask, standing there. His dark blue hair shimmered under the light, and piercing amber eyes from behind the mask.
"I hope I am not intruding," he said smoothly, his voice warm, commanding, yet unassuming. "Might I borrow this fine lady for a moment?"
The cluster of noblewomen murmured softly among themselves, then nodded with practiced decorum.
"Of course, of course. We shall leave you to your… discussion, my lord" one said, bowing slightly as they withdrew, giggling in farewell.
Erika's brow quivered in mild irritation.
Who the heck is this guy, butting in like that? she thought.
Her gaze fell on the sigil embroidered subtly on his tunic. Only a handful of nobles carried such a mark. A symbol of a high noble, rare and not to be trifled with in these circles, displayed even under the guise of a masquerade
This might explain his audacity, she thought.
Not every nobleman was worth noting, but I hope he… might be interesting.
Erika allowed herself a small smile, masking her annoyance. "Very well," she said, stepping aside.
His amber eyes lingered on her, unreadable. "I hope I'm not mistaken in thinking you stand apart from the others tonight," he said carefully, choosing his words.
Erika tilted her head, intrigued. "And what makes you think that? Flattery is common here."
He inclined his head, lips curving faintly.
"Perhaps. Or perhaps I am merely honest. Forgive me—faces are masked, names hidden—but there's something familiar… about you my lady."
Erika's pulse quickened, but she kept her calm.
"Familiarity is dangerous in a room full of masked strangers. Tell me, my lord… do you often approach those you do not know with such certainty?"
His gaze didn't falter. "Only those who seem… exceptional."
Erika's lips curved into a faint, playful smile.
"Exceptional, you say? Bold words for a man, especially one whose name I do not even know."
Roland's amber eyes glinted behind the mask.
"Names are trivial here. Identity is… flexible. What matters is substance."
"Substance?" Erika tilted her head, curiosity piqued. "And what substance have you found in me so far, my lord?"
"Confidence. Wit. A spark of defiance," he replied smoothly, leaning just slightly closer, though maintaining a polite distance.
"Qualities I do not encounter often. Especially… from someone who dares to speak so freely in a hall full of secrets."
Erika felt unease, though her tone remained steady. "Flattery, perhaps? Or are you genuinely intrigued?"
Roland's grin was almost imperceptible. "Intrigued, certainly. Flattery? Only when it is earned."
Erika's pulse quickened at the subtle challenge in his voice. And, for the first time in a long while, Roland found himself captivated—not by a title or appearance, but by the mind across from him.
Erika kept her posture poised, a subtle smile playing on her lips. "Not many linger in these crowded rooms with so much conversation," she said lightly, letting her words dance between them.
"Most prefer the comfort of small talk and safe opinions."
Roland's amber eyes glimmered beneath the golden mask.
"Perhaps I've grown tired of the usual niceties," he replied, voice low, almost conspiratorial. "There's something… refreshing about a mind that challenges another."
She tilted her head, feigning casual curiosity.
"Is that so? And here I thought you might be the type of man who preferred the familiar comforts of agreement and admiration."
He chuckled softly, leaning just slightly closer. "Familiarity is dull. I prefer… sparks."
Erika felt a subtle brush as he shifted nearer, rapid unease tension in her as he tried to close the distance between them.
"Sparks, huh? Dangerous game for a high nobleman to play," she murmured, keeping her voice steady.
Erika's pulse quickened at the subtle arrogance in his voice. Every gesture, every tilt of his head, the carefully measured cadence of his words… It all felt familiar. Too familiar.
This man…Could it really be…?
Before she could let the thought fully settle, he leaned slightly closer, amber eyes locked on hers behind the mask, and whispered just enough to brush her ear.
"Your Lady Heather… aren't you?"
Her breath caught for a fraction of a second, but she quickly steadied herself. A slow, deliberate smile curved her lips, laced with amusement and quiet challenge.
"I might be," she replied, her voice low and teasing, "though I suppose that depends on how observant one claims to be, Lord Castell."
His eyes widened, just slightly, as if impressed by her quick wit—and then a glint of admiration, mixed with intrigue, danced behind his gaze.
As their clever exchange lingered in the air, a herald's trumpet blared suddenly from across the hall.
"Ladies and gentlemen! The dance shall commence!"
The masked crowd stirred, shifting toward the grand ballroom, leaving a swirl of movement and chatter. Roland's gaze snapped to the flow of nobles, instinctively following the shifting tide.
Erika, ever graceful, used the distraction to her advantage. With a subtle smile and a fluid step, she drifted into the crowd, her crimson hair catching the torchlight like a ribbon of fire. The rhythm of the dancers and the press of bodies provided cover.
Roland's amber eyes tracked her, but she moved like water slipping through fingers—quick, elegant, untouchable. He stepped forward, but the crowd pressed in around him, nobility bumping and laughing, leaving him unable to reach her.
Slight frustration flickered across his expression as she slipped away.
Lady Heather glanced back just once, a glint of mischief in her eyes, before disappearing into the swirling mass of dancers, leaving Roland behind to watch, momentarily powerless, and undeniably intrigued.
He had thought she was just another noble lady with clever words, but as she flowed through the crowd, he realized there was more to her than he could have guessed.
Roland stood still as the music swelled, laughter and chatter rising around him. His eyes, however, were fixed elsewhere— on the woman who had just slipped away.
Lady Heather… the red-haired mystery who made even the dullest gatherings come alive. They said her words danced as gracefully as her steps, and her laughter could make rivals forget they were ever meant to compete.
He drew a slow breath, amusement and frustration twisting together.
You've turned a simple gathering into a puzzle I can't ignore.
"Lady Heather…" he murmured under his breath, gaze scanning the sea of masks and silks.
"You certainly live up to your reputation." A woman of words and poise, sharper than most men at court.
But she was gone—like a flame snuffed out before he could reach it—leaving only the lingering heat of intrigue and a faint trace of red in his mind.