The music and chatter from the ballroom echoed down the lavish hallways, but Erika had already slipped away from the main dance floor. She navigated gracefully through a tangle of nobles, her crimson hair brushing lightly against her shoulders. Somewhere down the hall, she spotted Jean, who had arrived at the party alongside her.
Earlier, Jean had received a rare invitation from Sylvester himself, a token of thanks for delivering a set of commissioned pieces. The party was a rare chance for Jean to interact with established tailors and experience the splendor of high society. Naturally, he had brought Erika as his partner to help ease the awkwardness of noble interactions.
Jean stood near a tall, elegantly dressed man, his dark skin glowing warmly under the fine light, his mask concealing a sharp, handsome face. The man's garments were exquisite—layers of silk and embroidery that caught the torchlight like fire.
"Excuse me," Jean began, leaning slightly forward, "this coat, these details… are you the designer?"
His gaze lingered just a second too long, tracing the sharp lines of the man's outfit.
The man's amber eyes sparkled behind his mask. "Indeed. I designed these myself. Every stitch has its place."
Jean's breath caught slightly. "Incredible… I've never seen anything quite like it." His voice held a subtle warmth, a hint of admiration that lingered just a second too long.
"You have an eye for it," the man replied, smiling faintly.
Jean, emboldened, tilted his head, "Well, it's hard not to notice such craftsmanship… especially from someone who clearly knows what they're doing." The unspoken undertones lingered, a soft thread of admiration weaving through his words.
Before the conversation could continue, Erika appeared at his side, leaning in to whisper urgently.
"Jean… we should go. There's someone here I must avoid."
Jean frowned, lowering his voice but keeping a playful grin.
"Hey… let me enjoy this for a moment! This guy's fascinating, you know?"
Erika's eyes flicked toward the man Jean had been speaking to, taking in his lavishly flamboyant attire. She couldn't hide a small smirk.
"Your taste… is odd. Clearly that guy is a walking peacock."
The masked man turned to them, tilting his head in curiosity.
"Oh… Sir Jean, is this perhaps your partner for the evening?"
Jean waved his hands frantically.
"Of course not! She's just a friend I brought along… nothing more.
Erika's gaze drifted back toward the dance floor. There he was. Marquess Castell. Every step measured, every movement precise, cutting through the nobles like he owned the space—even though the hall was teeming with them.
Her skin prickled as a chill ran down her spine. Why is this man so persistent?
Her pulse spiked, and a flicker of annoyance burned at the edges. She pressed her lips together.
A woman who actually challenges him? Yeah, right. He's probably used to everyone nodding and gushing.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. " He probably thinks he's the only clever one in the room… surrounded by idiots who can't challenge him." She exhaled sharply, shaking her head at the thought.
Erika's hand shot out, grabbing the edge of Jean's jacket. Jean leaned down instinctively, and their faces were suddenly just inches apart. His eyes widened at the intensity in hers.
"We must go. Marquess Castell is behind me… and he's clearly looking for me," she said, her voice low but fierce.
Jean glanced over her shoulder, spotting the tall man with the golden bird mask weaving through the crowd. His jaw tightened, realization dawning.
"Holy shit…You're not lying," Jean said, straightening immediately. He turned back to the man he had been speaking to.
"My friend… she needs to step away for a bit. I hope we can meet again another time."
The man's brow lifted in surprise but nodded.
"Of course… farewell, then." He watched as the pair hurried off, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.
Erika and Jean moved quickly, weaving through the crowd, their steps almost in sync as the music from the ballroom thudded behind them. Roland's presence lingered like a shadow at the edge of her vision.
The music from the ballroom faded behind them as Erika guided Jean into a narrow corridor, hidden from the glittering chaos of the main hall. The flicker of torchlight along the walls cast long shadows, giving them a momentary reprieve. Erika pressed her back against the wall, drawing in a steadying breath, her crimson hair falling over her shoulders like a veil.
Jean's eyes widened as he glanced toward the ballroom doors.
"Can't believe that's actually Marquess Castell… Even with a mask… that guy is intimidating. Clearly, the Maiden Knight has taste."
Erika let out a sharp laugh, tilting her head.
"Taste or not… that man is openly interested in me. Not because he's polite or charming—he's only interested because I might be the only woman who can… keep up with his pace."
Jean smirked, leaning casually against the wall, though his eyes flicked nervously toward the doors.
"Isn't that… kind of an opportunity for you? You treat men like stepping stones anyway."
Erika's eyes snapped toward him, and before he could react, she reached out and tugged at his hair—Jean yelped, wincing.
"Are you crazy?! Sure, he's interesting, but he's not like the others. One wrong move or worse, tangled in something I can't control and second… If his wife ever found out? Let's just say I'd be skewered pork in front page news"
Jean rubbed the spot she tugged.
"Alright… yeah, okay, damn that hurt."
Erika straightened, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, her pulse still racing. She peered down the corridor toward the grand hall, imagining Roland's amber eyes scanning the crowd. Even from here, she could feel the weight of his presence—calculated, unyielding, precise.
"We need to keep moving," she muttered, her voice low but firm. "Before he realizes exactly where I went."
Jean nodded, straightening, and gave her a small, protective smile. "Lead the way. Don't worry… I've got your back."
Erika allowed herself a brief smirk at his words.
The faint hum of the orchestra trailed after them, swallowed by the hush of the long corridor. Their footsteps echoed softly on the marble floor, and for a moment, neither spoke.
Jean, walking a step behind, glanced at the crimson gleam of Erika's hair under the torchlight. The color—so striking in the ballroom—seemed to burn even brighter in the dim hall.
He whistled low. "You know…" he began, tone deliberately casual, "you could just wash the dye out. Go back in. There's no way he'd recognize you like that."
Erika shot him a glare over her shoulder.
"Oh, sure. A random woman shows up out of nowhere at a noble's private party—clearly a northerner, by the way—and that wouldn't raise any suspicion at all."
Jean just shrugged, grinning under his mask.
"You're forgetting something."
She narrowed her eyes. "And what's that?"
He tapped the side of his mask with a finger, the gesture sharp and teasing. "Everyone here's hiding behind one of these anyway. A hall full of masked strangers—what's there to lose?"
Erika stopped walking, giving him a long, unimpressed look.
"My dignity, for one."
Jean chuckled, brushing a hand through his hair.
"Please. You left that at the door when you called that poor designer a peacock."
Her lips twitched, fighting a smirk. "He was a peacock. You just didn't notice because you were too busy drooling over his embroidery."
Jean gasped in mock offense. "Excuse you—he had layers! Both in tailoring and personality."
Erika rolled her eyes but couldn't stop the small laugh that slipped out, the tension easing for just a moment.
Jean's grin lingered, but Erika slowed, her mind working. He wasn't wrong. After all, Jean was only here because of her—because it was easier to navigate noble company with someone he trusted at his side. If she dragged him out now, the night he'd been looking forward to would be wasted.
She exhaled, brushing a loose strand of crimson hair behind her ear.
"...Fine," she muttered.
Jean blinked. "Fine?"
"I said fine," Erika repeated, crossing her arms.
"You're right. We can't just bolt out like a pair of thieves. You got invited here, and you deserve to enjoy it."
Jean tilted his head, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.
"So you're saying you'll actually take my advice?"
"Don't get used to it." She sighed, scanning the hallway ahead. "We'll find a washroom. I'll rinse this damn dye off, change a few details from the dress. Once I'm no longer the 'Red Lady,' no one will look twice."
Jean's eyes sparkled behind his mask.
"Now that's the Erika I know—bold, clever, slightly terrifying."
"Keep talking and I'll wash your mouth next," she deadpanned.
He chuckled, falling into step beside her as they made their way down the corridor. The music had softened into a distant hum, replaced by the sound of soft laughter and flickering torches.
They passed marble statues and golden-trimmed doors, until Jean spotted a small corridor branching off to the side.
"There," he said, nodding toward a discreet door with an ornate frame. "Servants' washroom. Perfect spot for your little transformation."
Erika smirked faintly.
"You sound way too excited about this."
"I'm just saying, it's not every day I get to help my friend out of a political disaster and into a disguise makeover."
She rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself. "Let's just make this quick before we get caught."
Erika dipped her fingers into the basin, warm water washing away the streaks of crimson. Beneath it, her natural black hair gleamed, sleek and unyielding. Jean leaned over, holding out a small vial with a smirk.
"For the eyes," he said.
With a quick twist, Erika drank it, and her striking purple eyes faded back to their natural, brilliant blue.
Jean leaned casually against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised, a teasing grin on his lips.
"Lady Heather… showing your true colors, huh? I see how it is."
Erika gave him a flat look, though a faint smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.
"Yeah, yeah… behold the unmasked terror of the north. Happy now?"
Jean chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Relax, I'm just appreciating the dramatic reveal. You've got flair, even when you're not turning heads as the Red Lady."
She rolled her eyes but allowed herself a small smile. "Flair's for fools. Efficiency is what keeps me alive. And tonight, I don't need to impress anyone… except for keeping you entertained."
Jean grinned, mock bowing.
"Well, being with Lady Red was intimidating enough… but being with Lady Harlow? Now that might actually be fun. Now the party just got a whole lot more interesting."
Erika shook her head, adjusting her dress. "Just… keep your mouth shut unless you want to get me killed in a gossip column, got it?"
Jean waved a hand in surrender. "Scout's honor. But admit it—you do enjoy me being here, don't lie."
"I tolerate you," she replied, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "And yes… you make this party worth more than just another night of masks and whispers."
Jean laughed. "Alright, Lady Harlow. Quick and quiet—we've got a party to rejoin before anyone notices our little… color correction session."
With a final adjustment to her dress, Erika followed Jean back toward the sounds of laughter and music, ready to step back into the glittering chaos.