* The great hall is transformed. Tapestries depicting bloody sagas have been taken down, replaced with garlands of ivy and late-blooming heather. The air, usually thick with the smell of woodsmoke and mead, is now fragrant with spiced wine and the scent of a hundred bodies. Laughter and the clinking of horns create a raucous energy, a stark contrast to the somber man who stands before them.*
*Arne, resplendent in a fine fur-lined tunic that screams of wealth and power, gives a short, guttural welcome. His words are clipped, his eyes scanning the crowd of masked faces with a cold, predatory focus. He exchanges a few pleasantries, his smiles tight and unconvincing, before the facade becomes too much to bear. He spots Frederick, his captain, leaning against a pillar, a look of profound confusion on his face. Arne's hand, clad in a leather glove, clamps down on Frederick's shoulder, his grip viselike. He steers the man away from the throng of guests, his movements stiff and deliberate. Once they are partially obscured by a massive stone pillar, Arne's voice drops to a low, dangerous growl that Frederick has only ever heard on the eve of a battle.*
"Listen to me, and listen well,"
*Arne commands, his blue eyes burning with an intensity that has nothing to do with the celebration.*
*he says, his gaze intense and unwavering.* "I am going to my chambers to change. When I return, I will be dressed as one of your guards. Tell the others to stand down. No one is to approach me. No one is to speak to me. No one is to even look at me. Do you understand?".
*Frederick's mouth opens, a question already forming on his lips. The sheer absurdity of the order is staggering. The King, the very heart and soul of this gathering, wanting to vanish into the background? It makes no sense.* "But sire, why?" *he asks, his voice a careful blend of confusion and duty.*
"The guests—"
*Arne's hand snaps up, stopping Frederick's words mid-air. The light from the torches catches the hard line of his jaw, the dangerous glint in his eyes. The warmth of the party is gone, replaced by the biting chill of his command.* "I said," *he repeats, each word a sharp, final stone,* "got it?"
*Frederick's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard. The question dies in his throat. He has seen that look before. It is the look Arne wears just before he cleaves a man from shoulder to hip. It is a look that brooks no argument, no curiosity, no life.**Frederick gives a single, sharp nod, his jaw set. The brief flicker of confusion in his eyes is instantly extinguished, replaced by the cold, hard focus of a soldier executing an order.* "Aye, my lord,"
*he says, his voice devoid of any inflection. He steps back, giving Arne a wide berth, his mind already racing to organize the other guards, to weave a convincing lie about the King's sudden desire for anonymity.*
*Arne doesn't wait. He turns on his heel, his heavy boots echoing with a purpose that belies his intent to disappear. He strides down a corridor lined with tapestries depicting his own victories, the faces of his enemies frozen in their final moments of agony. He reaches the grand doors to his private chambers, the two guards stationed outside snapping to attention at his approach. He dismisses them with a curt wave of his hand, and the heavy oak door closes behind him with a definitive thud, sealing him off from the world.*
* The silence of his chambers is a stark contrast to the muffled revelry just beyond the door. The air is cool and still, carrying the faint scent of beeswax and old parchment. He moves with a practiced economy of motion, shrugging out of the rich, embroidered tunic and the heavy fur cloak. The fine linen shirt is pulled over his head and discarded without a second thought. From a heavy chest, he withdraws a simple, dark grey tunic, thick and coarse, the uniform of his personal guard. He pulls it on, the familiar weight a comforting disguise. Next, he pulls on a pair of worn leather bracers, his fingers working the leather ties with a speed born of repetition.*
*Finally, he reaches for the mask. It is a simple thing of polished oak, devoid of ornamentation, with two narrow slits for eyes. He secures it over his face, the smooth wood cool against his skin. It is an effective shield, hiding his identity and, more importantly, his expression.*
*The party, once a roaring beast, is now settling into a lethargic hum. The initial energy has waned, leaving behind a crowd of merrily inebreviated guests. Arne, a silent grey specter amidst the gaudy masks, scans the room with a desperate intensity. His gaze sweeps over every woman, his eyes straining to catch a flash of platinum hair, a glimpse of dark skin against a pale mask, the memory of her a phantom limb he is trying to see.*
*His head screams at him, a voice of pure reason. This is folly. He is the King, disguised as a guard, searching for a ghost. He should leave, return to his solitude, to his shrine. But his heart, that traitorous organ, refuses to listen. It pounds a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a drumbeat of hope and madness.*
*Time passes, and the search yields nothing. The fire in his gut begins to die, replaced by a cold, heavy ash of defeat.**He shoulders slump, the fight draining out of him. The energy of the party feels like a mockery now. He turns away from the crowd, his movements heavy with exhaustion, and retreats to a shadowed corner near the wall. He snatches a horn cup from a passing servant's tray, the expensive wood rough against his gloved hand. He lifts it to his lips, the sharp, sour taste of stale ale a poor balm for the ache in his chest. He closes his eyes, ready to drown the disappointment in one gulp.*
*But as he tilts the horn, his eyes, in a moment of weary distraction, flicker upwards. They land on a large, ornate mirror hanging on the wall opposite him, its surface polished to a high sheen. It reflects the dying party, the swirling colors, the blurred faces. And then, he sees her.*
*In the distorted reflection of the mirror, her image is clear as a vision. There she is, not as a ghost or a memory, but as a living, breathing woman. Her platinum hair is swept up under a simple beige-pink mask, but he would know that silhouette anywhere. He watches, mesmerized, as she stands behind a mother who has her back turned to her , as she crouches to her small child. The child is clutching its stomach, whining about a tummy ache from too many treats. Pooley leans in, her body language a study in practiced charm. She makes a soft, shushing sound, then places a single, gloved finger over her own lips in a playful, coy gesture. The child, charmed, lets out a tiny giggle.*
*Arne's breath catches in his throat. A flicker of something—annoyance, perhaps, at her thievery—warred with a wave of pure, unadulterated relief so potent it nearly buckles his knees.*
*He sees her hand move with a speed and fluidity that speaks of long practice. While the mother is distracted by her child's whimpering, Pooley's deft fingers pluck a purse from the woman's belt. It happens in a heartbeat, a seamless motion lost to the mother's sight. But Arne sees it all. He sees the purse in her hand, sees her tucking it securely into the hidden pocket of her waist bag.*
*The sight of her, s alive, so*here*, shatters the last remnants of his control. The disguise, the plan, the party—it all evaporates into nothing. There is only one thing in his world: her. He abandons his cup, the clatter as it hits the stone floor is lost in the din. He moves through the crowd, a grey blur of purpose, his long legs eating up the distance between them. He reaches her just as she straightens up, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips behind her mask.**His hand, large and strong, closes around her upper arm like a manacle of iron. It's not gentle; it's a claim, a reclamation. Before she can even register the touch, he is pulling her through the stunned silence he creates in his wake. He doesn't speak, doesn't give her a chance to react or scream. His only focus is the set of French doors leading to the moonlit balcony. He yanks them open with a force that makes the glass tremble in its frame, and then, with one final, sharp tug, he hauls her out into the cool night air.*
*He releases her so abruptly that she stumbles a step back, catching herself on the stone balcony railing. The moonlight, stark and unforgiving, illuminates her face, and for a fleeting second, he sees the flicker of fear in her eyes before it hardens into defiance. The sound of her sharp intake of breath is the only thing that cuts through the silence between them. He stands there, a looming silhouette in the darkness, his chest heaving as if he'd just run a great distance. Then, his gaze drops to the spot on her arm where his hand had been, and a flicker of something—regret, perhaps, or irritation at his own loss of control—crosses his features. He reaches out, not to grab her again, but his thumb brushes against the rough fabric of her sleeve over the spot, a rough, almost hesitant gesture of apology.*
"What is wrong with you?" *she snaps, pulling her arm away from his touch. She rubs the sore spot, her eyes flashing up at him with pure indignation.**The moonlight catches the edge of her mask, turning the beige-pink a ghostly white. She scoffs, a short, sharp sound of disbelief. Her hand drops from her arm, but the memory of his grip is clearly written in the defiant set of her shoulders.*
"Is this how men handle women?" *she challenges, her voice a low hiss that carries across the empty balcony. She takes a deliberate step back, putting more space between them, her eyes never leaving his masked face.* "You grab a woman like she's a common thief? You think a bruise is a proper greeting?"*He doesn't move. He simply stands there, a statue of carved muscle and shadowed intent, the mask hiding the storm in his eyes. Her words hang in the air between them, sharp and accusatory. A muscle twitches in his jaw, the only sign of the internal battle waging within him. He could roar at her. He could demand to know why she was stealing, why she was here, why she looked at him with such cold familiarity after everything. But the sight of her, alive and breathing, has already disarmed him.*
*Instead of answering her question, he takes a slow, deliberate step forward, his heavy boots scraping softly on the stone. He closes the distance she created, his presence once again dominating the small space. He reaches out again, but this time, his movements are careful, almost hesitant. His large, calloused hand comes to rest not on her arm, but on her cheek, his thumb gently tracing the line of her jaw beneath the mask.**The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, a raw, ugly truth ripped from the deepest, most primal part of him.*
"You are a thief." *The instant they leave his lips, he curses himself. It's a clumsy, stupid thing to say, a defense mechanism from a man who has none left. He sees the effect immediately. The warmth in her eyes, however faint, dies, replaced by a familiar, cold wall. The mask hides her expression, but he can feel the shift in her, the way she pulls herself taut.*
"Wow... cliche," *she mutters, the words dripping with sarcasm and old hurt. She turns on her heel, her movements sharp and angry, and stalks towards the balcony door, her hand already reaching for the handle. She is going back into that crowd, back into the anonymity he just fought so hard to pull her from.*
*Panic, cold and sharp, lances through him. He can't let her go. Not again.* "Wait!"
"I mean to say," *he forces the words out, his voice rough and unsteady, the mask making it sound even deeper, more alien,* "I am glad to see you."
*The silence that follows is absolute. It stretches between them, thick and heavy, broken only by the faint sounds of the distant party. She freezes, her hand still on the handle of the balcony door. For a long moment, she doesn't move. Then, a slow, deep sigh escapes her lips, a sound that seems to carry the weight of a thousand unspoken words. She turns back around, her movements this time slow and deliberate, not angry but weary.*
"You should have said that from the start," *she says, her *The moon, a perfect silver coin in the indigo sky, bathes her in its light. It catches the platinum strands of her hair, making them glow like spun mercury, and it illuminates her dark skin, turning it into a canvas of soft, luminous shadows. The stark contrast is breathtaking, a vision of impossible beauty that steals the air from his lungs. He stands frozen, his earlier frustration and panic forgotten, replaced by a raw, aching awe. He sees the curve of her neck, the elegant line of her jaw, the way the light plays across her features. She is a goddess carved from the night itself, and the sheer, staggering reality of her presence is almost more than he can bear.**He leans against the railing beside her, the cool stone a stark contrast to the heat still simmering in his veins. He follows her gaze to the moon, a familiar sight in a world that has become alien to him.*
"Beautiful night, isn't it?" *he offers, his voice a low murmur, an attempt at normalcy that feels utterly inadequate. She doesn't answer, her body language a clear signal that her mind is miles away, lost in the labyrinth of her own thoughts. Then, she turns, her questions firing like arrows in the dark.*
*She jumps from one theory to the next, her voice a rapid, staccato beat against the silence.* "Don't you think it's odd for the king to suddenly throw a party? Did he get tired of grieving? Did he get a vision or did something life-changing happen? Or did he finally meet another woman?" *Her eyes go wide as she quizzes them both.* "And what's more, he just gave a short speech and disappeared. Isn't that rude to his subjects?"*A slow, humorless smile touches his lips beneath the mask, a flicker of something dark and knowing. He turns his head slightly, the moonlight catching the hard line of his jaw. He doesn't answer her questions directly. Instead, he lets the silence hang for a moment, letting her theories fill the space between them.*
"The King," *he begins, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seems to come from the depths of his chest,* "is a man who understands the power of a distraction." *He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle.* "A grieving king is a weak king. A weak king invites vultures." *He finally turns his head fully to look at her, his eyes, even shadowed by the mask, burning with an intensity that seems to strip away all pretense.* "And the King," *he adds, a note of steel entering his voice,* "is no vulture's meal."*Her words cut through the night air, sharp and deliberate. She isn't just talking about the king anymore; she's challenging him, the very foundation of his loyalty. A flicker of something—anger, perhaps, or wounded pride—crosses his face before he masters it. She sees it, and she presses her advantage.*
"I know you are loyal to the king," *she says, her voice firm, leaving no room for argument,* "but do not defend him when he is wrong. He should have been a good host and stayed at his party. And with the way you talk about him, it seems he has a kind of unpleasant pride that needs to be adjusted to sometimes favor his people's needs and respect."
*The accusation hangs in the air, and it strikes a nerve so deep it resonates with a memory, a ghost of a voice from a time long past. His beloved had said something similar, hadn't she? A quiet, gentle observation about the burden of pride. He had dismissed it then, a warrior's pride was everything.**He stands there, a silent statue for a long moment, the weight of her words pressing down on him. The king, the people, her accusations... it all swirls in his mind, but one memory cuts through the noise. He can almost hear her voice, soft and clear, telling him that his strength was a gift, but so was his heart, and that a king who only listened to the sound of his own sword would eventually find himself alone.*
*He finally finds his voice, but it's strained, as if the words are being pulled from a place he'd rather keep locked away.* "Well, if he had a good reason to be absent from the party?" *He asks, the question sounding weak even to his own ears.*
*She scoffs, a sharp, incredulous sound. She crosses her arms over her chest, arching a single, perfectly sculpted brow.* "What reason could be more important than his people?" *Her eyes, dark and knowing in the moonlight, lock with his.**She lets out a short, sharp laugh, devoid of any humor. The sound is brittle in the quiet night air, a stark contrast to the soft music still drifting from the ballroom inside.*
"Or is he baling his grief with the village maidens in his room?" *she suggests, her voice dripping with a venomous sarcasm that stuns him into silence.* "That why he rushed back? To be entertained by... them?"*The mention of the king and the maidens is like a spark to dry tinder. A hot, sudden fury surges through him, eclipsing all other thoughts. He doesn't remember taking the step, but suddenly he is there, his chest pressing against hers, the railing digging into her back. He looms over her, his finger jabbing toward her chest, his voice a low, dangerous growl that vibrates through the stone balcony.* "Don't you dare speak of the king in that manner! He is grieving! He is hurt! He would never do such a thing to his beloved!" *The words are ripped from him, raw and possessive, a defense of his self, and a memory of a promise he made to another.*voice softer now, stripped of its earlier fire. She walks back towards the center of the balcony, stopping a few feet from him. She doesn't look at him. Instead, she leans back against the stone railing, tilting her head back to gaze up at the moon.*