The Ball is right on everyone's nose, so everyone is preparing like they will lose their nose if everything isn't perfect.
After all the future queen will be there among all the maiden present in the ball. So the palace has to be ready to welcome her.
And this doesn't exclude the prince.
The palace tailor arrived before noon, which Adrian privately considered rude. Nothing good ever happened before noon, especially not when it involved measuring tapes.
"Stand straight, Your Highness," Tailor Pepperwick instructed, already circling Adrian like a vulture studying its prey.
"I am standing straight," Adrian complained.
"Straight in the body, not in spirit. Currently you are slouching in both."
Rowan snorted behind him. Adrian shot him a murderous glance.
The tailor snapped his measuring tape like a whip. "Chest—deep breath!" Adrian obeyed, inhaling far too dramatically.
Pepperwick frowned. "Not like you're announcing a speech. Like a normal man."
"This is normal for me," Adrian insisted.
Rowan leaned against a bookshelf, "Normal for him includes stress-eating tarts and trying to charm guard dogs."
"Earl was a very grumpy dog," Adrian muttered.
Pepperwick moved to shoulder measurements, tugging and yanking. Adrian yelped.
"Tell me, Prince," the tailor asked dryly, "have your shoulders grown since the last ball? Or has your pride?"
Rowan nodded. "Both. He's been training."
Pepperwick scribbled on parchment. "Tragic."
When he got to inseam measurements, Rowan respectfully turned around—though "respectfully" was ruined by how hard he was shaking with silent
.
"Don't you dare laugh," Adrian warned.
"I'm not," Rowan lied, a laugh leaking out anyway.
Pepperwick clapped his hands. "Measurements done! Now colors. Will His Highness choose jewel tones or undertones of jewel tones?"
Adrian blinked. "What's the difference?"
"Fashion," Pepperwick replied cryptically.
Rowan whispered, "It's sorcery. Don't question it."
As soon as the tailor fled—possibly for his sanity—Adrian was dragged to dance lessons.
Madame Belladine, Dance Master Extraordinaire, was a tiny woman with the posture of a soldier and the patience of someone who owned none.
"Prince Adrian, you must glide, not stomp! This is not a march to war, it is a waltz!"
"I'm gliding," Adrian argued, attempting to prove it by sliding his foot. He slid too far, nearly took out a candelabra, and caught himself against Rowan.
Adrian isn't bad at dancing, it's just a prince has to be excel in everything. Perfect than the word 'perfect' itself.
Rowan steadied him. "Gliding deadly. Impressive."
Madame's eyebrow twitched. Always a bad sign.
"Again."
Five tries later, Adrian had stepped on Rowan's boot, Madame's skirt, and once—in a disaster he would personally never speak of again—his own cape.
Then came etiquette lessons.
Master Corwin, the chosen advisor of proper manners, recited rules like battle strategies:
"Don't slouch, don't yawn, don't sigh dramatically—especially mid-conversation, prince—bow at a thirty-five degree angle, smile with sincerity but not with your teeth because teeth is too forward—"
Rowan leaned in, whispering, "If all that fails, just pretend you're mysterious."
"I can't be mysterious," Adrian whispered back. "I ask too many questions."
Corwin ignored them both.
"And during the ball, do not refer to political rivals as 'vaguely villainous' like last year."
Adrian raised a finger. "In my defense, he was villainous."
"And vague," Rowan helpfully added.
Corwin shut his notebook. "Regardless. No."
By evening, Adrian collapsed onto the couch, arms thrown wide.
Rowan shut the study door behind him with a soft click, removing the last barrier between duty and the far more interesting business of gossip.
"I survived tailoring, etiquette, and social dancing," he declared. "If the gods see fit to strike me dead now, I will perish as a hero."
Rowan handed him a pear. "Eat. Heroes need nutrients."
Adrian took a bite and pointed it at him.
"Tomorrow is weapon practice."
"Much safer," Rowan agreed.
After Adrian had recovered enough strength to breathe again, Rowan flopped into the armchair opposite him, unlacing his boots with the intensity of a man freeing himself from chains.
"You know," Rowan said, "you haven't stopped smiling since that forest incident."
Adrian tried to look offended. Instead, he looked guilty. "I smile all the time."
"Not at etiquette tutors. Or dance masters. Or swords. Or dogs. Or swans."
"Swans are evil," Adrian reminded him.
"Yet," Rowan continued, "you smiled at that girl. The one with the brown dress and horse that hated everything."
Adrian sat up. "It didn't hate everything. Just trees, puddles, the wind, and anyone taller than four feet."
"So everything," Rowan deadpanned.
Adrian ignored him and stared at the ceiling. "Her name was Ella. She had such a calm way of talking to the horse—like she expected it to behave, and somehow it agreed."
Rowan lifted a brow. "After kicking me."
Adrian winced. "Yes, well. The horse was selective with its affections."
Rowan rubbed his shin. "I think it was possessed."
"And she wasn't alone," Adrian continued, leaning forward. "There was another girl with her—fiery, loud, very red hair and was holding me responsible for the forest."
"You're the crown prince of this land so technically she IS right about that." Rowan teased.
"She told her name Ella. I met her again, you that day Orion ran away, she helped me to calm him down."
"Ohh... I bet horse is your lucky animal this year." Rowan said like a prophet.
"You know, the day we went to the market. I met with the red head in that fabric shop."
"Ohh so now a prince stalks women's in the market. What a nice hobby!!" Rowan smirked.
"No really, she was arguing about patterns like she was defending national honor. She nearly stabbed the merchant using only words."
Adrian chuckled.
"And she didn't even notice I was the prince. She just… kept talking. Bold. Funny. A chaos of personality wrapped in ribbons."
Rowan grabbed an apple from the table. "I like her already."
Someone knocked on the door, "Tea, your highness."
Rowan unlocked the door and allowed the maid to serve tea and biscuits. After serving, she left the room. This time Rowan left the door unlocked.
"Well... That day I met with an airhead too." Rowan stated with a pause while sipping his tea.
"Interesting!! You never talked about any woman before. Come on go on."
"She suddenly popped out of thin air when I called for you. Talking all nonsense, even stumbling upon her own strategy." Rowan laughed.
"What....?"
"Yes, that's what she said."
They both went silent and then started laughing like complete idiots. Forgetting their royal status, etiquette for a brief moment to pleasure.
Finally Rowan said, "So. To summarize: one forest goddess named Ella who negotiates with horses. One fire-tempered fabric warrior with red hair. And one loud aristocrat with opinions and gloves."
"And we know none of their names except Ella," Adrian sighed.
Rowan nodded. "If they show up at the ball, I want credit for recognizing them."
"If they show up at the ball," Adrian muttered, "I'll need more dancing lessons."
Rowan groaned. "No one needs more dancing lessons."
They both slumped back like men facing fate.
Somewhere in the palace halls, ballroom music echoed faintly—as if destiny itself were warming up.
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SIDE NOTE: So since the prince is ready and the princesses are ready. What are we waiting for.😉
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