And so it was that yet another set of lessons were heaped upon Reina's schedule, this time with Crowe as her sole classmate. Regis had expected more pushback from Hamon in response to the order that he was to become a tutor for a twelve-year-old and her bodyguard. Instead Regis' instructions were met, initially, with puzzlement and then with something like resignation. Doubtless he would cook up some new scheme to turn Reina's magic to his own advantage. Given how she had last handled him, Regis was now willing to trust that this would only serve as a further test of all the skills she was meant to be learning. Who better to learn caution from than a viper?

Reina took the news rather less gracefully. As Crea had predicted, once she was convinced that Regis had no intention to disown her due to poor behavior, she reverted—albeit not all at once—to a preteen princess. One who had no particular respect for Hamon and plenty to hold against him.

"He thinks I'm a child," she complained to Regis.

He resisted the urge to tell her she was. Somehow, he doubted it would win him many points.

"He's going to come up with some reason why I should Dream for him and expect that I'll just fall into line."

"All the more reason not to," Regis said. "This is an excellent opportunity to show him the strong-willed young princess you wish to be treated as."

And that, she discovered, was that. No further amount of complaints would change his mind on the matter.

Crowe had nothing to say. Whether she believed as Reina did—that they had done wrong and did deserve this punishment—he could not say for certain. He could only trust that she would do best by Reina. As she had done thus far.

Not long after the breaking of the storm in Lucis, the news from Niflheim took on a different light. Amidst their trouble with the daemons in their Magitek research facilities, black storm clouds swelled over Gralea and beyond. And justice rained down. Whereas in Lucis Ramuh's goal had been the acute and prolonged suffering of Regis' people, he seemed now bent on destruction. Numerous reports of fires started via lightning strike came through from their reconnaissance team. Entire blocks of buildings were burned to the ground when the rain seemed almost to lift in places and encourage the fire's spread. They did not seem random strikes. Ramuh targeted power plants, research facilities, and military outposts.

And through it all, the Wall remained but an image of the thing, draining only a fraction of Regis' returning strength and protecting nothing, save his people's minds.

A bright and shining winter came to Lucis. Though the departure of the storm brought freezing temperatures and weather that froze sodden ground solid—mere mud encased in ice—the people rejoiced.

Winter, as a rule, brought merriment to the Citadel. Nominally it was the King's Ball—a celebration of the birth and life of the monarch. In practice, Regis found it simpler to think of as the Winter Ball. Birthdays were not a day for celebration, once one passed a certain age. They were a day for avoidance and denial.

It was unfortunate that Crea had developed a taste for court and, with it, a perfect willingness to participate in these matters. If she had been a recluse alongside him, they might have begged the ball off. Instead she banded against him and planned the damn thing.

"It's just one night! And you'll have fun, I promise," she said to him.

"Pray, do not make promises you cannot keep, my love."

She merely grinned and waggled her fingers at him before disappearing again.

And yet, he could not honestly say he preferred the young a retiring nanny who had hardly known what to do if someone over the age of eighteen so much as glanced her direction. Between the realization that courtiers were essentially overgrown children and the lessons in etiquette she still took alongside Reina and Noctis, she had grown into a full blown blueblood herself. She had carved her own place and sat at his side, as he had always dreamed she could. He could never regret that.

Despite the preparation for immediate celebration, the return of the sun meant they could no longer put off decisions that had been supposedly delayed by inclement weather. Though the fireworks at the end of the storm had persisted for several nights past the first, and though they would soon have their royal family paraded out amidst the pomp and ceremony of the Winter Ball, the people clamored for both betrothal and marriage.

Regis was of two minds on the subject. On the one hand, the sooner he and Crea were wed, the better. On the other hand, only one Astrals had been swayed, two more remained on his list as well as a cryptic suggestion that, somehow, a fourth was already aligned with him, and a fifth was in need of some form of deliverance. All that was to say nothing about his precarious position, strung between Bahamut and Ardyn. A part of him wished to put things off until all this was settled.

And yet, if he was forever putting off marriage until his life was less chaotic, he would never be married at all. This Aulea had discovered, some fifteen years ago, and this she had neatly sidestepped by disregarding his hemming and hawing and simply planning the wedding on her own.

Crea did much the same.

"We'll have Reina's betrothal ceremony this winter, after the Ball—" She had accepted his terminology associated with the event and no longer attempted to attach any birthday references to it. "—The preparations for that are all but complete. As for the wedding, there is still a little more to do. So I'll set the date in late spring so as not to overshadow the twins' birthday, but still give time for final preparations, and give us the best chance at fair weather. I know how you detest rain."

"All of Lucis detests rain," Regis said. But he had no objections to make with regard to her choices of dates and times.

Reina would, doubtless, be ecstatic to be a properly betrothed princess, though he dared not think what it would do to her rapidly inflating sense of self-importance. Just a few days before, he had overheard her telling Noctis that she was more suited to be the heir to the throne than he was, all things considered. Noctis had disagreed only on principle—Regis was learning rapidly that one tended not to agree with one's sister, even when one's sister was correct. In this case, it was neither here nor there. Perhaps she would grow into a suitable ruler. And doubtless Noctis would as well. More than once in the past year, Regis had found himself wondering if he hadn't made the wrong choice—and if it mightn't still be reversed. For the moment, it was one more consideration to clutter up his plate. Perhaps when they were older and willing to consider each other's strengths and weaknesses without sibling rivalries in the way, a definitive decision could be made. Until then, it was mere ammunition in the intermittent feud between brother and sister.

And so, after much debate, a day was set for the betrothal ceremony: a mere week after the Winter Ball. As predicted, this news was met by rejoicing from Reina, exasperated complaint from Noctis, and prompted further celebration within Insomnia. As if they had not been celebrating nonstop for weeks now.

At length, the day of the Winter Ball arrived, despite Regis' best efforts to prevent it by ignoring its existence. He had been made to be fitted for a new suit for the occasion, though it seemed to make little difference. At the distance most people would behold him from, it was impossible to tell whether a pair of trousers were pinstriped or pure black and surely the usual dusty violet of his vest was suited just as well to daily court as to a formal ball. But no. He was fitted now with a vest of striking burgundy and a black cravat.

He complained on all accounts as Weskham pressed his appearance into perfect order.

""Crea chose them, you know," Weskham said.

"The fact that I love her does not mean she is never fanciful. It merely means that I tolerate it."

Weskham smiled and combed his hair flat before fitting his crown in place. "Your queen awaits, Sire."

He left his quarters and stepped out into the hall where he found that, indeed, Crea was waiting for him in the royal lounge.

And all at once it made sense why he was wearing burgundy.

She unfolded from her armchair and the burgundy gown shifted into place: a perfectly-fitted dress of silk crepe that she might well have been sewn into. Her lips matched it perfectly in shade. Her hair was pinned up in the vaguest approximation of her usual messy bun, though this style dipped gracefully and suggested intent and aristocracy rather than a desire simply to have the mess out of her face. Taken separately, all the pieces of her appearance would have been at home on any of the ladies in court. Together, they boasted that she was not a courtier at all, but a nanny who had somehow stumbled into this land of gold of wine glasses and made herself at home.

Regis found himself momentarily stunned by the sight, unable to even formulate a reaction. A buzzing took the place of coherent thought in his mind.

Crea's voice broke through the static. "I believe you're allowed to compliment me, now that we're engaged."

He had been staring at her. Though he couldn't have said for how long. For all that, she only looked amused at him.

"You look magnificent," he managed. "Despite all, you somehow manage to take my breath away time and again."

She flushed, though the effect was muted beneath her makeup.

Weskham nudged him. "I believe this is the part where you offer the lady your arm."

Regis turned to glare at him. "Well and truly gone are the days when I require your prompting in the ways of etiquette. But if there comes a day when you stand before a breathtaking woman and are struck by the sudden realization that she has—for some incomprehensible reason—agreed to marry you, I shall be certain to point out how remiss you have been as well." Regis offered his arm to Crea and she took it without pause.

"I fear you will never get the opportunity, Sire," Weskham said.

"Because proper etiquette has been so well drilled into you that you no longer stumble, even at the greatest of hurdles?"

"If only," Weskham said. "No, I only meant to imply that my loyalty belongs first to you and it would be a strange partner indeed who accepts those priorities."

"Tell that to Fidelia," Crea said.

"Tolerates, I believe, is a better word for what Fidelia does with Clarus," Regis said. Still, it was a fair—if unfortunate—observation. A monarch's retinue was stripped of much, and all before they had a chance to choose at all.

As was the royal family. Perhaps it was retribution, of a sort. They were miserably, lonely, unhappy humans and therefore they made others miserable, lonely, and unhappy.

Well. Perhaps not in quite such a depressing fashion as that.

"Where have Noctis and Reina gone?" Regis asked.

"Noctis? Dodging Ignis' comb and avoiding his suit for all he's worth," Crea said. "Reina? I believe she's been locked in her dressing room with an army of servants for the better part of five hours."

"Wherever she inherited that from, it was not me," Regis said. Though Noctis had more in common with his father than it might appear at first glance.

"We might as well go on ahead," Crea said. "They'll be announced when they arrive… whenever that happens."

Whenever their retinues managed to drag them through the door, likely. Every retinue was required to contain at least one person who had more sense than the royal they surrounded.

Now that he thought of it, he wasn't sure which of Reina's friends that was.

They left the royal levels, trusting Ignis to collect and deliver the prince in good time and assuming that, if nothing else, Reina would show up in time to display all the hard work that had gone into her appearance—otherwise, what was the point?

Clarus was awaiting them on the main floor, along with Cor, Cid, and a contingent of Crownsguards. Gods forbid the king arrive at the ball without half an army in attendance. It was a matter of form over function, as the halls were largely deserted. Nearer the throne room, however, they began to hear the hum of conversation indicating a large and growing crowd in the main halls of the Citadel. Rather than push their way through the main entrance, they took private halls and made their way around to the monarch's entrance.

There was no such thing as a discreet entrance as a king. It might distantly have been called quiet, given that the crowds within the throne room quieted as a clear voice announced:

"His Royal Majesty, King Regis Lucis Caelum CXIII, and Creare Vinculum."

If any had been seated at the tables, which dotted the usually empty floors of his audience chamber, they certainly were not when the doors swung open to admit them. A wave swept through the crowd as the assembled guests bowed.

"Save this moment," Regis muttered out of the corner of his mouth to Crea. "It may be the last time you are announced without a title."

She gave him a peculiar little smile, which he could not interpret the meaning of, and lifted her hand to wave in a practiced motion. Where had she learned that?

The same place Reina had, likely.

They climbed the stairs to his throne together. He resisted the urge to kiss her, here on a dias in front of a hundred courtiers, and seated himself properly instead. It should have been satisfying enough that he was now permitted to be seen with her. But it wasn't.

Only a few more months.

The long wait began. As was custom, it was his place to be seated and be seen while the crowd in the throne room filled out. One by one and two by two, each courtier was introduced and announced to the already assembled crowd. Just one more reason to detest these events. This time, at least, Crea stood beside his throne. And from so far up with the constant murmur of conversation on the floor, no one could hear them exchange discreet words.

"Shall we place bets on how long it takes Ignis to wrangle Noctis and bring him down?" Crea asked.

"He's had all day," Regis said.

"Yes, but I doubt he'll have convinced Noctis to even think about putting on a suit until about ten minutes ago."

"A fair point. Over unders on thirty minutes?" Regis suggested.

"I'll give Ignis the benefit of the doubt. Under," she said.

"I trust Noctis' stubbornness will out against Ignis' efficacy."

"And Reina?" Crea asked.

"Am I permitted to place my bet that she will take another full five hours before the mirror and only show up when the first guests are beginning to leave?"

Crea hid her laughter behind her hand. "And miss dinner? She would never. I bet under one hour but later than Noctis."

Regis motioned to Clarus, who climbed the steps as rapidly as dignity allowed.

"What is the time?" Regis asked when he was near enough.

He glanced at his watch. "Three past five."

"Thank you. Pray, notify us again once my children have arrived."

Clarus gave them both a peculiar look, which Crea responded to with a mischievous grin and Regis disregarded entirely. But he consented and withdrew to a respectable distance.

Crea kept his mind occupied with light conversation while they waited. Inconsequential topics, which nevertheless made the dull minutes seated atop his throne watching the unending stream of guests enter his audience chamber more bearable. At last came the first of two announcements they had been waiting for.

"His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum."

Those already seated across the audience chamber rose to their feet and a similar bow swept through the room. Noctis entered through the main doors, looking remarkably dignified, and shortly followed by:

"The Royal Retainer, Hand of the Prince, Ignis Scientia."

And

"The Prince's Shield, Gladiolus Amicitia."

And finally, ushered in by the attendants and looking more than a little out of place—

"Prompto Argentum."

—A chubby boy in an ill-fitted suit who, despite all, clutched a camera in his hands like a sort of barrier between himself and the rest of the world. Regis would have known him by description, even without the name attached. He came to stand before the throne with the others, bowing belatedly and awkwardly, but Regis gave him a smile and a nod.

"My son, you look well dignified. Though perhaps I should address my compliments to Ignis instead," Regis said. He caught Clarus' eye, and Clarus passed the boys on the steps to lean close to the throne.

"Half past," he said.

Regis groaned. Crea let out a hissing cheer.

"Indeed, he has been so efficient that he has lost me a bet. Noctis, I expected better of you. The son of the most stubborn man in the kingdom and you could not have delayed for a mere five minutes more?"

Noctis glanced between Regis, Crea, and Ignis. He folded his arms over his chest. "Eh. You probably deserved to lose."

Regis sighed. "I am doomed to parent teenagers before they even reach thirteen. Let us hope that your sister is less punctual."

"Oh, don't worry," Noctis said. "She'll be another two hours in coming. Ignis wanted to check in and make sure she was on her way down. She screamed something and threw a hairbrush at the door."

"Very princess-like, I'm certain," Regis said. If he had learned anything in the last year, it was that he could believe nothing one twin said about the other anymore.

"Can we go? There's a great big hors d'oeuvres table over there with my name on it." Noctis asked.

"By all means, my son," Regis said, "Ensure that the kitchen staff works for their pay."

As if they needed Noctis' help with that. But the presence of the prince and his retinue at the ball would triple their workload, as it was a well known fact that four teenage boys could eat more than four hundred courtiers put together. Even if two of them were still only twelve.

Noctis and the others bowed again before turning and making their way back down the stairs and to the hors d'oeuvres.

"I do hope the staff has been warned that my son and his friends are in attendance," Regis murmured.

"Oh, they know." Crea motioned toward the table, where a full half dozen servants were keeping hawkish watch over the contents of each silver platter. More than one of them watched Noctis' approach.

"Damn." Regis sighed. "I refuse to accept that you won that."

"Fair and square." Crea grinned.

"By three minutes only."

"Let's be reasonable, it was at least five. It takes time to walk from the door to the throne."

He shot her a withering glare, which transformed into a smile all but immediately. How could he be anything but pleased to have her standing beside him.

They passed the next twenty minutes in a similar fashion: the admittances to the chamber were beginning to wind down, the servants had opened the doors to the adjacent dining hall and were escorting guests to their respective places, and still Reina had not arrived.

Once more, Regis motioned to Clarus who provided, this time without being prompted, "Five past six."

Regis permitted himself a smug smile. "And I have already won."

"Hm. She really does need an Ignis, doesn't she?"

"It might improve her punctuality." Unfortunately, Avun was fresh out of nephews and, as far as Regis was aware, he had never had a niece in the first place. Here, then, was hoping that Iris grew into a more socially-conscious and punctual young woman than Reina was turning out to be.

From across the hall, a voice announced: "Her Royal Highness, Princess Reina Lucis Caelum."

All eyes turned. Some guests were halfway across to the dining hall, but stopped to crane at the late arrival. And there in the entryway stood Reina.

Reina?

Surely it was Reina. The attendant had said so.

And yet, what he perceived first was not his daughter at all, but a ghost of the past, resurrected for but one night.

That dress, made for her on his birthday some fifteen years ago. The way she wore her hair plaited in a crown and adorned with silver thread and glittering diamonds. The shade of her lips—dark enough not to upset the blue of her dress but bright enough to betray her youth. Surely that was Aulea.

Regis was on his feet, though he had no recollection of having risen. She caught his eye across the room and held it as she approached. Distantly, he was aware of others following after—of the attendant calling a few more names—but he could hear nothing. He could see nothing, save the enigmatic little smile on her face. Even as she climbed the steps and stood before him, he was still half convinced that he was seeing Aulea.

"Hello, Father," she said.

And the spell broke. He was able to blink again, to take a full breath. The tunnel of his vision cleared and he could see her now, standing on the dais below his throne, flanked by Crowe, Iris, and Cindy. And the differences seemed as stark as the similarities: the coronet that nestled gracefully in her hair was a princess' coronet, not a queen-consort's. She was smaller than Aulea—a fact that was only emphasized by the height of Crowe and Cindy on either side of her. And, despite all the effort she had put into appearing otherwise, she was only twelve. Scarcely more than a child.

When he continued to stare at her, she ran her hands self-consciously over her dress. Aulea's dress. "Do you like it? I had it refitted so that I could wear it. I thought you might like to see it again…"

"My dear, you look stunning," he managed. "And you look so like your mother that I am at a loss for words."

He descended the steps toward her. It was off-script from their evening, but he cared little for that. He needed to hug her—to grasp her shoulders and be certain that she was truly his daughter and not some apparition. When he was near enough to do so, he was struck by a wave of memories so intense they froze him in his tracks once more.

"That scent…"

"There was an unopened bottle of perfume in the box with everything else," Reina said.

Aulea's perfume. And all the memories trapped within.

He could do little but stand there, hands clasped on her shoulders, as uncontrolled sensations and emotions tore through his mind. All at once he was not standing in the throne room. He was in the Citadel gardens on a summer day. He was driving in the Regalia with the top down. He was at the opera.

"Apologies, my dear. Please join the others in the dining hall. I require a moment."

True to his wishes, she did withdraw. Though she did so reluctantly, curtseying alongside her retinue and pulling away only to cast him a handful of over-shoulder glances as she made her way toward the dining hall. Regis stood frozen, staring after her. He remained that way until Clarus' hand on his shoulder startled him out of his reverie.

"The resemblance is striking," Clarus said.

"Haunting," Regis said.

They had always said she would grow up to look just like her mother. It was only now he realized how much of a curse that could be.

"I can ask her to change out of the dress," Crea suggested half-heartedly from his other side.

"No," Regis said. "I would not do that to her."

Not after she had spent so much time and effort perfecting her appearance. Not after she had stood before him, shining bright like a star and smiling fit to burst. She was so pleased just to show him that dress. And perhaps, without context, he might have been as pleased to see it on her as he should have been. But…

"You may, however, suggest that if she wishes to wear Aulea's perfume, she does so where I cannot catch scent of it."

"I will," Crea said. "Later."

"And please be gentle. I do not wish to upset her with this." Any more than he already had.

"No," Crea agreed. "No more than she wanted to upset you."

By that time, all the courtiers had been seated in the dining hall and the attendants waited solely on the king and his retinue. Reina had disappeared from sight. But she would be seated beside him throughout dinner. Or near enough that facing her would be unavoidable.

Well. He would simply have to bear it. It would not be so daunting, now that he knew what to expect. But the mere experience of being caught off guard by his late wife's dress and perfume in the span of two minutes had been too much. He steeled himself and offered Crea his arm.

As they descended the steps, the remainder of his retinue fell into step behind them. Though Regis led Crea by the arm, he distinctly felt her take his mind in hand and guide it to less destructive thoughts:

"I know you were distracted upon Reina's entrance, but I suppose we've come out even on bets."

It took a moment to steer his thoughts around in line with hers. Noctis had arrived earlier than he had guessed but Reina had arrived in line with his expectations. Though when the time in question had passed, he had permitted himself a brief but smug celebration.

"Indeed," he managed.

"And yet, we did not put a price on said bets. So I find myself at a loss as to what 'even' means: Are we both to pay dues to the other, or does debt cancel credit and therefore no payments are made?"

"That would depend entirely on the manner of payment you had in mind," Regis said.

"Precisely."

Clarus cleared his throat. "May I remind you two that we are in polite company."

"Why, Clarus!" Crea looked over her shoulder at him, as if scandalized. "Whatever are you insinuating?"

Clarus gave him a long suffering look, which pulled an unwilling smile from Regis.

They joined the guests in the dining hall: all down the enormous table, people stood, awaiting the king's arrival. Two chairs stood empty on his side of the table and several on the opposite: to the right of Regis' chair stood Noctis with Reina beside. As he had expected—or at least hoped—Reina's appearance was less jarring the second time around. Beyond them were their retinues in full attendance. To the left of Crea's chair were a handful of courtiers that Regis could not name at the moment. He gave each of them a nod of recognition nevertheless as he and Crea took their places at the table.

All things considered, the dinner was an enjoyable enough affair. He was seated comfortably amongst the people he cared to hold conversation with—namely, his family and friends. Those people Crea had chosen to sit nearest her, he discovered, were a few courtiers she had made friends with in the past months. They seemed pleasant enough people.

Every now and again he caught scent of Reina's perfume and tumbled through disoriented memories until the air shifted and all sensation of being in another time and place vanished. Nevertheless, he made a point of fixing his attention on her and assuring her more than once over the course of the meal that she looked absolutely lovely. Not that she had any shortage of compliments, with both Prince Ravus and Ignis sitting nearby.

"I sense trouble brewing in your seating arrangement," Regis noted, leaning close to Crea and dropping his voice.

She sighed. "Yes, I know. It's very difficult to keep everyone's politics in mind when they belong, more or less, to the same circle."

He offered her a smile, despite the frustration on her features. "Did you truly arrange every seat at this table?"

"Most of them," she said. "I distinctly recall birthday dinners spent in misery because someone had thought seating your retinue away from you was a wise choice. I thought to take that in hand. And once I had started it was difficult to stop, except it's a little like one of those logic puzzles—you know the sort: Johnny can't sit next to Mary and Joanne absolutely must be seated diagonally from the Duchess Selene but not on the same side of the table as Mary—except there's no actual solution and you're bound to seat two people together who dislike each other and it's just a matter of choosing the least important people to upset."

Arguably, upsetting the Prince of Tenebrae and the Hand of the Prince was not the best option. Given that he had little notion precisely what the development of seating arrangements entailed, he decided to keep that opinion to himself.

Nevertheless, he kept one eye on their side of the table as dinner progressed. By the time desert had been served, they had done little save shoot withering glares at each other. Or, more accurately, Ignis had shot withering glares in Ravus' direction, while Ravus pointedly ignored them. He seemed to take little notice of Ignis' displeasure, save at one instance, just as a slice of cake was being set before him, when he met Ignis' gaze levelly and fixed him with a miniscule smile that could only be described as smug. Ignis' hand clenched on his dessert fork and he made a motion as if to rise from his seat, but stopped himself.

Regis glanced over his shoulder and caught Avunculus' eye. Avun hurried forward.

"Keep an eye on your nephew tonight," Regis whispered when he was near enough. "I sense he struggles to maintain his place."

Avun gave him a quizzical look but merely bowed and withdrew. He had sharp eyes and keen senses. He would likely note if anything was amiss before Regis did.

As for Ravus… Regis was reluctant to enlist Sylva's help in policing her son. Doubtless she could do so efficiently, as she had done for nearly twenty years. After having declared that Ravus was as good as his own son, however, he was reluctant to hand the boy over to his tyrannical mother. Besides, Crea had seated Sylva well along the table. It was unconventional seating for someone of such a renowned position, but it did prevent them from having to tolerate her company. In any case, she was likely unaware of the brewing tension.

He reached for his wine glass and Crea's hand covered his. "I'll keep an eye on them."

He could only smile at that. Crea, charmer of children and courtiers. If anyone could handle the jealous feud of two teenage boys, it was her.

Dinner concluded without further incident. The walls were folded back to reveal the audience chamber once more, though by now it had been transformed into a ballroom, complete with an orchestra in the council gallery.

As the last to be seated, Regis was also the first to leave the table, though his retinue and family formed a parade at his heels as he made his way into the throne room once more. Traditionally, the dance floor was opened by Regis, save on those occasions when he was feeling too stubborn or too prickly to comply with the evening's plans. And, on those years when he did dance, there had only ever been one young woman he offered his arm to.

Now he had two.

Which presented something of a problem.

Already there had been some stirring of hurt feelings when Reina perceived he had given what was hers to Crea. And though she had more young men to dance with this evening than she could possibly accommodate, something told him she would still place the utmost value on this dance in particular.

He had already hurt her enough, this evening—though quite unintentionally.

On the other hand, he was newly engaged to Crea. For the first time in thirteen years, he had a partner in attendance. One whom he would be expected to dance with.

He leaned closer to Crea as they walked. "I find myself in something of a tight situation, my love."

"Dance with Reina first," she said, her voice equally low. "To hell with what people say. I'll wait my turn."

He might have kissed her. In fact, why not? Perhaps they were standing in an ever- growing crowd of courtiers as the guests flooded in through the doors behind them. They were engaged, were they not?

He kissed her. The court would have enough to talk about in a few moments, anyway—with any luck they would forget the kiss within seconds.

He pulled away from Crea, leaving her with a foolish smile that he hoped, in retrospect, no cameras had captured, as he turned instead to his daughter.

Reina stood but a short distance away, escorted on Ignis' arm. How he had managed that contained a catoblepas of a story, but this was not the time to hear it. Nor, judging by the stormy look on Ravus' face, was it time to bring attention to it. Perhaps he should have diffused the situation by offering her his arm earlier, but he had been rather distracted by Crea. He could only attempt to remedy it now.

He held out his hand to Reina. Her face broke into a beautiful smile before he had even opened his mouth.

"Will you allow me this dance, my dear?"

She was smiling so broadly that all she could manage was a nod as she placed her tiny hand in his. Not so small as when she was five and they had danced only insofar as he had carried her about the dance floor in patterns vaguely resembling a waltz and mostly in time with the music.

He took her hand and led her to the floor. They passed by Crea, who was smiling the proud smile of a mother, but all other faces Regis glanced over held looks of shock.

"I thought you would dance with Miss Crea," Reina said, once they stood in the center.

"So did they." He allowed his eyes to sweep the assembled guests. Everyone, from the youngest courtier all the way up to Clarus, were looking wide-eyed between Regis and Crea. No time for them now. He had a lovely young princess to dance with.

They took their places. The orchestra quieted, then began a waltz. And they fell into step as they had done so many times before. She had gotten better at dancing. He had not.

"I'm sorry about the dress, Father. I only wished to remember her to you."

And now, perhaps, when it may have appeared to an outside observer that he was so near to forgetting her, was a prime time to do so. He had managed, for the most part, to see past the dress to the girl who wore it. Once the initial shock had faded, he could see the differences as starkly as the similarities. Reina looked her mother's daughter—a fact that none would argue—but she looked as much Reina as she did Aulea. More, if one knew where to look: the tilt of her head, the upturn of her chin, the stubborn line of her jaw. Where Aulea had been guile and mischief, Reina was pride and stubbornness. At least she had inherited her mother's good looks, if she was doomed to be stuck with her father's bad habits.

The scent of Aulea's perfume, however, was more deadly. And this near to her he struggled not to tumble head-first into long-forgotten memories.

"You have, my dear," Regis managed. "You look uncannily like her. I shall have to show you a photograph of her at your age, so you might appreciate the resemblance."

"You have photos of Mother?" Reina's eyes widened. "Besides the wedding picture?"

"Of course. On my bookshelf, behind her last needlepoint, is an entire album of them." Had she truly grown to nearly thirteen years of age, and never once he had pulled out that album for her and Noctis?

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he knew it to be the case. Opening that book was an instant recipe for disaster. It was difficult enough to look through without losing himself. To do so while his children were present would have been unbearable.

And yet, what must they have thought of him? A man who visited his wife in the mausoleum but once a year and stood there in the unheated stone halls while blizzards raged outside, throughout the entire day. A man who never spoke to them of their mother, but to tell them they would have a new one when they had never known the first. A man who hung no pictures of his late wife, save the framed photo of his wedding day sitting on his bookshelf. A man who locked away all of her remaining possessions and forgot about them for twelve years.

How could he explain what he hardly understood himself—that though he loved their mother very much and would never—could never—forget her, he had, at long last, come to terms with her absence in his life? That, despite the love he had for their mother, he had still fallen deeply in love with Crea because, as Weskham had said, that was a love of the past.

"Reina. Your mother is never far from my mind. And while I had once resolved you and Noctis should not grow up without hearing every tale of her, I have since discovered that sharing them myself is not a pleasant experience. I should like for you both to feel as if you had been near to her, for she would have wished you to know her and to remember her. But I fear I am not the one to facilitate that. If her dresses and her possessions allow you to remember her, then wear them for yourself. And I shall loan you the photograph album, so that you and Noctis might see what I mean when I suggest you are the exact image of your mother at this age. More than that, however, I must decline."

She was silent for a time, and he could tell no more from her face than that she was pensive.

At length she said, "I don't understand."

"No," Regis agreed. No more had he expected her to. She was acquainted with death only as a distant concept. And while she was wise and observant beyond her years at times, this was one place her Dreams had not enlightened her. "And for that I am grateful."

"Why?" She asked.

"Someday, you will understand," he said. "But do not be too eager to learn. Some things are better left unknown."

Those words, at least, struck a chord with her. Her eyes glazed a moment and she stumbled a step in the dance. He caught her and adjusted his gait until she had regained her bearings.

"Yes," she agreed. "Some things are."

With that cryptic remark, the waltz came to a close. Rather than lower her in a dip, Regis swept her off her feet and spun her about. She was getting too big to be carrying about, but he was rewarded by the smile on her face.

"Thank you for dancing with me, Father," she said as he placed her back on her feet and a wave of applause broke out among the assembled guests and staff.

"This dance will always be yours, my dear," he said. And with one last smile, he offered his arm and guided her back to the others, where her retinue stood mingling with Noctis'. "And now, I return you to your eagerly awaiting audience."

She laughed at this, releasing his arm to rejoin the others.

"Enjoy yourselves," he said to her and Noctis, though he caught Ravus' eye through the bunch and lifted his eyebrow in warning. If Regis was to be as good as his father, he might as well behave like it.

Ravus looked away. Message received. It only remained to be seen whether or not it was heeded.

With his daughter delivered safely into the hands of her friends and admirers, he turned to look for Crea and found her nearly at his elbow.

"That was sweet," she said, "I'm sure the whole city will be talking about it for months."

"Until something more interesting comes along." Regis offered her his arm. "Might I have this dance?"

"This would probably be a good time to tell you that, up until a few months ago, I had never waltzed a single time. And that Noctis is not a very good dance partner." Nevertheless, she took his arm.

"Reina has said much the same thing. In any case, you needn't worry. Only every eye in the kingdom is upon us."

"Oh, thanks," she said dryly, "If it wasn't, I'd hit you."

"The public eye can be an excellent shield." Often more useful than Clarus. He would not, if Regis was any judge of his friend, have prevented Crea from hitting him.

"Oh, you'll get your comeuppance. Just watch," she said. "I'm sure I can contrive to accidentally step on your toes in these heels."

Now that she mentioned, they did not appear to be the sort of shoe he would have chosen to have his feet stomped with. If any.

Though a few couples had made moves to join the dance floor, when Regis took Crea's arm all the courtiers dispersed until only one other couple stood on the floor with them: Reina and Ravus. An odd sight to be certain: Ravus towered over tiny Reina—though Regis doubtless looked no better with her—and near everything about them seemed in stark and opposite contrast. His hair so pale as to be white, while hers was so black it nearly matched the midnight blue of her dress. He wore the Nox Fleuret's traditional whites to her dark tones. His mismatched eyes to her solid blues. But they both took to the floor with the focus and grace of well-studied dancers.

"I fear we may be upstaged," Regis said.

"Then no one will notice me stepping on your feet."

Doubtless they didn't. Though this was largely due to the fact that, when stumbling and foot misplacement happened, it was all swept up in the music—as such things tend to be. There was a certain magic that occurred on the dance floor between two partners that have offered each other their fullest attention. Once the awkwardness of whose hands go where and which foot moves first has been conquered and the steady rhythm of the song has stripped away what thought it required for a base waltz, all that remains are two people paying intense attention to each other. Every motion of every muscle was calculated and interpreted, and once the mystery of individual language was overcome, then the magic took hold.

By the end, he couldn't have said whether Reina and Ravus had upstaged them or, indeed, what they had looked like at all. So focused had he been upon Crea that even the ubiquitous crowd had faded away.

As the song came to a conclusion, he did not lift Crea up and spin her around, as he had done to his smaller daughter. But he led her in a turn and, hands braced securely on her back, lowered her in a dip. And for a moment, in the silence following the song, time stopped. Only the two of them remained unfrozen, eyes locked. It was too neat an opportunity to pass up.

He kissed her.

The world came back into focus around them with the sound of applause. Reality returned, and they stood once more, the center of attention, in the middle of the dance floor.

He lifted her back to her feet, suppressing a groan. "I am too old for this."

"You're only forty two." She took his arm and allowed him to lead her off the dance floor as applause faded to conversation.

"I feel at least sixty."

"How would you know what sixty feels like?"

Across the dance floor, where Reina and Ravus stood arm-in-arm, Ignis approached.

"Trouble." Regis altered their course subtly, so as not to draw attention to the young couple—if indeed it could be avoided.

They reached Reina and Ravus shortly after Ignis did and in time to see him straighten from his bow and offer Reina his hand.

"Your Highness," he said, "Would you honor me with a dance?"

Crea squeezed his arm. He glanced down to find her giving him a significant look, the meaning clear enough: don't intervene unless necessary. The Hand of the Prince asking the Princess to dance was not a breach of etiquette—far from it—and she was free to dance with whom she chose.

She did.

"I would love to, Ignis." She took his hand, offering him a smile in return, and unthreaded her arm from Ravus'.

Ravus stiffened, making a motion as if to catch her hand. He stepped forward even as Reina and Ignis stepped away.

"Prince Ravus," Regis said. "A word?"

He could not well refuse. Though he gave Ignis one last scathing look as he led Reina to the dance floor, Ravus joined Regis and Crea. They walked together in silence, Ravus falling into step at Regis' opposite side, until they had climbed the steps toward the throne and escaped the near press of the crowds.

"I believe I have made it clear that you are to behave with the utmost dignity while in the public eye," Regis said. "And yet at the risk of repeating myself, I find myself inclined to grant you a reminder."

Ravus scowled, but turned his back to the crowds, facing Regis fully. "He is a jealous fool."

"As are you," Regis said evenly. "Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on your perspective—you are on your way to becoming betrothed to the princess, and therefore cannot afford to be caught in a scandal."

"He should not be permitted to dance with her," Ravus maintained.

"Permitted? Ravus, my daughter is permitted to dance with whomever she chooses, regardless of promises or betrothals. She is not a possession to be clutched tightly and locked away."

Ravus looked away, shamefaced. "No, Your Majesty. I understand."

"Then you also understand that it would be in poor taste if the Prince of Tenebrae was engaged in a fight—physical or otherwise—at the King's Ball."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Good. Now run along. And behave yourself, Ravus."

He took the dismissal with as much dignity as he could muster and descended to the floor while Regis and Crea climbed the last of the steps to the throne.

"Well, I'm certain we will have no more trouble from them. After all, when has a talk from a parent not dissuaded teenage boys from doing what they will?" Regis said dryly.

Crea grinned. "Of course. I'm sure they'll all be well-behaved now."

For a time, it almost seemed that way. Reina indulged Ignis in his dance, Ravus offered his arm to Cindy, and the night went on with a rotating roster on the dance floor. Reina seemed engaged more often than not—she dance with both Ravus and Ignis multiple times, but others as well, as if she knew full well what Regis had just told Ravus and meant to flaunt it: she could dance with whomever she wished, and she belonged to none of them. Ignis, for the most part, danced only with Reina, but Ravus chose other partners whenever Reina was otherwise occupied. Two could play at the game.

"Oh, to be young and in love again," Regis said.

"Instead you're old and jaded?" Crea asked.

He glanced her over, a smile settling on his lips. "No. Old and in love."

But whatever silent war waged between the three below, they were thankfully spared the spectacle of a fight breaking out on the dance floor. All things considered, the evening came to a remarkably sedate close. And as the guests began to trickle away in ones and twos and the crowd in the throne room began to thin, Regis was forced to admit:

"It was not quite as bad as I had anticipated."

Crea gave him a flat, unamused look. "I suppose that's the best I can expect from you. Clarus, will you come stand in front of Regis so I can hit him with no one seeing?"

"I fear I have not enough width to me yet," Clarus said. "Though encroaching middle age promises to change that."

"Oh, come on. You're handling it much better than Regis," she said.

"He does complain rather loudly," Clarus agreed.

"I am sitting right here."

"And yet, I notice he has merely gained distinguished silver flecks in his hair and beard, while I…." Clarus ran his hand over his bald head and smiled ruefully at Crea.

"For how much he complains about the silver, you'd think he'd prefer to have none at all," Crea said.

"I really am right here."

"I'm sure that could be arranged. Weskham is most obliging."

Regis sighed and rose from his throne. "I can see it's no use. I may as well sneak away while this invisibility lasts."

Crea laughed and caught his arm as he began descending the steps. Clarus joined them and together they passed unimpeded through what remained of the guests and those of the serving staff who were beginning to file in for cleaning.

After the heat of the crowded throne room and the constant murmur of voices, the chilly and silent halls were a remarkable relief. They walked in companionable silence for a time, accompanied only by the sound of their own echoing footsteps, until the sound of voices from up ahead came drifting down the hall to meet them.

"...never have come to this, if not for the empire." That was Ignis, surely.

"On the contrary," said Ravus. "Niflheim has been entirely out of the picture for months now, and yet the betrothal remains on the calendar."

"Only because you forced His Majesty's hand."

Ravus laughed. "More likely because Princess Reina would prefer to marry a prince over a prince's messenger boy. Look at you. You're all skin and bones. I've seen you in Crownsguard practice, wielding a pair of daggers because your tiny arms are too scrawny to lift anything bigger."

They rounded the corner in time to see Ignis lunge for Ravus.

"Ignis." Regis halted him with a sharply placed word.

Ignis froze, hands balled in the front of Ravus' coat, a look of mortification crossing his face. He bowed hurriedly to hide it. Ravus turned, unflustered and unsurprised. Doubtless he had heard the footsteps and guessed at their source. Had he intentionally baited Ignis at precisely the right time to cause him to snap when Regis appeared? Or had it been mere happenstance?

"Your Majesty," Ravus said levelly. "I regret that you've had your evening disturbed. Ignis and I were merely having a discussion regarding my upcoming betrothal."

"So I gather," Regis said. He fixed Ravus with an unwavering gaze until Ravus grew uneasy and looked away. "Given that the ceremony is nearly upon us, I had hoped you would act in a fashion more befitting a prince. I can see I placed too much faith in your manners."

Ravus looked stricken. Ignis, still frozen with his head bowed, chanced a glance up and between them before dropping his eyes again.

"Return to your rooms, please, Prince Ravus. And if you cannot recall to mind the proper bearing of a prince, you would do well to remain there."

Annoyance flashed on Ravus' face before it was tucked securely away. He bowed stiffly and left.

When the sound of his footsteps had faded and Regis stood in silence, still staring at the back of Ignis' bowed head—and only then—did he permit himself to think of Ignis. Before he could decide what to say, Ignis spoke.

"I apologize, Your Majesty. My behavior was unbefitting one in the service of the crown."

"It was," Regis agreed. There was no reason to deny it. "If either one of you had walked away, the other would have had nowhere to grind his teeth."

Ignis said nothing. Nor did he move from his half-bowed position to look up at Regis.

Regis sighed. "I understand that it is not easy to walk away from an insult." Indeed, Regis was still prone to sulking when he felt Clarus had implied he was too weak or infirm. "And yet, level headedness is a skill you will be required to possess as Hand of the Prince. Do you understand, Ignis?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Be on your way, then."

Ignis straightened, glanced between Regis, Crea, and Clarus, and bowed hastily again. Then he turned on his heel and began to walk away. He stopped but a few steps down the hall, hesitating, before he turned back.

"Sire? Forgive me if this question is impertinent, but… does she truly love him?"

The trouble at the heart of it all. And a question Regis was ill-equipped to answer.

"Only, I had thought…" Ignis began again, but stopped himself mid-sentence. His face and ears flushed red.

So he had noticed. It had not been so long ago when Reina had searched for any excuse to sit next to him and had coveted the chance to dance with him at the ball.

"I fear that is a question I cannot answer," Regis said. "I can merely say that Princess Reina is young yet, though growing quickly. While she is eager to be betrothed to Prince Ravus, it is not always the case that people feel the same at thirteen as they do at sixteen or twenty."

"And yet she would be betrothed to him," Ignis said.

"Yes," Regis said. "She would be."

And some days he still questioned himself as to whether or not that was wise. In theory, betrothals were not so immutable or unbreakable as a marriage or even an engagement, but in practice they tended not to be broken. To allow his daughter to be betrothed before she was even thirteen simply because the prospect pleased her was sometimes against his better judgement.

Yet here they were, all the same.

"I see," Ignis said and, though Regis had told him nothing he had not already known, something solidified on his face like a bolt sliding into place. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

He bowed once more and this time when he turned to leave, he managed the thing properly. And Regis was left standing in the hall with Crea and Clarus.

"I have the lingering sensation of having made several terrible mistakes in short succession," Regis said.

Clarus slapped his back in what might have been a sympathetic fashion. Crea took his arm and smiled up at him.

"You handled them just fine," she said.