A/N: I feel like I owe y'all, like, a lot. You've sat through 80k words of my romance story with very little romance to show for it. I'm trying to fix that. Don't get too excited-it's not yet. Soon, but not yet. So, yeah. . . ~8k words posted in one week. I still have a few holes to fill, but we're surely chuggin' along.

Thank you for your patience, y'all are the best and I really love sharing this story with you.

After the weathered simplicity of Blackthorne, Chicory was an elaborate tapestry of gilded scrollwork and delicate frescoes. An inland matrix of merchants and established craftsmen, the city was in need of nothing it did not already have, yet welcomed new influences and ideas with open doors and borders. The bakeries and bistros would have put Mrs. McCreary to shame if she could ever muster the emotion beyond her homespun pride. It was a wealthy city of both ideas and peoples, which was exactly how it came about its riches—a welcome hub of trade and a haven for those who relished a scraggly climb to the top. It was no wonder, then, that the Duke's daughter was to be wed to an exceptionally wealthy Duke of a nearby city-state: it both solidified the existing trade relationships of the city and stabilized the immediate economy from any odd wind the traders seemed obliged to feel.

The chateau stood at the northern point of the city, a glistening, guiding star amidst the sprawl. Columns like tree trunks and leaded glass windows as vast as the open sea, it extended multiple city blocks in its splendor. Talia and the Thunder Legion strode up the sweeping staircase as the light began its shift toward a golden afternoon. At the crest, they met the Captain of the Guard. His deep blue nobility guard uniform drew in the light off the marble columns, as if the very fabric was ravenous. Gold bars denoting rank aligned on one side of his chest, and an upright jacket collar kept his head high and straight. He stood at parade rest as they climbed the stairs—a gloved hand clasped in a loose fist, the other keeping a light grasp of his wrist. He couldn't have been more than a year or two older than Talia herself; his sandy hair hung straight and sweeping, barely dusting his eyelashes in a youthful harkening that did not match the squareness of his jaw or shoulders.

"Fairy Tail mages?" he asked, with little question in his tone.

"Yeah, that's us," answered Laxus, voice steady despite his queasiness from the short train ride to the city. He still wasn't feeling quite up to his normal self, despite what he told his team. The last few days in Blackthorne, he had continued to act as a crash test dummy for Talia's Triskellion, and-though it never truly injured him, and she still refused to aim for his heart—he was never really quite right for a few days afterward. The echo of disjointment still pulled at the edges of his vision and magic. He chose to ignore them.

After introductions, Tryst, Captain of the Guard, began his tour of the chateau and explanation of the ball's safety protocols. They were extensive, and Talia felt overwhelmed by both the chateau and the care of planning that Tryst had clearly taken. He walked ahead of them, now, the long corridors melding together in their opulence. Talia had never seen such wealth so prominently displayed. It was clearly there to intimidate and awe—and it did just that. There was an entire hall simply of golden mirrors. Just mirrors. As if adding gold to the frames would make the subject inherently more lovely. But she did look into almost every single one—just to check. There were delicate creatures entwined into even the most basic of fireplace mantles (of which there were many), and dancing depictions from various mythologies (also numerous) adorned the ceilings high above them as they ventured deeper into the halls. Until finally they reached the Great Hall (of which there was only one, thank goodness: Talia couldn't quite imagine having to keep track of a Great, Greater, and Greatest Halls)—here, the walls seemed to peel away entirely, and they entered a vast palace of splendor in its own right. The ceiling was easily 30 feet above their heads, and the chateau staff hard at work stringing lights across the vast expanse between the uppermost railings. Massive arched glass doors led out to balconies every ten strides, though you'd have to first cross from one side to the other of the immense inlaid wooden floor to reach one. An engagement party indeed—this hall alone would likely fit two hundred dancing couples.

"Inner guard will be posted here," Tryst motioned economically to a pillar on their right, his gloved hand gesturing but never pointing, "and every other arch, alternating across the other side so as to have a complete view of the floor at all times. There will also be archers posted every hundred feet on the second floor balconies to ensure a secondary viewpoint."

Talia felt his glance even as her eyes danced across the ceiling. It was an odd feeling, like little fishes nibbling at her—poking, mouthing, testing the thickness of her skin. She turned to meet his gaze, but found his grey eyes already back to tracking the busied men and women of the chateau's employ. She couldn't place it. There was something familiar about him. But she didn't know exactly what. His dark eyes were quick and efficient—against the golden shafts of light from the windows, they almost seemed to shove the rays deep underwater, holding them down until they shifted into that blue-grey light of the unseeing.

Talia shook her head. She must still be tired. Eyes don't drown light shafts. Light shafts can't drown. The Old One must be bubbling up in her boredom.

The farther into the tour, the more Tryst seemed to relax into conversation; the rigid angles of a young Captain buffing smooth among people of like work and age. By the end, he, Bix, and Laxus were even cracking jokes between them. His smile belied his age, it turned out. And the dimple on one cheek creeped out whenever he chuckled along with one of Bix's tales.

"So what's the new guy like?" asked Bickslow as he looked over the ledge of one of the open-air balconies, judging the height. Tryst shrugged.

"Fine, I guess. Pleasant enough. Not particularly one thing or another. He's constantly flanked by advisors who make all his real decisions for him. But he's good at walking the middle line with the press and dissidents—he's neither here nor there, so no one can take real offense."

"Sounds like a charmer," ground Evergreen, bored by just the idea of him. She was sure she'd have no interest in meeting him in person, though the likelihood was high.

"Do any of you paint?"

Though the question startled the group a bit, Freed answered: "I don't believe so. But we all dabble in odd little spheres, so continue your thought. One of us is bound to at least catch a reference."

Tryst motioned to a particularly heavenly fresco high on the far wall. It was a young man, fit and virile, chasing something along the clouds. It wasn't entirely clear what, exactly, his goal was, but he reveled in the pursuit. Around his head flew songbirds—their delicate wings glimmered as the candelabra were lit, tiny flames dancing along the golds and blues in their wings. There was a lyre in his hand—clutched delicately as he ran, and the wind in his wake gave the lightest impression of wings.

"Aengus, a god of the old northern clans," he stated. A tickle in the back of Talia's mind was all the Old One and Morrigan gave as assertion. "A young, crafty, and charming entity. God of poetry and love." His face softened a moment, and a trick of the light made his eyes seem almost moon-grey and longing. "To paint such a thing requires dozen of colors, each tempered into the necessary shade of a cloud through a sunbeam—" he motioned to the left edge of the fresco, where a beam of light did catch a cloud alight in a soft, blushing pink—"or the electric yellow of a finch's breast." He gestured to one of the songbirds. He sighed and his gloved hand dropped to his side. He seemed to be the only one they'd passed to wear the gloves—undoubtedly another acknowledgement of rank to his uniform. "But the Duke of Freesia takes on none of the hues that bring about a sense of vibrancy. He's just. . ." Tryst chuckled dryly to himself, "the residue at the bottom of the glass. When the bushes are cleaned and a color is shifted, the paint residue settles to the bottom—all the colors that could have been, just discarded. And in the process, the colors mix. At the end of the day, you're left with a hideous brown sludge. All the light and life there could have been with all those different hues. . . but none that bothered to stand out."

Of all the group who could have responded, it was Laxus who hummed in understanding. Freed gave a sidelong glance to his leader, the smallest spark of surprise lighting his eyes before he turned back to the painting.

"Can't say I'd enjoy the idea of marrying anyone you'd categorize as sludge-colored," joked Talia with a smile, though it faded a bit as she realized the words. She was getting better at acknowledging Dimitri's loss and stepping beyond it, but once in a while she'd step right into the quicksand and be dragged down to her knees.

"And the Duke's daughter?" asked Ever, for once noting and covering for the sudden silence after Talia's quip. "What is she like?"

Tryst smiled—that one dimple coming to light and a youthful mischievousness lighting his face once more. But his eyes remained glittering charcoal.

"You're about to find out." He gestured down a corridor to their right, "You're due to meet her for your gown fittings. Follow that hall and you'd come to her studio, but she'll likely intercept you on the way." He turned back to the boys. "Gentlemen, if you'll follow me, we'll also take your measurements and get you fitted for the ball as well. Please, follow me." He smiled and gave the slightest bow to Talia and Evergreen before ushering Bix, Freed and Laxus down the opposite hall. Talia's eyes met Laxus's for a brief moment, but long enough for him to wiggle his eyebrows at her conspiratorially. A grin broke over her mouth before she even realized.

Talia and Evergreen walked down the aforementioned hallway. The ceiling arched up into a point above them, and the carved wooden supports curved like a ribcage. This place made Kardia Cathedral seem like a dilapidated cottage in comparison.

"Don't look so star-struck," chided Evergeen playfully, "You'll make us seem like rookies."

Talia chuckled. "I know, I know. This place is just so. . . so much more than I expected. When my mother was performing, the sets looked like this—palaces and balconies that spilled over with flowers—but they were all plywood and bracers. Step on it the wrong way, and you'd put your foot clear through a stone wall." She smiled at a memory of watching the playhouse craftsmen building the elaborate sets. What magic it seemed—sunsets made from scraps, castles out of trickery and forced perspective, gowns from carefully dyed discount linen. You could never tell from the audience, of course. The glass that broke to a thousand pieces on the stage floor was startling and emphatic, even if it was only made of cast sugar. The gold and jewels a character killed for was really just chocolate in shiny wrappers—the best part was eating them at the end of the show. Trickery, illusion, and falsities spun into a story and world that could move mountains and forecast tears. That was true magic. Her pulses and Triskellions could never touch those realities.

Light voices and the ringing of heels on stone greeted them as they continued down the hall. There was something about the tone of voices that soured in Talia's ears. They were sweet and melodious and utterly fake.

The women in question turned onto the main hallway shortly after—stunningly beautiful in their contrast. One seemed to be the very epitome of summer—long, sun-kissed blonde hair braided carefully into a crown around her head while the rest danced delicately along her shoulders and back. Her warm brown eyes seemed impossibly huge; the distance between them just marginally too far apart, which gave her the impression of a very large, very innocent doll. The other seemed spun of a midnight lightning storm—eyes of startling blue-grey that were both electric and frozen at once. Her coal-black hair shone under the lacrima lights, and her jaw was proud—a woman who did not take "no" as an option, much less a command. She looked them over with calculation instead of curiosity before a wide smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.

"Ah! Talia! Evergreen! It's been so long!" The Duke's daughter was bright with the joy of a long-dormant friendship, and made quick work of the growing distance between her and the pretty-faced courtier at her side. "Amelie," she turned back to the woman, the blonde's beautiful smile only stretched a fraction, "Do let me catch up with my old friends, I'll be sure to hear all about your exploits with the Marquis over tea tomorrow." The Duke's daughter wound her arms through both Talia and Evergreen's and pulled them close, as friends would, as she dragged them down the hall. Questions of "How is that charming brother of yours?" and glittering reminiscences were left in their wake as the heavy doors of the private wing closed behind them.

As soon as the latch clicked, she dropped their arms and strode on without them. She didn't even turn back as she said "Thanks for playing that through, she's a stubborn thing once she gets her claws into you."

Evergreen blinked back through the brief memory of the courtier. "She seemed sweet, we didn't mean to disrupt your time with her."

"Sweet?" The Duke's daughter turned back to where Talia and Evergreen trailed her, a perfectly manicured dark eyebrow raised, "That woman would sell her sister's soul for a croissant without batting an eye." She glanced over Evergreen and then Talia. Something caught her eye with the latter, some odd shape of the shoulders or shimmer in her hair. Something that held her attention for a fraction longer. But she quickly turned back and strode down the hall again. "Amelie has a beautiful smile and a tongue of honey, but she may as well be a viper slithered into that summer couture." She scoffed. "Do not find yourself in her debt, whatever the cost."

Evergreen and Talia shared a glace of interest before turning back to the conversation.

"I'm Ranavi," she stated, still walking toward the far door of the long, gilded hallway, "I assume you are two of the mages my father insisted we hire?"

The mages scrambled to keep up. Talia wound around an ornate table, the carving exquisite and gold inlaid beautifully, a top-heavy bowl of fresh fruit in its center. "Are we unnecessary in your opinion, then?"

Ranavi scoffed again. "I am the daughter of a Duke," she said, her voice dry, "I do not get a choice in whom I marry. So the idea that I would have a spurned lover is ridiculous."

She threw open the massive doors at the end of the hallway into what was clearly a . . . ridiculously glorified closet. Gowns and suits of all colors and textures, gold thread, silver thread, diamond-encrusted, sparkled under the crystal chandeliers. Ranavi walked through without batting an eye. There were a set of work tables at the back corner of the room, and various mannequins in an assortment of sizes.

"You're lucky that I had my gown planned months ago. There's no way my seamstresses would have been able to make three new gowns in time."

Talia could see them now, as they had been hidden behind the hanging clothes that lined the hallway—four women of various ages and ethnicity, all hunched over fabric or making alterations on a model.

A delicate clock stood atop an ornate marble mantle on the nearest wall. The face shimmered of mother of pearl, and the hand knew precisely where to tick. There was a clever little owl clutching the top of the clock's face in its talons. Amber, tiger's eye and other chestnut stones had been masterfully chiseled into lines of feather and wing, and deep sapphires stared out from an elegant, flat face. In the fireplace where logs should have been were vats of dye; strips of fabric hung above each, multicolored and scribbled upon, denoting dying time per shade and fabric type.

There was a chaise in the center of the room, and the far-left wall was filled with mirrors set at intelligent angles to catch every wisp of chiffon and silk. Ranavi plopped down and stretched out her legs.

"Well," she said, reaching under the chaise and pulling out a sketchbook and pencil, "What do you want."

The seamstresses looked to them with attentive curiosity, as if already setting their measurements to memory.

"Is there a theme?" asked Evergreen, stepping over to feel the fabric of a deep green gown.

"Black tie modernity," Ranavi said, already sketching away, her pencil hissing against the paper as she flicked the carbon tip along the parchment "I'm tired of the boring ball gown lines. I want something new. And if my father insists on having this ridiculous party, then I at least want everyone to look good for a change." She chuckled maliciously and looked up from her sketch, catching Talia's eye, "I even have permission for the guards to bar anyone who doesn't fit the dress code." She turned back to her drawing and scratched short lines. "Nothing outdated, nothing stuffy, and good god nothing empire-waisted."

"Which one are you," she continued, "the brunette, are you Evergreen or Talia?"

"Evergreen," she responded curtly, but still looked through the gowns. The hangers screeched against the brass rod, the sound muffled by the low hum of a sewing machine.

Ranavi made a sound of acknowledgement. "You seem like you have some semblance of an eye. What kind of gown are you thinking?"

Evergreen was quiet a moment as she thought, the sewing machine, the shining snip of fabric scissors filling the void.

"Something simple," Evergreen mused, "It's a little warm, but I've always loved deep red velvet. Slim straps and playing to my curves, but nothing ornate. I want to wear it, not have it wear me."

Ranavi nodded, and Talia couldn't help noting the appreciative little quirk of her mouth.

"And you, redhead, what are you. . . thinking?"

Talia took the few steps to the mirror and looked over herself. In that room, surrounded by all the beautiful things in the world, she couldn't help feel that she was. . . anything but. The hair that had gotten so long and wild, the freckles that stood out on her arms like pockmarks, the height that she was constantly teased about as a child, and then. . . those. Those horrible white lines down her throat. The death she almost had, the death she should have had.

"Blue," she said through a shuddering breath, "Something with long sleeves and something that can draw attention away from," she gestured to her throat, "this."

Ranavi put down her pad and pencil and turned her sharp eye to Talia. She nudged her chin toward a stack of rolled fabrics. "There's a lot of blues. Show me which one you mean."

The room was heavy with quiet as Talia took the few steps and began to sort through the colors. Even the scissors were muffled in their bites.

"Was it in a fight?"

"That's not—" Evergreen started.

"No," Talia responded steadily, trying to focus entirely on the colors in front of her. The textures of the different cloth. She could feel those keen ice eyes. Feel the calculations they made.

"Well," Ranavi picked up the pad again, and Talia could feel those eyes flicker over her in a different sort of calculation, "Sounds like a perfect time for a ball and a hunt."

"What in the world does hunting have to do with this?" Evergreen's voice was full of disgust. Talia pulled out a ream of shimmery silver-blue fabric from the stacks.

Ranavi noted the color, nodded, and one of the seamstresses took the ream from Talia's hands.

"The type of hunt that ideally leaves you naked and moaning." Ranavi's smile was predatory. "Let me guess." She looked Evergreen up and down and noted the light flush under her glasses. "There's some big, hulking brute out there that might even shut that pretty mouth up for a minute." Evergreen's flush deepened and Ranavi's smile widened.

Talia spun back to face Evergreen—"You don't. . . no!" a smile cracked on her face now, "Is that why you demanded to be his exam partner?"

"N-no!" Ever's face heated more, "He needed a good partner for the exams. I knew I could be that for him. And I wasn't about to let the indignity of Freed choosing Bickslow over me go un-addressed." She stood straighter, willing down the color in her cheeks, and turned back to the colorful gowns on the rack. Her voice softer now, almost. . . sweet: "He's a good man."

Talia's teasing smile turned knowing and gentle. "He is."

Ranavi groaned. "Ugh. Well that's no fun for me if he's not here." More pencil strokes on the paper in her lap. "What about you, Red? Do I get to play with you in my chess set tonight? I promise not to leave you to anyone who wouldn't make it worthwhile."

"Aren't we supposed to be your security?"

"I have a head of security," Ranavi waived Talia off, "And Collum is no threat to the evening. He's an Earl, not some pig farmer. He knows how to behave."

The eldest seamstress bent to Ranavi's ear, looked over the sketch in her lap, glanced to Talia and quietly asked a set of questions that even the sound mage couldn't hear. Ranavi only nodded to each or gave a minor critique. When finished, she handed the sketchbook to the seamstress and stood.

"They'll need to take your measurements, so strip."

Talia flushed, but they both did as they were bid. Off came the leather boots and black jeans, off came the threadbare t-shirt. Down to their underwear and bras. Ranavi's blue eyes picked over every piece of each of them, but it was a working gaze—calculations, decisions, weightings of options—and so Talia didn't feel quite as naked as she was. She knew where her scars were. Knew the line on her ribs, the flecks on her hip, the dots and nicks along her calves and shoulder blades. The skin she lived in. She swallowed. The skin she didn't die in. Just remember that part: skin she didn't die in, skin she didn't die in.

"So what's his name?" Ranavi stated as much as asked. The seamstresses were already upon them with cloth measuring tapes and making notes in the little books they pulled from their pockets.

Evergreen opened her mouth, but Ranavi cut her off—"Not your brute, you're practically off the market" she jutted her chin absentmindedly toward Talia, "You didn't answer when I asked. Which means there is someone. So what's his name. And will I get to play chess with you tonight or not."

"There's not—"

"His name is Laxus," Evergreen stated with a huff, "He's part of our team. I assume he's currently getting fitted on the other side of this fashionable spectrum."

Talia gaped at her, cheeks flushing.

"Oooo," cooed Ranavi, "Mixing work with pleasure. I like it."

"There's nothing mixed." Talia crossed her arms over her notably pink chest. "There's nothing at all."

Evergreen barked a laugh. "I've lived with both of you for almost three months," she turned to Ranavi, who now sported a devilish smile, "There's a helluva lot more than nothing."