Meddie stepped out of the carriage and stared up at the main palace, lit up and glowing in the light of the night. A group of young ladies passed him, staring at him blatantly, and he ignored that in favor of walking forward up the stairs. He was dressed in the same clothes the prince had picked out, and he felt uncomfortable in it. It was tight, done up in the fashion of the Demonias Empire, thank gods, with a thick belt over his middle and a black shirt, a black jacket lined with red silk, the lapels pinned back with silver buttons, with intricate embroidery and a high collar. He felt like a peacock on display.

It had been a long time since he went to an event like this. Two years, he thought bitterly. It had been two years, and he still remembered his etiquette, but he didn’t want to be here. Everyone was staring at him, and he felt exposed. He didn’t like it. He wanted to go back to his palace.

He would just have to leave early, he thought to himself. Yeah. He would leave early, dip out, and not deal with it. Maybe hide on the balcony for an hour or so and pray no one approached him. He wasn’t a viable marriage candidate to anyone, so he doubted anyone would be trying to speak to him. He didn’t think anyone would be coming after him, at the very least. Some people might be upset with him just because of how he had behaved in the war, but…

Well.

There was nothing to be done about that.

He headed inside and immediately stole towards the outskirts of the room, grabbing a glass of champagne as he passed so he had something to do with his hands. Whispers followed him as he walked through the massive ballroom.

Is that Meduso Demonias?

That’s the White Specter. I heard they took him as a hostage, but I didn’t believe his brother would actually give him up.

Are those snakes?

Do demons normally look like that?

He’s beautiful, but I don’t want to talk to him.

How long is he going to be here?

Isn’t he supposed to be cursed?

He resisted the urge to fidget with his collar, taking a sip of champagne instead, and an older man started to approach him through the crowd. He was in a white military uniform, and Meddie vaguely recognized him as Admiral Emory.

“Your Highness,” Admiral Emory said, and Meddie dipped his head.

“Admiral Emory,” he said, and there was an awkward pause.

“Did you have a safe trip here?” Admiral Emory asked lightly, and Meddie swallowed down another mouthful of champagne.

“I did, yes,” he replied, and the admiral shifted in discomfort.

“Good,” he said, and then he cleared his throat. “Your Highness, I---”

“Announcing the Star of the Empire, the Crown Prince Tristan Richard Bonafet!” the herald at the top of the stairs crowed, and Meddie looked up. The prince was at the top of the stairs, in the place of honor, and he slowly made his way down the stairs. This ball was for him, and Meddie felt very small and insignificant.

He had taken dance lessons in the past week in preparation for the ball, because the Holy Empire had different dances than the Demonias Empire, but he only knew three dances. They hadn’t had time to learn anything else, and he needed to avoid literally every female. He could not be bothered by Tristan right now, but Tristan was headed directly for him. Meddie balked, but Tristan came abreast of him all the same, a glass of champagne in his hand and a smile on his face.

“I see you wore the outfit I picked,” Tristan said, like Meddie somehow had a choice in the matter, and Meddie swallowed.

“Yes, Your Highness,” he said woodenly, and the group of girls near them burst into whispers.

The prince picked that outfit?

Why?

Are they friends?

No, they were not fucking friends. Getting involved in the primary ML of an otome game as a former villainess was a death sentence, and Meddie was going to be avoiding him like the plague at the academy. He had no idea why the prince was so interested in him, but he was not going to be entertaining it. He would just be as boring and dry as possible and run him off that way.

“You look good in it,” Tristan said. “You should let me pick your outfits more often.”

“Of course,” Meddie said blandly, even though he was not going to be letting the prince pick out his clothes, what the fuck, and then he caught sight of his doom.

Tatiana Marvin was in the crowd, sticking to the back of the ballroom, looking nervous as she cradled her champagne glass. She was alone, but her face was unmistakable. Curling, soft brown hair and blue eyes, beautiful in a next door neighbor kind of way, in a yellow dress that did wonders for her complexion, and right.

This ball was where the plot started. He had almost forgotten because it had been eighteen years, and also because it was more of a prologue. She met all of the MLs here, Tristan, Harvey, Michael, and Gregory. Immediately, he looked around, expecting someone to approach her, but the other MLs were nowhere to be seen. Then again, it was pretty crowded in here, so that was to be expected.

She also met Medusa, who spilled wine on her dress after she realized she was cozying up with the prince, but Meddie would not be doing that. He was sticking to champagne only, and that was that.

“You should go mingle with the ladies,” Meddie said to the prince, “and stop spending time on me.”

“Ah, but I want to spend time on you,” the prince purred, and Meddie stared at him blankly as a tall figure approached through the crowd.

She was tall, with white hair spilling down her back and eyes like sapphires. The Duchess of the North, Isilda Treemont. And she was headed directly for Meddie. She had participated in the war, until her father died and she had to return to the duchy to take control. She had fought on the front lines alongside the prince as a magic swordsman, and was Tatiana’s fiercest supporter in the otome. Meddie balked in front of her, and she reached them.

“Your Highnesses,” she said, and Meddie swallowed down more champagne. “Hello, Prince Meduso. My name is Isilda Treemont.”

“The Duchess, right?” Meddie asked, remembering she was the same age as them and running a duchy at the same time as going to school. That had to be stressful.

“That’s correct, Your Highness,” she said as she stared down at him. In heels, she was taller than him. “May I ask you for a dance?”

Tristan frowned lightly, and Meddie laughed nervously, because what? He was supposed to be asking her. What?

“I… Uh… Only know three dances,” he replied, and she frowned at him.

“Well, then, I will take one of them. I assume you know the basic Tremblay waltz?”

“I… I do, but…”

“Then, I will meet you for our dance,” she said, and he blinked a few times. What was going on? Why the hell did she want to dance with him?

“Isilda, you can’t be serious,” Tristan said. “He barely got here, and people will talk.”

She stared at him, her eye twitching, and there was a crackled charge in the air around them. Meddie wilted slightly and swallowed down the rest of the champagne, because he definitely needed to be tipsy to deal with this, and Isilda drew herself to her full height.

“I don’t mind if people talk. I need to speak with him,” she said, and Meddie flagged down a servant to set down his glass of champagne and grab a fresh one.

“You can speak with him without dancing with him,” Tristan said, and Meddie swallowed down another mouthful of champagne.

“Well, I happen to like dancing.”

“No, you don’t. You insisted on learning the lead as a child so you could---”

“I only know how to lead with the waltz, so perhaps let’s…” Meddie said, and she stared him down as he trailed off. This was going to be his biggest enemy, and he could not afford to get on her bad side.

“I can follow,” she gritted out, and Meddie wondered how he was going to get out of this situation.

“Perhaps, if you like to lead, a female dancing partner might be better suited?” he asked, and both of them stared at him.

“Do… they do same sex dancing partners in the Demonias Empire?” Tristan asked, and Meddie looked at him like he was crazy.

“Of course? How else are men going to dance with their male mistresses?” he asked, and Tristan’s eyes widened. Oh. Was the Holy Empire homophobic?

“Ah… No, that’s not done here,” Tristan said, and Meddie pursed his lips. “There are male mistresses, but… We don’t dance with them.”

“Oh,” Meddie said, bland, and turned aside. “I think I need some air.”

He fled for the doors, pushing out onto the balcony, and the second he was out of view, he swallowed down the rest of the champagne.

Literally what the fuck was going on? First the prince picking his clothes, and now Isilda requesting he dance with her. What, was Harvey going to pop up next? Gregory? Michael? What was happening right now? He just wanted to avoid the plot, and now the plot was banging on his door. What the hell?

He leaned on the banister, his champagne glass dangling loosely from his fingertips, and idly wondered if he was going to be poisoned again. That would be funny. No, Veritas wouldn’t risk it. He wouldn’t even consider it, because if the Emperor followed through on his threat… Veritas might actually kill him before he got the chance to remarry and make another child. And then what would happen to Meddie? He might actually be sent back to the Demonias Empire, and he couldn’t have that.

He hadn’t considered that excelling in the war would have such catastrophic consequences. Now that he was a safe distance away, he wasn’t sure what to do. Objectively, he couldn’t do anything. If the Emperor had Veritas killed, though… That was the only option where Meddie came out on top. So long as he made Gremory the Crown Prince, of course. Not Meddie. And the Emperor was probably fed up enough with Veritas to order him killed.

Who needed enemies when you had family like that? He thought bitterly. Ideally, Veritas and Gremory could get into a power struggle, and then…

Then what?

He didn’t know.

Meddie couldn’t keep worrying about his family. He had enough to deal with, and now he had to go back in there and dance with Isilda. Why had she asked him to dance, anyway? He had no idea. It was a mystery to him, and he should just…

Go back inside, he thought in defeat, and he turned towards the doors, only to find a couple talking just outside them, blocking the door. They seemed to be an argument, and Meddie sighed and pulled the doors open.

“Excuse me,” he murmured and brushed past them, and Ada and Gladys watched the shocked looking couple as he walked away. He needed more champagne, but getting sloppy drunk was probably a bad idea.

Isilda and Tristan were still arguing in quiet tones when he approached them, the air crackling between the two of them, and Meddie cleared his throat as he approached them.

“Shall we have that dance now?” he asked Isilda, and she turned to him, looking him up and down.

“Yes, we shall,” she said and offered her hand. He took it, and she swept him off onto the dance floor before she turned to him. “I will lead.”

“I don’t know how to follow with this dance,” he said with a frown, and she wrapped her hand around his waist.

“I’ve heard you’re a very accomplished dancer,” she said, and he wondered where she heard that from, considering he had never once danced at a ball in his life.

“Strange, considering I’ve never danced at a ball,” he said, and she led him into the waltz. It was fairly easy to follow along, though it was all backwards, but he supposed he could take it as she effortlessly led him in the waltz.

“You captured my cousin,” she said, and he nearly tripped as Ada and Gladys slithered between them, moving down her arm and thoroughly entangling them.

“Oh… I did?” he asked, and she hummed.

“He said you treated him fairly. He was always fed and clean, never forced to strip or embarrass himself, and he wasn’t tortured, either,” she said, and he blinked, because he was just following the Geneva Convention, which… did not actually exist here.

“Well… We all have something we’re fighting for,” he murmured, and she looked down at him.

“I wanted to thank you. Had he been captured by one of your brothers, he wouldn’t have faced the same fate,” she said, and he swallowed. Right. Veritas had been too sadistic, and Gremory had been too permissive with his men. People had done whatever in the war, but he had held himself to a higher standard. Mostly because he knew he was going to be stuck in the Holy Empire, and he couldn’t risk making enemies.

“I just behaved in a way that wouldn’t make me undue enemies. That’s all,” he said, and she frowned down at him.

“You say that like you knew you were coming here,” she said, and he shrugged as he swallowed.

“I knew it was a possibility.”

“How?”

“Well… I’m a witch?” he replied, now thoroughly confused, because she knew he was an excellent dancer, but she didn’t know he was a witch?

“I didn’t realize their foresight was that great,” she said, and he blinked. Oh.

“It depends on if you know what questions to ask,” he replied, and she swept him in a dip. Oh, okay. People were going to view him as emasculated after this.

“You smell nice,” she murmured, and he felt the blood drain out of his face.

Oh… Oh, no.

“I… Uhm… I made it myself,” he stammered, not sure of what to do, and she studied him in silence as they danced across the floor.

“For being such a ruthless commander, you sure are very cautious in person,” she said, and felt heat climb in his face.

“Well, I’m used to being able to kill my way through uncomfortable social situations,” he said. “And I’ve had two glasses of champagne.”

“Are you tipsy?” she asked mildly, and he swallowed.

“No,” he lied, even though that champagne was probably dangerous, because he could barely taste the alcohol in it, but he could feel it in his gut.

“Mm. Cute,” she murmured and spun him around. He let her, ignoring the eyes on him, and he came back in, her hand pressed firmly to his lower back, a burning brand on his naturally cold skin. Tristan was staring at them, holding a champagne glass very tightly, and Tatiana was watching, too, her eyes wide and full of wonder.

“Please refrain from complimenting me,” he said firmly, and she tilted her head.

“Why not?” she asked, and he swallowed.

“It makes me uncomfortable,” he said, and she smiled. It was not a nice smile.

“You’re rather pretty when you’re uncomfortable, though,” she said, and he pursed his lips.

“Please,” he repeated, and she slid her leg between his as they backed up in the dance. He let her, uncomfortably aware of the muscle on her thigh, brushing between his, and she dipped him again.

“Alright. I’ll leave you be,” she promised, and he breathed out a breath.

“Thank you,” he said, and wondered how much more difficult all of this would be if he had stayed as a girl. Probably much more difficult.

Tatiana was staring, but so was half the ballroom. He would have a reputation for letting women lead now, and he was not happy about it. Idly, he wondered if his fathers had ever danced like this, before he was born and everything went sour. Probably not. He couldn’t imagine the Emperor dancing with a man.

The dance came to an end, and he bowed to her. She curtsied, and he decided he needed another fucking drink. Without even a word, he stole away, grabbing a glass of champagne as he passed a servant and headed for the balcony.

Gods. He needed some air. For longer, this time. This was embarrassing. He was embarrassed, and he needed to get the fuck out of here. Immediately. He couldn’t wait until it was no longer rude to leave. This was a disaster from start to finish.