Around Soran the lords and ladies danced their quadrille, swapping partners back and forth in a glittering flurry. Floating lights bobbed above their heads, powered by the magic of the crowd, casting ever shifting light that highlighted the nobles’ fine silk, their gold and their gems. Soran himself stood apart, watching the scene from the sidelines as he sipped at his wine. He was a tall man, resplendent in a elegantly cut royal blue and purple waistcoat and wearing thick golden rings on his fingers. He was young to be displaying such wealth, no more than early twenties, but few questioned the habits of the Davini house. His father held the king's ear by virtue of blood and politics, and rumour had it that, despite his soft features and watery eyes, Soran himself knew far more than he let on. 

Soran found that deeply ironic, as the riot of colours swirled around him. Sometimes it seemed that knowing the levers of power just left a man feeling more lost than a simple peasant. The peasant at least could trust that the sun would rise the next day, and all else that might change was beyond his control. There was a simple joy in accepting fate as it was dealt, but Soran did not have such a luxury. 

His eyes danced along with the crowd, picking out dancers and partners with practiced ease. There was Count Gladson, with a woman who was most certainly not his wife, the man controlled a small fortress at the edge of the city. On his shoulders rested the security of the capital’s gunpowder, though Soran struggled to believe the man’s shoulders could support a heavy coat. Next to him was young Annette, struggling with both her voluminous dress and the complicated steps. She would learn, and there were plenty to help her. Not due to her passable looks and certainly not due to that awful laugh, but her father managed the king’s purse. In these days of fiscal uncertainty, it was always wise to be close to the man who managed the money. 

Shaking his head, Soran went off to search for a deeper glass. Sometimes he despaired for his class. His father jumped through hoops to secure the king’s favour, the nobles jockied their way through the court, professing support as swiftly and cheaply as a whore’s affection, and still the dance went on. 

The music paused for a moment. Delicate laughs echoed around the hall as the ladies excused themselves, retreating to the edges of the halls to catch their breath. Soran kept his gaze neutral, refusing to recognise the hopefuls as they approached. 

“Soran, get over here!” Henry bellowed. Soran froze in his tracks, wondering for a moment if he could pretend to have not heard. Shaking his head he turned to face his king. 

King Henry was a only a year older than Soran himself but at least twice his weight and wearing three times the amount of jewlry. Soran smiled as he approached. “You called, Your Majesty?” 

“Pah! It’s far too late in the day to be throwing around your Majesties,” Henry boomed. “Come on Soran, you don’t look nearly drunk enough. Grab a glass of something strong for once in your life, before you end up as dower and gloomy as your father.” 

Soran suppressed a wince. It was impolitic to refer to a privy councillor as ‘dower’ in public, but then impolitic was a good word for Henry. He was a good friend, he loved hunting, drinking and his wife. It was a shame ruling did not enter into Henry’s loves, the kingdom stood on a knife edge. 

“I’m afraid I have a few more people to see this evening and need to keep a clear head,” Soran lied smoothly. “But I’ll join you as soon as I’m finished for the day.” 

“You spend far too much time working,” Henry declared. “But far be it from me to stop you working for the kingdom. Go, enjoy your dusty meetings with dusty old men, I’ll be here when you decide to act your age.” 

Soran bowed and departed, dodging around more suitors as the quadrille began once more. In truth no meeting called him, Henry would just capitalise all his attention. In such events Soran prefered to keep his wits about him, you never knew what you’d see when–

An anomaly stepped onto the dancefloor. Dressed in back finary, denoting his lack of house and title, though, not wealth given the amount of enchanted pewter on his frame, was Lorrin Davani. Soran’s eyes narrowed as his half brother breezed through the crowd, sharing a laugh here, kissing a hand there, all with a smile on his lips and a girl at his arm. 

Soran tried to ignore the girl and failed. She was radiant, dressed in a voluminous white dress that rippled and shone in all colours of the rainbow as clashing auras washed over it. A strip of colour around her waist was the only concession to her noble house, but it was a mere paper county, dismissed and derided by all those of true noble blood and magic. Her name was Marie, and it boiled Soran’s blood to see her on Lorrin’s arm. 

“I wasn’t aware you were on the guest list, Lorrin,” Soran said, pitched loud enough to carry as he strode through the crowd. 

Lorrin smiled and turned as Soran approached. “I’m a ‘plus one’ today,” he said. “And it is very pleasant to see you too, brother.” 

“Half brother, I’d have you remember,” Soran snapped, and a bastard to boot but that was not something he’d say out loud. 

“Oh, I remember.” He shook his head. “And I know how much it must irk you to see me here. I wanted to talk about that, as it happens. Come on, let's find somewhere where we can talk with a little privacy.” 

“If we must.” Soran spat, as if chewing on a bitter candy. He dragged the trio through the crowd to the edge of the ballroom, where men and women stood around chatting over drinks and delicacies. Lorrin was offered none of those, though, Lorrin gave no sign he noticed nor cared. Stood side by side it was easy to pick up on the similarities between the pair, the cut of their chins, the shared scowls. They were dark and light, one glittering with gold and the other decorated with metal and magic. 

“So, what is it that you wanted to talk about so urgently?” Soran demanded, crossing his arms across his chest. 

Lorrin was silent for a long moment and stared out across the dancers. “Soran, do you really think this is where you should be?” 

Soran scoffed. “What are you blathering about now?”

“I’m talking about the dancers,” Lorrin continued. “So much money, so much power, so much they could do for the nation and for the world, yet tonight they dance. It's strange, you wouldn’t think the nation is ruled by such parties.” 

“They rule less than they think,” Soran muttered, taking a sip of his wine.

“And less than you think,” Lorrin added. “There a great many people out beyond the walls of the palace, people with lives and dreams that never touch this world. Some would say that the lower classes truly rule, it is only on their sufferance that all this can exist after all.” 

Soran rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. You speak of angry mobs as if they possess more than brutish instinct. Hell, even animals know better to burn their own home down around their ears, yet still the mob’s rage is indiscriminate and has destroyed far more lives than if they just let us solve the nation's problems.” 

“They’re hungry,” Lorrin shot back. “And desperate. Why shouldn’t they be angry? Why shouldn’t they demand change? They see so much of the wealth they earn disappear into the coffers of the rich when they can’t even put food on the table.” 

“Careful Lorrin, that mob would turn on you as soon as me. They’d see warm clothes and a full stomach and tear you limb from limb. That is why we rule and they do not.” 

Lorrin frowned. “You have no sympathy for them? There’s so much talk of liberty these days but you would spare none for them?” 

“Liberty is like power, useless when shared. We of the nobility must protect our rights.” 

“Well, perhaps you should stop acting so disappointed that the lower classes took a page out of your book,” Lorrin shot back. “Look, time’s ticking on and I have a pressing engagement anywhere but here. Can I...” He paused, chewing his lower lip. “I want to show you something. Something beyond these walls. There’s so much more to the world than marble halls and the eternal dance. There’s men of philosophy and letters who are this close to solving all the nation’s problems, if you can filter out the wheat from the chaff of course.”

“I think you may have hit upon the crux of the matter there,” Soran pointed out. “They have no power, Lorrin. Here is where the nation is ruled and here I shall stay.” 

“But must it?” Lorrin demanded, seizing Soran by the sleeve. “Must the dancers rule the nation? Why can’t men of letters use their minds to rule? Why can’t a peasant claim his livelihood as his own?”

Soran’s eyes flared, his power brushing his brother away. “I would mind your tone. What you’re implying would be treason.” 

“Or would it just be the defense of liberty?” 

“It would be the defence of anarchy,” Soran snapped. “The mobs would rule within the year, no matter what your men of letters many intend. There would be no high minded principles or grand dreams to save the nation, but blood and fire. No a drop of liberty to be found.” 

“I’m not sure that there’s any here.” Lorrin sighed. “Look. I know we’ve never seen eye to eye, I know our philosophies are a world apart but... I’m willing to walk in your world, won’t you walk in mine for just one night?” 

Soran’s eyes narrowed. “What, and give one of your debate clubs the air of legitimacy they so desperately want?”

“Or just hear them out for once, rather than reading your agent’s summaries. There are good people there, Soran. They may not have the power or the blood that you have, but they want to save the nation as much as you. Please, give them a chance.” 

“Begging?” Soran tutted. “This is a new low, even for you, Lorrin. No, I think I’ll stay right here with the dancers.” 

Lorrin sighed and shook his head. “I thought you might say that, and hoped that you wouldn’t. There really is nothing I can do to convince you, though. I wish...” He petered out again. “No. I hoped that you might be willing to meet me halfway, just this once, but there’s no convincing you, there’s no convincing any of you.” 

“Lorrin, we have to go,” Marie cut in, snapping her pocket watch closed and startling both men. “It’s time.”

“Damn,” Lorrin swore under his breath. “Alright. Let’s go.” He delivered a curt bow to Soran. “Goodbye, brother.” 

“I wish I could say the same,” Soran shot back, and strode off into the throng of dancers fuming to himself. He pointedly did not watch Lorrin and Marie’s exit, though breathed a sigh of relief when he was sure the aberrant black blot on the world was out of sight. He considered it just like Lorrin to try and crash the party, to try and destroy ten years of husbanded political capital, to convince him to miss a step in the–

Why had Marie’s watch read three minutes to midnight, it was barely ten? 

Soran’s eyes flew wide as sudden horror gripped him. In a rush his power came to him, and he drew in a great breath. “Guards!” he roared. “Clear the–” 

A half ton of gunpowder detonated in the undercellar, less than twenty feet below the dancers’ feet. There were a great many thing powerful mage could survive, but only if they were prepared. In a hurricane of fire and shrapnel the lords and ladies died before Soran’s eyes, and he staggered as his power wavered under the onslaught. 

The screaming started a moment later, followed by the distant sound of gunfire and the tolling of bells. 

The dance was over.