Masquerade Ball (3)
The faint strains of refined classical music drifted through the air. Couples swayed gracefully to the melody, their movements straight out of a novel brought to life—a truly novel sensation. Chandeliers glittered like stars scattered across the cosmos on the ceiling. The floor and walls dripped with opulence so lavish it left her speechless.
"Y-you...!!"
"Ow, that hurts!!"
In the midst of it all, Ideal and Ashu were stepping on each other's feet in perfect harmony, fumbling through an awkward waltz. Her soles felt like they'd wear through any second from all the stomping.
Crunch!
"Ugh...!"
"Eek!"
"You did that on purpose...!!"
Ashu shot her a fierce glare, his face twisted in fury.
"N-no, I didn't!!"
Try dancing in this outfit, you spoiled brat!! One wrong move and my boobs are gonna pop right out!!
'Why the hell did I even...!!'
Her inner masculinity screamed in protest. This was harder than the subjugation battle. At least that was a relief—the servant's crash course in etiquette courtesy of the prince had improved their skills bit by bit.
[You probably can't dance anyway, you little punk.]
She'd never seen Ashu look so pissed.
'We haven't tripped or anything, thanks to that...'
But those sharp heels kept grinding into her feet—it was torture. And the winners had to dance center stage, no exceptions. So there they were, spotlighted like idols, awkwardly shuffling in the middle of the hall.
'It's starting to sync up a little now.'
Maybe because they both had top-tier physiques, they were adapting to each other.
"H-how's it going...? Not bad, right?"
"...Yeah."
They even had enough spare rhythm for chit-chat now. What a whirlwind month it had been—felt like a year. Etiquette bootcamp, subjugation battle, assassin attack. And now this ball as the grand finale.
The sight of her spoiled brat disciple creakily waltzing with her defied reality itself.
'...No manners, but he's not a bad kid at heart.'
Just a boy craving love. One who didn't know how to give it. A poor kid who'd never even had a proper meal.
'...When did it turn real?'
She'd planned to mentor him just long enough to cash in and bail. But somewhere along the line, her mindset shifted. Now she wanted to stick around, watch over him a bit longer. See what epic tale this blank white script of his would weave.
So a little morale boost wouldn't hurt. She pulled Ashu naturally into her embrace. He felt heavier now, his breath ghosting close. As she leaned in slowly, he startled and tried to pull back—but it was futile.
He really was the main villain, handsome as sin. Tch, jealous.
But that wasn't the point. She flashed a grin and whispered softly into his ear.
"You did great, disciple..."
Up close, their body heat mingled, warming her chest. Why was the kid so quiet, though? Staring like he'd lost his mind.
Ashu danced on in a daze for a while—
Crunch!!
"Ugh!! You did that on purpose!!"
"Eek, s-sorry!!"
—until she accidentally stomped back. He reverted to his grumpy scowl. Harsh.
"You're Ashu Kan Hart, right? I've heard so much about you."
"Yeah."
"I'm from a baronial house down south..."
Tch, annoying.
Ashu clicked his tongue discreetly. Why the hell did he have to schmooze like this? Ideal had nagged him to make friends, sure.
'Bunch of pests.'
Five sleazy types already, and counting. They never listened—just bragged about themselves and bailed. Probably 'cause he wasn't the heir.
Over there, Sihan Kan Hart's mask was half-off from the crowd jostling him, oblivious.
'...Same bored face as me.'
Blood ties, huh? No one would guess he was the bastard branch.
"Hey, punk."
"...You."
Golden blond hair swayed elegantly. Prince Byrn approached with a sly grin.
"Tch, another pest."
"...Way too blunt, don't you think?"
"That's the point."
Ignoring him, Byrn bulldozed closer. Shamelessness was a talent, apparently. Still, Ashu was grateful—the prince's help let both him and Ideal prep for the ball.
"Bored, huh."
"...And you're not?"
"Me? I come for the people-watching."
If Ideal heard this, she'd doubt he was really ten. Byrn crossed his arms, adjusting his mask.
"The ducal house definitely stands out most."
"...Aren't you the punk here?"
"That's how you talk to the guy who helped with tonight's prep?"
"..."
Ashu shut his mouth. Byrn chuckled and clapped his back.
"Even the world's biggest punk goes quiet sometimes."
"Don't touch me."
"Got it."
An awkward silence followed.
'When do we bail?'
He wanted to be alone now. Only Ideal had ever stuck by him that long. He was used to solitude, hated mingling.
Ashu summoned a servant for a drink.
'Not ignoring them now.'
Maybe 'cause nobles were watching. Didn't want to air family dirt.
He raised the glass to his lips—
"Still, you had a nice date with sis thanks to me, right?"
"Pfft!"
He nearly spat it out. Face flaming, Ashu yelled at Byrn.
"W-what the hell?!"
"No use playing dumb. You were grinning like an idiot earlier."
"When did I?!"
"Strong denial means strong affirmation."
Ashu deflated with a sigh, at a loss.
"I'm out."
Byrn said his piece and vanished. Imperial brats were all nuts—missing a screw somewhere.
'...I enjoyed it.'
Ashu closed his eyes. Memories flashed like a panorama.
Ideal... fumbling shyly with her collar. Her breasts jiggling in his clothes. Whispering "good job" in his ear mid-dance.
His heart raced just thinking about it. Sweet breathlessness dizzied him.
'Is this jealousy...?'
Imagining her doing it with someone else sparked rage, sure. But this sticky feeling clung to Ideal alone, refusing to let go.
"...Ideal."
Time to find her. He'd tried the friend thing—good enough.
His hawk-like eyes scanned the hall. Pupils screeched to a halt in one corner.
'...That's.'
No mistaking that figure from behind. Ashu's steps veered toward her—
"...?"
—then froze. A familiar face beside her. Unforgettable build and hair. In this empire, white hair meant one thing.
"Father...?"
Baldamir Kan Hart stood next to Ideal. Smiling faintly.
"Milady, please reconsider. Remove your mask and grant me one meeting—"
"No thanks."
"Tch, acting all high and mighty."
The sleazy noble spat and stormed off, kicking the floor in frustration.
'These nobles and their fake politeness.'
Her spoiled disciple was way better—at least he didn't hide behind a mask. Honesty over bullshit.
'...That's why I hid in this corner.'
All that delicious feast taunting her from afar... That'd be her paycheck for months! Couldn't eat, couldn't relax alone—suffocating under prying eyes.
Ideal’s body was hypersensitive; every gaze prickled.
She was going insane.
'...Gaze at the scenery.'
Forcing her focus out the window—
"Teacher."
"...Your Grace?"
A massive, familiar silhouette. Deep voice right beside her. Mask or no, unmistakable. Only one person here called her that.
'Baldamir Kan Hart.'
She narrowed her eyes. Why was he here?
"...What do you want?"
"Care for a stroll?"
"...It's pretty chilly outside."
Her voice came out icier than expected.
'No, can't show it.'
She bit her lip. Poker face— she'd aced it in her past life. Same drill. She could do this.
"With you, Your Grace? I'm sure it'll be plenty warm."
"...Hah."
He paused, arms crossing.
"Very well. Let's step out for some fresh air."
"...Yes."
Alright, let's hear it. What did this bastard father—who wanted his son dead—have to say?