30 Glade 121
The Cotillion was a battlefield.
Or the start of a long battle. Mino had never really considered differentiating the two. He knew only that those in attendance had as much to lose as they had to gain. He smoothed a hand over his hair, shaping the strands into something presentable for the evening as he stood at attention. A smile was plastered on his face — for how long, he wasn’t sure anymore. He just knew his mouth hurt.
The rathari was not meant to do more than play host, and he was to stay true to it. Lady Blue had instructed him of as much as she drifted past him into the hall. They’d been fortunate to strike up another year of contracting with the Eloeth family for the space. The wealthy surrounded by riches of history. Terribly tacky in his opinion, but Mino was just in charge of the funding, not the actual choosing of the place. But it did make some sense. An exhibit of battle-worn objects and long-forgotten but cherished names and memories of the fallen; it was a humbling experience. Not that Mino had gone through it. It just seemed rather interesting to see the evolution of a battlefield in polite society.
The hall had been decorated in the house colors, those bearing the Lekivian surname sporting their hues. Mino himself had been reluctantly shoved into a blue jeogori. White trim accented by the thinnest of black ribbons. There may have been a bit more exposure of his collarbones than he would have liked, but he was fortunate that it didn’t reveal the brand on his chest. Something tantalizing to stare, but not enough to put assumptions into someone’s head. Even the fitted black pants he wore had been tailored with care to accentuate every part of his lower half. Because on a battlefield like this, it was not just charm that would you get you by.
He watched as people mingled. Mingled, conversed, persuaded into some sort of contract; that was dependent on the person. The intentions of the night were always fun to watch. Young members of polite society making their grand debut — pushed forward into arrangements they initially had no hand in. He watched a particularly eager merchant practically bid of his daughter, who seemed to detest being in the same room as any of these people.
His glide over was an easy decision.
“Ah!” The merchant turned on him. Blood in water; a predator to game way out of its league. Mino smiled no less. “Lord Lekivian, our gracious host.”
His brow twitched. “I’m merely playing at the role, good sir.” He gave a short bow of acknowledgment.
“Nonsense! You’re doing a fine job, my liege!”
Mino couldn’t say that he much liked this man. His flattery was tired, but he’d only been talking for a short time. Surely, he would come up with something else. Something that would draw away from his pallor and skin and bone frame. The man placed a skeletal hand on his daughter’s shoulder. The girl looked no more than thirteen; a little young, but the age of debut was relative to the family. She was as pale as her father, but not quite as gaunt. Perhaps not yet. Her hair fell over her shoulder in childish dark ringlets, cold flint eyes trained on the floor.
“This is my daughter, Narcissa.”
The girl looked up for but a moment, the soft petal pink of her cheeks heating stark on her white skin. She blinked owlishly up at him before her gaze was back on the ground again. Her shoulders hunched as she attempted to curl in on herself, sticking close to her father as she fidgeting with the too-large corsage on her wrist.
Mino didn’t oft feel sympathy for those that came to this. Not when he knew that the shrinking violets and well-behaved poodles of children were no more than foul-mouthed braggarts dressed up with money. He saw enough of it every year. But this one — she smelled like fear. A genuine sort of sourness that stuck in his nose and had him stifle a sniffle. The glass of wine in his hand was switched for another, his right offered to the girl. She was young enough that she ought to be at play, or under the skirts of her mother learning something from her. Hopefully not to a boring old crone. But old enough that she knew this wasn’t where she wanted to be.
“Pleasure to meet you, Narcissa.” The girl stared down at his hand, gaze flickering up to him before she slid her own into it. He lifted it to press a kiss to the back of her hand. Her fingers were cold, freezing. “What say you have a good evening, yeah?”
He offered a wink, almost knowing, before his gaze drifted pointedly to some wallflowers who had been thus far abandoned by their parents. It took a moment; he watched the gesture process in her mind before she smiled — small, but a smile all the same — before her hand slipped out of his and she hurried on over to the group of children. Mino’s attention went to her father.
“You’ll find that the company of those individuals will be easier.” The man seemed almost grateful for the guidance, adjusting his bowtie before strutting over to a group of wine-buzzed men.
All manner of people showed up at the Cotillion, even if they were of the same ilk: money. Their purposes could be the same, but the person behind the house was always...different. Different, at least, from the image they liked to show to the public. And all it took to release them was a drink in their hand and their children pissing off somewhere they didn’t have to worry about. Hell, if they worried, it was only that they couldn’t get a good deal out of it.
His ear twitched as he surveyed the crowd, glass lifted to his lips. His own date would make an appearance and a battle of his own would begin. Mino found Lady Blue first in the crowd. Cold eyes on him as he tipped his glass toward her and smiled, and mingled with his fellow combatants.
