A Lost Ballroom of Gold: A Fire Emblem Three Houses Masquerade Rarepair Zine

He rises. Without a sound, he steps off the tower, leaping from wall to wall until he lands in a
crouch upon the courtyard stones. The doors loom tall, inviting him with open arms into the lair
of the beast. Chin high, he goes willingly, stepping into the room with practiced confidence.

Inside the ballroom, eyes flit to him, conversations pausing as he passes. He can feel them
sizing him up, more than one watchful eagle attempting to pick apart his insides with a simple
glare. But he keeps his eyes straight ahead as he heads for the far wall, leaning against the stone
pillar in a secluded corner.

It isn’t long before someone appears next to him in a swish of curves and ruffles. Dressed in
deep maroons, delicate flowers wind their way up from the hem of her dress to twist around her
waist. Wine red gloves cover her hands from elbow to fingertips, and a black mask conceals her
face, but he’d be able to recognize that haughty look anywhere.

“Monica,” he says. “I’m blessed by your presence.”

She levels a flat glare at him. “Chickening out, Sylvain?” she mocks.

“Aww, you’re worried about me?”

Monica giggles. There’s nothing light about the murderous glint in her eyes. “As if!”

She leans in. “When you fail, make sure to come back so I can torture you to death.” Her whisper
barely grazes the shell of his ear. “It’d be a shame if the Emperor had his way with you before me.”

Sylvain gasps as if she’d told him a particularly juicy piece of gossip, but his eyes don’t look
away from her for a second. “I’m wounded by your words!”

“Your trail of broken hearts says otherwise.” She pulls away and sneers. “Where’s your
newest toy tonight?”

“She’s here.” His grin sharpens. “And don’t worry, I’ll kill the Emperor. My only regret is that
you won’t be around to see my victory.”

Monica pushes herself off the wall. In the lining of her corset, he can see the sharp edge of
thin knives, matching the deadly piece twisting up her hair. Not as flashy as the three tentacles
she usually wields, but he knows she would gut him with those tiny slivers of metal in an instant.
Perhaps at the same time he’d impale her upon the Lance of Ruin. Death is a gift in this world,
after all, and he is anything but selfish.

“Thales is expecting you. Don’t be late.”

“When have I ever?”

She doesn’t bother to answer, instead choosing to disappear into the crowd without a
backwards glance. He won’t be seeing her again within the next few days, at the very least. She
has her own jobs to do.

Sylvain turns his attention back to the room. This is the place he works best, in the hustle and
bustle of people in the upper echelons of society, preening themselves as they look down upon
everyone else. Born and raised in it, more than anyone else in his line of work, he knows the ins
and outs of the rich and privileged. Knows the stink of it too, the stagnant air of wealth and pride.

“Do you think we’ll get to see the Emperor tonight?” A man asks his partner as they pass
Sylvain. “I’ve always been curious to see what he looks like.”

His partner laughs. “I doubt it. He’s sick again, it seems, and doctors refuse to let him leave his
chambers.” He leans in, whispering conversationally, “I hear he’s a Crest experiment gone wrong,
and now, his whole body is disfigured. Imagine that ruling our empire!”

They part in peals of laughter, ignoring Sylvain leaning against the pillar. He’d heard several
similar conversations during his time in Adrestia, nobles gunning for the throne and spreading
rumors about this mysterious “ailment” inflicted upon the ruler. The masquerade ball held tonight
is in honor of the newly crowned Emperor of Adrestia, but he wouldn’t be showing.

No matter. He’s going to die anyway.

“Are you going to dance?”

A woman approaches Sylvain, her hair the color of freshly fallen snow. She’s dressed in a fairly
simple outfit compared to the ornate ballgowns of the other nobles, but no less beautiful. Her
sleek red dress brushes the floor. Her white gloves are edged in lace, a darker tint than her dress. A
mask reminiscent of an eagle adorns her face, swooping feathers in a shade of pearl.

“Perhaps.” He flashes a grin. “Would you honor me with one if I asked?”

Her eyebrow rises. “Are you asking?”

He chuckles. “I can never pass up the opportunity to invite a beautiful woman to dance.” He
wraps an arm around her shoulders. “C’mon, El, tonight’s a night of celebration! The Emperor’s
been crowned, Adrestia is at peace, and I,” he winks, “get to be with you.”

She stiffens and frowns slightly at that, a movement that doesn’t go unnoticed by Sylvain. He’d
met her only a few months ago, but he had plenty of time to pick up on her tells. Time and time
again, she’d been touchy about anything related to the Emperor.

What are you hiding, Edelgard von Hresvelg? he thinks, watching her. She knows something,
something that could ruin the Emperor. And he intends to find out.

Most people, of course, prefer the traditional kills—in and out, no fancy convolutions needed.
But Sylvain, on the other hand, offers something else—the ability to build and manipulate
relationships, only to break them without mercy.

This is his true secret weapon, and the only one he’ll need tonight.

“Your mask is beautiful,” she comments, breaking his train of thought. “I’ve never seen
anything like it.”

He runs his fingers over it consciously. The mask glints in the chandelier light, flecks of
rainbow color dancing across smooth bronze. It’s made completely out of metal, molded so
perfectly to the contours of his face that it’s become more familiar to him than his own skin. The
others in the room wear flimsy pieces of cloth, mere decorations, but his is special. A secret, a
birthright, a debt paid in blood.

Sometimes, at night, he still hears the screams. The promises of revenge sworn as he took
what was his all those years ago. The lance that pulses with memory and easy familiarity each
time he picks it up, rejoicing in the ruthless violence. The mask that became his own, to be
worn forever unto death.

Not that he’d ever tell her.

He blinks rapidly, shoving the memories to the side. Giving her a small smile, he shrugs casually.

“It’s nothing special compared to yours,” he says, taking her hand. “So, how about that dance?”

She really is an amazing dancer.

They twirl effortlessly around the dance floor, her steps perfectly matching his. The music
belies their movements, as if they are the ones leading the song, the musicians subject to their
will. He can feel the gazes of the other nobles on them, but he’s more concerned about the fast-
approaching midnight, the moon ticking higher and higher in the sky every time he looks outside.
More concerned about the lance of bone sheathed along his back, craving death with every step.

More concerned about Edelgard, her hand on his shoulder, reassuring and warm and grounding.
He’s not nervous. The fluttering in his heart is different, a skip where steady beats should
be, a harsh pounding with every glimpse of her soft smile. It’s distracting, a nuisance on the eve
of his final mission. He’d been keeping his distance ever since he met her with the usual empty
compliments and flirtatious winks. He plied her heart while keeping his own locked up in a small
cage. So why is it different this time?

“...family?”

“Sorry?” Sylvain gives her a sheepish smile, tearing his gaze away from the stained glass windows.

Her eyes crinkle with worry, but she doesn’t comment. “Do you ever think about your
family?” she asks again.

Sylvain freezes, nearly tripping over her in his haste to make up the rhythm. Another mistake,
more than usual. He inwardly curses his sloppiness. “Not much, why?”

“You never talk about them,” she says.

He wants to laugh. He doesn’t talk about anything with her, besides the most trivial things.
Everything personal, everything past—all off limits. For good reason, of course.

His heart twists again, a deep longing rising suddenly in his throat, threatening to overwhelm him.

She lowers her gaze. “I’m sorry, that was inappropriate of me to ask.”

“It’s alright.” He squeezes her hand gently. “You’re…”

He halts. Any more said would be dangerous to the mission. Distance, Sylvain. Don’t get
attached. Don’t lose sight of the goal.

She stops moving, forcing him to pause too. Around them, couples continue dancing, laughter
and chatter melding with silvery strains of a soothing melody. He can’t help but feel they’re in a
small bubble of peace, just for a moment in the center of the floor where nobody can reach them.
Not Monica, not Thales, not the Emperor. Just the two of them.

“I don’t have any family either.” Her whisper is so quiet, meant only for him. “I just...I wanted
you to know that.”

He’d known already, of course. The lack of company, of siblings, of parents that would be well-
wishers and surprise visitors and guests. Independent because she had to be, not because she
chose this life of loneliness. So unlike him, a person who embraced the solitude, the absence of
connections that would only hold him back. But he hadn’t expected her to admit it to him, hadn’t
factored in that confession to his plan. Hadn’t thought about the rawness of her gaze, the mirror
that’s just a touch from shattering.

There are no words that he can say, no words to take back the past pain that lingers in her eyes.
The past is unsteady ground, and he can feel himself sinking, deep into his own memories left
behind when he chose to walk away with the mask. He chose the mask to leave his entire family,
his life, behind in the graveyard of his dreams.

Now, he has another choice.

But it’s a choice he cannot make.

He wraps his arms around her, and she folds into his embrace as if waiting for the chance.
He knows, he knows he’ll be punished for this later. But he can’t stop himself, in too deep to bear.
In too deep to think about the consequences of his actions, about what will come later when his
mission leaves no one to be spared.

“I’ll be your new family,” he says softly in her ear, “if you will have me.”

She starts crying in earnest then, shoulders trembling from having to hold the weight of her
past for so long. She buries her face in his chest, and at that moment, Sylvain is glad he can’t see
her eyes, piercing and trusting and earnest.

Because if she saw him, she would see who he really is.

And he doesn’t know if he has the strength to kill her for finding out the truth.



Fang & Claw

Hubert watches the waltzers with a rising tide of disgust. “Such a waste of your time,” he
mutters to Edelgard, leaning against the carved wooden chair where she presides over the
ballroom. The shadows conceal him in the ballroom’s mezzanine, above the dusty splendor of the
Hresvelg mansion’s chandeliers. “Playing nice with all these clans who’d as soon stake us in the
hearts as help us bring true change to the underworld.”

“They’ll help us deal with the Seiros clan once and for all, and that’s all that matters.” Edelgard
reaches for the glass of wine Hubert holds out to her. “Especially since we cannot rely on the
Faerghans to aid us in ending Seiros’s rule.”

Hubert closes his eyes; the sharp metallic tang of Edelgard’s drink wafts through the air as she
takes a sip, awakening his own hunger. Since Edelgard took over the Hresvelg clan, they’ve largely
abandoned the use of blood donations from the clans’ followers, despite the relative safety of the
practice, but even she will make allowances for special occasions. “Dimitri and the others claim
they wish to stay neutral, which is the same as siding with Seiros, if you ask me,” he says. “But
it’s probably just as well. Rumor has it many of Faerghus’s leaders have been infiltrated by the
wolves.”

Edelgard makes an amused noise. “Oh? Any rumors about werewolves in House Gautier, then?”

Hubert frowns. “Not that I’ve heard, my lady. Why Gautier in particular?”

“Because one just arrived at our ball.”

Hubert follows her gaze down to the checkered ballroom floor, where the masked revelers
whirl in bold clockwork of taffeta, silk, velvet, and the clan’s guards vet new arrivals at the
entranceway. Sure enough, none other than Sylvain Gautier is hanging off the arm of Lady
Rusalka, his blood-orange hair fiery behind his teal and crimson mask and suit. “He’s quite far
from home, isn’t he?” Hubert murmurs. “I wasn’t aware he was on friendly terms with the clan. Or
any vampires, for that matter.”
“Yet you watched him so carefully when we were at school with him,” Edelgard says, smirking
behind her wine glass. “I wasn’t either. I wonder what brings him here, then.”

Hubert bows deeply and shifts the black raven mask nestled in his hair back onto his face. “I’ll
do my best to find out. And ensure it doesn’t threaten our plans.”

The marble columns and dim lighting of the great hall make for convenient enough lurking,
which is Hubert’s preferred way to attend any masquerade anyhow. However, Sylvain’s behavior
is more difficult to discern than his usual prey. If he were merely looking to flirt and drink, he
doesn’t appear to be having any success finding a suitable target for his flirting; if he’s hoping to
lure one of their clan into turning him, he’s not making it obvious the way the wannabes usually
do. Does he even know what their clan really is? He smells only of cologne and the rich silk suit
he’s wearing, and the warmth of fresh blood in his veins that makes Hubert’s heart race in answer.

He seems to have no motive for infiltrating their ball at all, in fact--which makes it all the
more surprising when he slips from Hubert’s sight from a moment, only to corner him against
the champagne pyramid.

“Oh--” Hubert cries, startled, as Sylvain leans in, a perfectly honed grin deployed. Hubert’s
always known he was handsome--how couldn’t he, given the way everyone else at school gazed
at him?--but seeing it up close is something else entirely. The bright freckles on pale skin, the
careless ruffle to his hair, the slight crookedness in his smile. And those eyes, an unsettling shade
of copper, flatter than Hubert would have expected, peeking from behind his mask. Like a man
who, as Hubert does, wears many masks of his own.

“Vestra. Nice to see you in a touch of deep purple with your usual black.” He almost winks.
“The way you’ve been watching me, I thought surely you were going to ask me to dance. But I
suppose I’ll have to be the one to make the move.”

Hubert stares as Sylvain offers him a gloved hand, venomous retort at the ready, but stops
himself. It’s a way to learn his true motives, if nothing else. “Very well, Gautier. But I must warn
you.” He settles his gloved hand around Sylvain’s, the fabric masking the unnatural chill to his
skin. “This ball isn’t what you think it is.”

Sylvain leads him toward the floor as the orchestra winds down, then pulls Hubert close, other
hand to his waist. “No? Well, that’s just fine by me.” His gaze narrows as he grins. Wolfish. “I know
a thing or two about secrets and obligations myself.”

The dance begins, strings discordant and sharp as the drums build, and Sylvain’s foot slides
forward as Hubert’s moves back. They move, Sylvain on the prowl, but Hubert matching him,
echoing each step with a crisp movement of his own. The scent of the living is intoxicating, or so
Hubert tells himself. Not just the intensity of that stare, like a distant call answering something in
Hubert he’d forgotten he’d once asked. Like the flippant, carefree Faerghan knows far more, and is
far more burdened, than he once let on.

“Your lady seems to be entertaining an unusual crowd,” Sylvain says, glancing over Hubert’s
shoulder. “Making friends?” he asks. “...Alliances?”

Hubert stiffens and nearly misses his step. “Something like that.”

“I’ve always heard her speak about the Seiros family and their tyranny. Can’t say I blame her
for wanting to disrupt their plans.--No, don’t deny it. It’s a worthy cause.” There’s something
almost golden in Sylvain’s gaze, glowing from the shadows when he leans in close. “The kind of
cause that brings together folks who even Seiros says shouldn’t get along.”

Hubert’s breath catches in his throat. “That sounds like a worthy cause indeed, if it has
that kind of power.”

“Setting us free from Seiros’s rules and obligations? So no one else has to suffer under the
order we once did? I would fight for that.” Sylvain’s nose grazes at the side of Hubert’s face,
breath hot. Spicy with wine. He tilts his head just enough so their eyes meet, and now that
cool copper is warm and molten. “I’d fight fang and claw.”

More than just the spoiled rich lordling, the dense womanizer, the heir to Gautier. One
who’s suffered under Seiros, too. Is that why he behaved the way he did at school, his own way
of standing against Seiros, and his own fellow Faerghans’ failure to oppose her?

Is that what’s setting this strange flutter, this painful yearning, in Hubert’s chest?

But no. If the rumors are true, that the werewolves exert control over Faerghus, then even
Sylvain has every reason not to ally with them. He may go against his country, but he can’t go
against his kin. And the glow of his eyes, that deep rumble in his chest--Even though Hubert
wants to be wrong--

The music fades, and Hubert starts to back away, but Sylvain follows him, guiding him
toward a curtained alcove with a window overlooking the misty Hresvelg grounds. “Hubert,
wait.” He catches his wrist, and draws it close, mouth finding the underside of his wrist and
kissing gently. “I know you think Faerghus aren’t your friends. That we--” Sylvain dips into the
shadows, and his eyes glow bright now; his lips pull back into a sneer, revealing sharp canines.
“Are not your friends. But I think some things matter more than that.”

“You want to tear this system down.” Hubert senses his own eyes glowing hot, a venomous
green, as he shows his teeth. “More than you hate our kind, even?”

Sylvain’s nose brushes against Hubert’s cheek. “You never scared me much anyway, Vestra.
I always found your loyalty and determination pretty hot.” He clasps Hubert’s hands in his
own. “...But we didn’t choose our kind, not really. All we can choose is how we change things.”

“Tear Seiros down and build something far better. Safe for both our kind,” Hubert says carefully.

“It’s what I want. It’s why I sought you. Well--” Sylvain smirks, and brushes his thumb against
Hubert’s lower lip. Their gaze meets before he presses the pad of his thumb to Hubert’s sharp
canine. Blood welling up, hot and ferrous in Hubert’s nostrils, and he shivers, wrapping his mouth
around Sylvain’s digit for a moment before releasing it. “Part of why.”

Hubert seizes him by his lapel, and wrenches him in close, mashing their mouths together.
Sylvain tastes earthy, warm as wine, and he growls as he draws Hubert into his lips. Struggling
with him, not against him, tasting him thoroughly as the moonlight gilds both their faces. When
they part, Sylvain is panting, eyes bright and hungry as Hubert leans into him for support.

“To fighting together, then,” Hubert muses, those droplets of blood flooding him with
renewed warmth. That, and the heated, handsome man in his arms as he tugs him close. “To
tearing the old ways down.”

Sylvain nuzzles greedily at his throat. “I can’t think of a better way to prove it’s a new day.”



Moonlit Debut

The fine necklace draped around Bernadetta’s collar feels more like a shackle than an
ornament. The glittering stones, meant as a display of Varley fortune, hang heavy around her neck.
Her ladies-in-waiting eye the necklace hungrily. Bernadetta wishes she could dash it to the floor
and let them have it.

She stares at her reflection in the polished mirror, silent as stone. Her long dark hair has
been plaited, pinned across the top of her head to resemble a crown or a halo. Her eyelids
are weighed by cosmetic powder, her cheeks artificially bright with the liberal use of blush.
Her lips have been painstakingly painted a bright red. She looks nothing like the awkward,
reclusive daughter of Count Varley.

The sons of Adrestia’s noble houses would never agree to marry that Bernadetta, the real Bernadetta.

“Chin up, my lady,” her lady-in-waiting trills. Its meaning is meant to be literal.

Tonight, she will be as good as married off. Her father expects her to find a well-heeled
husband, preferably as high up the social hierarchy as possible. Eligible bachelors from far and
wide have gathered in the ballroom of Varley manor to meet her. Bernadetta tries to take a
fortifying breath, but her corset does not allow for much air.

“Your mask, my lady.”

A delicately crafted mask, dyed the deepest purple and dusted with gold, sits upon a lush,
velvet pillow. Her lady-in-waiting lifts the mask to Bernadetta’s face, lacing the ribbons together
behind her head. It fits snugly against the top half of her face, drawing all the attention to her
eyes and lips. Given the prominent crest on the mask, no one will doubt for a moment who she
is. After all, it is her ball.

Before she leaves the dressing chamber, Bernadetta steals a glance out the arched window.
A bright moon, almost full, hangs in the night air like the center of a compass.
Soon, she thinks. Soon.

What feels like a hundred eyes follow her every step down the staircase. The presence of
so many people in masks makes her feel like a circus animal. There are gasps of surprise and
murmurs of approval. She knows the court gossip paints her very poorly, as a bizarre and homely
dame utterly lacking in any appeal. Her mother does her utmost to dispel those rumors, but it does
little. Bernadetta wonders what her mother said or did to get so many suitors to show up tonight,
despite her reputation.

Bernadetta catches her father’s gaze across the ballroom, his piercing eyes narrowed.
She swallows the knot of dread in her throat and lifts her chin out of habit. Beside him, her
mother nods at her in approval. Dressed up like a cake on display, Bernadetta plasters on a
smile to greet her suitors.

After hours on her feet, Bernadetta tires, wondering when it will cease. She peers over the shoulder
of her current dance partner. On the outskirts, her father is making conversation with a nobleman she
recognizes, one clearly interested in pursuing her. Tonight, he has danced with her not once, not twice,
but three times. Each time, he holds her a little tighter, like he might want to own her.

Soon, she thinks frantically, as she spins on the ballroom floor.

At the appointed hour, while the guests are squeezing in their last dance, Bernadetta excuses
herself to the powder room, ostensibly to put on a fresh face. As soon as the powder room door
closes behind her, Bernadetta tears off her mask, her panicked breathing pouring out of her like a
dam that has burst.

“Bernie,” comes a concerned voice. Gentle, familiar hands rub soothing circles on her aching back.

“Dorothea,” Bernadetta gasps, relieved to see her closest confidante beside her. Dorothea is
dressed in a simple maid’s uniform, as previously discussed.

“Quickly, Bernie, we don’t have much time,” Dorothea urges her, beginning to divest.

Bernadetta pulls herself together, unclasping the heavy necklace that hangs from her neck.
Dorothea, dressed down to nothing but her small clothes, begins to undo the back of Bernadetta’s
ornate gown. Bernadetta takes a deep breath of air as soon as the corset comes off. They swap
outfits quickly, exchanging few words. With shaking hands, Bernadetta ties the Varley mask
around Dorothea’s face and closes the necklace around her friend’s neck.

Dorothea effortlessly slips on her wig and applies makeup with the practiced hand of an operatic
actress. In moments, Dorothea looks the spitting image of Bernadetta, dressed in all her finery.

“I will keep my distance from your parents and ladies-in-waiting until the end of the ball,”
Dorothea reminds her, rushed. “No one will be able to tell until you’re long gone and I’ll have
costume changed back by then.” Dorothea adjusts the maid’s cap around Bernadetta’s ears,
tucking in her remarkably violet hair. Her friend, beautiful in her own right, smiles at her. “Petra
will be waiting for you, darling.”

Bernadetta nods, her heart pounding in her chest. “Thank you,” she says, her chest so tight she
can hardly stand it.

“Think nothing of it. We shall be reunited in Enbarr, the three of us.” Her green eyes sparkle
in the dim candlelight. Dorothea clasps Bernadetta’s trembling hands. “You can do this, Bernie.”
Dorothea’s voice channels strength and tenacity. Bernadetta, though frightened, feels bolstered.

Voices approach the powder room, and Dorothea immediately straightens, her posture regal
and elegant. “Go, now,” she whispers.

Bernadetta ducks from the room, her eyes cast downward. As expected, the noblewomen don’t
even spare her a passing glance. Dressed as a maid, she is beneath their notice. Bernadetta hurries
to the kitchens. She exits the back door with ease, hurrying on foot toward the stables, where
Dorothea’s trusty steed awaits.

In the horse’s saddlebag, she finds Dorothea’s finest cloak, dyed a gorgeous wine-red. She drapes it
across her shoulders and pulls the hood low over her face. They would never let her exit the manor
dressed as a servant, after all. Bernadetta clutches the reins of the horse, and nudges it toward
the manor’s gates. The guards hardly notice her, or the archer’s bow and quiver tucked into the
saddlebag.

“We bid you a good evening, Miss Arnault.”
Bernadetta says nothing, worried her voice will betray her. She nods and urges the horse
onward. When the manor is nothing but a silhouette in the distance, Bernadetta releases a sigh.
Freedom at last.

The relief does not last. Bernadetta tightens the red cloak around her, fingers wrapped around
her bow. She knows about the men her father sent after her. Should they discover her, this may be
the last time she ever steps foot outside the Varley estate.
To throw off their trail, she leaves Dorothea’s horse at an outpost where she feels confident her
friend will be able to retrieve the mare.
The rest, Bernadetta realizes, will have to be on foot.
She tries not to draw attention to herself, but dressed in a cloak this fine, Bernadetta is hard-
pressed to blend into the local scenery. She can feel the suspicious gazes of people following her
everywhere she goes. Even now.
Do not run, she tells herself, just walk, calmly.
Bernadetta keeps her eyes peeled on the forest ahead. The only way to reach Petra at the
meeting location in time is to cross the Beastly Forest, known across all of Adrestia for its
otherworldly horrors. In the gleam of dusk, it hardly looks like anything more than a simple forest,
but looks can be deceiving. Still, without Dorothea’s horse, she has no other choice. She needs to
make up for travel time lost.
Bernadetta squares her shoulders and walks directly in.

Raphael Kirsten is a simple man. He spends his days chopping lumber and trapping game to
sell to the nearby boroughs, and otherwise keeps to himself. His cabin, a modest dwelling that
some may call ramshackle, sits at the edge of the Beastly Forest. Because of the forest’s reputation
as a dangerous place, not many people cross his path. Ignatz and Leonie, his friends from the
neighboring hamlet, sometimes come by to see him. But never on nights of the full moon.

Because while Raphael may be a simple man, he’s also a werewolf.

It doesn’t bother him much. The transformation itself feels awfully itchy, but it’s not all that
bad. Sure, he grows to double his already formidable size, with a slavering maw full of razor-sharp
teeth. But Raphael’s perfectly capable of thinking clearly during the full moon, although he loses
his ability to render human speech. His friends stay away those nights because they worry what
other people will do to him if they catch on to what he is.

People lash out at what they don’t understand. Raphael knows that all too well, since he has
the huntsman-inflicted scars all over his body to prove it.

Raphael heaves a sigh as the sun begins to sink toward the horizon. It’s about that time
of the month again.

Raphael’s work bench creaks with age as he gets up. He wipes his hands down on an old towel
and admires the progress he’s made on his wood carvings. He plans to sell them in town as knick-
knacks or decorations.

Acting on rote memory, he lumbers over to the tiny kitchen to retrieve a bundle wrapped in
paper and twine. He undoes the knot and starts to shovel the sheaf of dried jerky into his mouth,
barely chewing. It takes a lot of meat to keep him from getting hungry, and Raphael doesn’t like
being hungry in his werewolf form.

Belly filled, Raphael wipes the crumbs from his mouth and glances out the window. The sun
has disappeared below the tree line. In minutes, night will blanket the entire forest. He can already
feel the familiar pull of the moon, rising behind the trees. Raphael cranes his head out the front
door of the cabin, just to make sure no one has stumbled into the forest. It’s rare, but he just wants
to be careful not to be seen.

When the coast is clear, Raphael shucks off all his clothes. He folds them neatly and plops
them onto the chair beside the door. The prickling sensation begins and Raphael holds back a
growl of irritation. The hand he sets on the doorknob has already started to sprout tuffs of tawny
fur. Raphael yanks the door open and shuts it quickly behind him. It’s only then, safely out of the
house, that he lets the moon make its claim.

An enormous wolf bounds away from the lone cabin in the woods, disappearing deep into the forest.

Bernadetta jerks at the sound of a branch snapping in the distance. She turns, all of her
senses on high alert.

A squirrel skitters up a tree behind her, twisting out of view. Bernadetta breathes out a sigh of relief.

Silly Bernie. Of course, it is nothing! They must call this place the Beastly Forest because of all the
animals. There are so many of them here.

She shakes her head with a smile, her eyes sliding over the shiny acorn that the squirrel left
behind. She thinks of pocketing it, to sketch in her notebook when she arrives safely in Enbarr.
It could be something of a souvenir, proof that she braved the Beastly Forest and survived.
Bernadetta leans down and slips it into her bag.

With a prick of dread, Bernadetta watches as the sun begins to set behind the tree line. She
draws the fur-lined hood of her cloak closer to her face to shield it from wind and forces herself
to keep walking. Despite the forest’s relative safety, Bernadetta does not want to spend any more
time in this place than absolutely necessary.

Raphael noses his snout through a pile of old leaves, pawing the pile out of his den. They crunch
and crinkle beneath his giant paws, some simply disintegrating into brittle pieces from age. Once
Raphael’s den is acceptably clean, he curls in the corner to wait out the remainder of the night.
A few nocturnal creatures scurry across the outcropping of rocks above him. His ears twitch
at the sound, but he doesn’t move. Most of the animals in this forest steer clear of him. Maybe,
beneath it all, they can tell he’s really a just human.
Soon, Raphael falls into a light slumber. He dreams of odd things, but the dream doesn’t last long.
Raphael’s yellow eyes flare open. That’s when he smells her.
A human, walking through the forest.

Bernadetta’s jaw cracks as she fails to stifle an unbecoming yawn. She has been walking
with the moonlight as her guide for hours. By her count, morning is just around the corner. She
desperately wants to stop and rest, but she knows better than to take a break. She can tell by the
silhouette in the distance that she may be close to reaching the edge of the forest.
Bernadetta’s journey comes to an abrupt halt as she reaches a narrow ravine. The gap between her
and the other side is far too large to safely jump. An ice-cold flood of disappointment envelops her.
She stares numbly at the bottom of the ravine, trying to think.

She could always walk around; it is wholly possible the ravine does not stretch out too
far. She could wait until the sun comes out, to give her more light to see by. But none of
those options are tempting.

Moonlight will need to be enough.

Bernadetta grits her teeth, silently rebuking herself for what she is about to attempt.
Bernadetta slips the bow across her shoulder to hold it in place, and pulls a ribbon from her hair to
hold the quiver fast to her leg. She does not want her only source of protection jostling around or
falling out while she tries to manage this ravine.

She ends up dusty and disheveled, but otherwise unharmed when she finally reaches its
bottom. Climbing up the other side, however, is a completely different experience.

Half-way up the opposite wall, her arms begin to tremble from exertion. Bernadetta winces,
squeezing her eyes shut tight against the innumerable cuts that have appeared on her soft palms.
If she lets go now, the drop will be injurious. She clutches desperately to the tiny handholds,
pressing her trembling body against the rock.

A small well of tears begins to form at the corner of her eyes. She is simply too weak to
continue, but she is terrified of letting go, of falling.

Goddess above, what if I just die here? Alone in the woods?

It is that thought that pulls the tears down her cheeks. She shakes from the sheer exhaustion
of trying not to let go.

Just when she thinks she can hold on no longer, a long, sinewy vine unfurls from the top and
hangs beside her. Bernadetta stares at it, dumbfounded.

Is this...help?

She tugs on it gingerly, and finds it stable and steady, as if anchored to something sturdy.

“T-thank you,” she calls out above her, hoping the good samaritan can make out her watery
voice. She slowly transitions her limbs over to the vine, pressing her cheek to the cool stem of the
plant in relief. Once she feels ready, she tugs on the vine gently, hoping the signal is clear.

With surprising speed and strength, the person on the other end of the vine pulls her up.
Bernadetta watches in wonder as the bottom of the ravine shrinks beneath her. She gratefully
latches onto the lip of the cliff as it comes into reach, her wounded hands screaming from effort.
She crawls to a flat surface on her hands and knees, feeling pitiful, ashamed, and most of all,
relieved. She crumples into a disgraceful heap on the ground, trying to catch her breath.

Something wet nuzzles her face and Bernadetta recoils back from shock.

A soft whine rumbles out of a throat. And it’s not her throat. It’s not even a human throat.

A gigantic wolf blinks at her with wild golden eyes, the vine that saved her hanging out its
mouth. It drops it to the ground, like a dog offering her its favorite stick.

Bernadetta scrambles back, her voice lost.

It cocks its head at her questioningly, its fluffy ears lowering back on its head.

“S-stay back!” she squeaks, stumbling to her feet in spite of her obvious terror.

The wolf lowers its head and whines; she wonders if it might be some kind of entreaty.
Bernadetta shakes so badly that her knees knock together. It releases another pitiful whine,
looking torn between approaching her or taking off.

Something in Bernadetta’s brain reminds her that she is, in fact, armed for this very situation.
Well, not for this very situation, but situations like it. Bernadetta yanks an arrow out of her quiver
and shakily nocks it against her bow.

Beneath the waning glow of the moon, the wolf’s liquid gold eyes widen as if in understanding.
Its lips draw back to reveal a full set of knife-sharp teeth.

Bernadetta blanches in fear. She has never shot a live target before. Adrenaline pounds through
her veins: frightening, fortifying, and electric. Somehow, it keeps her focused and standing.

The wolf releases something like a snarl, but when it makes it to her ears, it sounds
almost...human. It makes another attempt, and Bernadetta stares at it wide-eyed. For a
moment, she even considers responding.

Bernadetta shakes the ridiculous notion out of her head. This is not a fairytale, Bernie! Wolves
cannot speak!

Her eyes catch sight of movement in the wolf’s front paws. Without thinking, her fingers lose
their grip, releasing her deadly arrow. She can only describe the look it gives her as one of pure
shock. Her arrow cuts through the air, soundless, and sinks itself deep into the wolf’s shoulder. She
watches in mute horror as fresh blood seeps onto its beautiful coat.

The silence is shattered by an almighty howl of anguish, raising all the tiny hairs on
the back of her neck.

Bernadetta sways on her feet, bile rising in the back of her throat. What have I done?

The wolf wheezes and pants, excess saliva pooling to the forest floor out of its mouth. It slowly
backs away from her, pupils blown wide in fear.

Shaking in her boots, Bernadetta feels nothing but shame and pity. She can see now that it
meant her no harm. She hurt an innocent animal.

Tail tucked between its hind legs, the wolf suddenly turns and flees into the underbrush,
leaving a slick, scarlet trail behind it. Barely visible through the canopy of trees, the sun begins
to rise. Before it can get too far, the creature stumbles, crashing into the forest floor in a billow of
dust. It suddenly begins to thrash and writhe like a creature possessed. Bernadetta’s throat closes
up in shock at the horrific sight.

When the dust settles back into the loam, there is no wolf.

The form of a man, fully nude, stumbles up from that patch of earth, one arm clutching at his
bloodstained shoulder. Her arrow, the very same one, protrudes out of his body.

Bernadetta can scarcely believe what she is seeing.

“W-wait,” she croaks, her hand outstretched toward him.

The man staggers forward, faster on his feet than she expects, not daring to look back.

Bernadetta’s heart pounds so loud in her chest she feels it might just burst.

Raphael crashes through the front door of his cabin in a haze of terror and pain. He makes
it all but two steps into his home before the hardwood floor rushes up to meet him. Raphael
groans into the floorboards, his hand clutching at the arrow embedded in his shoulder. Blood
pools beneath his shoulder blades.
With great effort, his eyes lift toward the medical aid kit on his countertop. He knows how to
remove the arrow. He knows how to patch himself up. This isn’t his first time being attacked by a
fellow human. But he’s lost so much blood he can’t even get up from the floor.
That human…
Raphael takes a deep, fortifying breath, trying to muster the energy to crawl over to his
medical kit. The pain is agonizing. After what feels like an eternity, his hand lands on top of the
box. It drops off the countertop onto the floor, sending supplies skittering everywhere.
Raphael’s eyelids feel heavy. His eyesight starts to blur. The hand in front of him turns into
nothing more than an indistinct blob. He can’t even lift his head off the floor anymore. Raphael
starts to wonder if this is it.
The door creaks open and a pair of eyes, filled with fear and trepidation, meet his. He
knows those eyes.
His voice, thin and pain-streaked, sounds pathetic to his own ears. “Stay...away...”
Those gray eyes stare and stare.
“Please, don’t...hurt me...”
The figure steps out from behind the door.

Raphael doesn’t even flinch. He no longer has the energy to. His vision rapidly begins to white-
out, as if a snowstorm has built up beneath his eyelids.
The figure crouches down to him. Fingers brush hair from his face.
Then, nothing.

When Raphael wakes, he jolts into sitting position.
What a horrible nightmare!
The wound in his shoulder screams in protest and he swears, instinctively clutching at it. To his
surprise, he finds the arrow missing from his shoulder. In fact, the wound has been neatly patched
up, with far more finesse than he has ever been capable of. He lifts up the bandages with the edge of
his fingernail, eyebrows rising in amazement at the neat and tiny stitches sewn into his skin.
Raphael gingerly gets up and an oddly familiar red cloak flutters off him to the ground. He
stands there, in the middle of his tiny cabin, fully nude when she appears from out of view.
Releasing a yelp of embarrassment, she claps her hands over her eyes.
Raphael freezes in place, jaw dropping open. The human!
“I apologize! I did not r-realize you were awake!” she exclaims.
“You,” splutters Raphael, backing as far from her as he can. “It’s you! You...shot me!”
“I am so sorry! I truly did not mean to!” she squeaks from behind her hands.
Raphael blinks at her in disbelief.

“C-could...you put some clothes on please?” she whispers, sounding properly scandalized.

Raphael clears his throat. Right. I’m still naked. He strides across the cabin to the door and finds his
clothes neatly folded. He remembers knocking over this chair when he came in. But right now, nothing
looks out of place. He stares at the floorboards, surprised by the absence of blood. Did...she clean?

“Um...” she begins.

“Wait!” he responds quickly. He struggles into his small clothes and a ratty pair of pants. Putting
on a shirt, he finds, is incredibly difficult with his right shoulder completely out of commission. He
sighs and lets the bunched shirt hang loose from his neck. It’s the best he can do right now.

Finally, her elegant fingers lower from her face. She keeps her gaze on the floor. “I am truly
sorry,” she says again, with genuine sorrow. “I was scared and I acted without thinking. I did not
mean to hurt you. Are you...are you feeling better?”

“Yeah,” he responds, surprised by her concern.

“Thank the goddess,” she breathes, a small smile appearing on her lips.

Raphael jaw relaxes. She seems sincere. “You...you’re not from around here. What are you
doing in this forest?”

She bites her lip. “I am...trying to reach Enbarr.”

“There’s a road that goes around, with a sign and everything,” explains Raphael with a raised
brow. “It’s dangerous to cut through here.”

“I know,” she admits quietly.

“Then, why did you--”

“I am trying not to get caught. There is...a bounty for my capture.” She wrings her hands, her
cheeks pale as snow.

Raphael’s golden eyes go round. “A bounty?”

I guess she must be a little like me.

“That is why I went through the forest,” she explains, looking up at him. She quickly averts
her eyes at the sight of his bare chest. “I...um...” She coughs daintily into her hand. “Do you need
assistance with your tunic?”

Raphael feels his cheeks heat. He knows it’s not proper to be dressed like this in front of other
people. “If...if you don’t mind,” he utters, more gruffly than usual.

“It is my fault,” she concedes, edging closer to him. Her soft hands thread through the folded
shirt and she slowly, but gently, starts to help him slot his arms through the sleeves. Her touch is
so soothing that he almost leans into it.

He watches her eyes closely, searching for the fear that he saw in them before. It’s there,
hidden in the depths, but not nearly as prominent. “You’re not scared of me anymore?”

Her fingers freeze as they pull the tunic down over his abs. Her cheeks burn a brilliant crimson.
“N-not as much.” This close, she looks very pretty. Also, small. She finishes helping him with the
shirt and takes a decorous step back.

Raphael knits his brows together in confusion. “Why not?”

“Because you saved me. I may not have realized it at the time, since...well...you were a wolf,
but you did save me.”

“I wasn’t trying to scare you,” he tells her.

“I figured as much...afterward.”

“Afterward?”

The pretty blush comes back full-force. “After you, um, turned into a man.”

“Right.” Raphael coughs, the silence suffocating.

“So you are...”

Raphael nods. “Yeah, a werewolf.”

She blinks at him in shock. “I meant...your name?”

Raphael flushes. He supposes he’s not too good with conversational cues, since he spends so
much of his time in the forest away from other people. “Oh, that, right. I’m Raphael.”
She smiles tremulously. “Bernadetta, but you can call me Bernie. If you like.”

Bernadetta stares nervously out the window of Raphael’s cabin. She tightens Dorothea’s red
cloak around her shoulders.
She knows she should be going soon. She does not have much time left to reach the
rendezvous point now, not after spending so much time here. She glances over her shoulder.
Raphael lays sleeping on a bed that barely fits him. He snores lightly in his sleep, which she
finds strangely endearing.
Raphael has been so properly nice to her, even after she shot him. She is not sure what to
expect from a werewolf, but if Raphael is anything to go by, they seem truly kind. Kinder than
anyone she has ever met at Varley manor.
He offered her food, a place to sleep, and even to find her a horse.
She is thankful he is willing to help, but she knows how dangerous it is for him to associate
with her. Raphael has a secret of his own to keep, one that might even get him killed if discovered.
They should stay far away from each other.
Maybe, one day, our paths will cross again, Raphael.
She rests her hand on the doorknob, giving him one last bittersweet look.
She turns it and closes the door quietly behind her.

“Hey!”
Bernadetta freezes in place, terrified that she’s been caught on her way out of the forest.
“Hey, Bernie!”
Bernadetta jerks her gaze over shoulder, eyes widening at the sight of Raphael, waving at her
with his one good arm. When he catches up to her, he isn’t even out of breath. Bernadetta wishes
she had that kind of endurance. The color in his face, she notes, looks a lot better now.
“Raphael?”
He flaps a sheet of parchment in her face. The note she left him, to tell him goodbye. It feels
rather embarrassing to have it waved in her face right now.
“What’s this supposed to be?” he asks, cocking his head quizzically at her. She cannot believe she
ever thought his wolf form was a threat. He looks at her just like he did then, like a lovable puppy.
“Ah,” Bernadetta struggles to find the right words, “it is...a note.”
Raphael laughs. “Right, I got that part. But what’s it say? I can’t read.”
Bernadetta clutches her cape in shock. “You...cannot read?”
Raphael grins. “Haven’t needed to, until now I guess. Mind reading this to me?”
“Oh,” Bernadetta feels her body warm with mortification, “it is...um...” She has trouble
looking him in the eye. He is simply too tall, too muscular; his eyes too warm. It feels like she
is drowning in liquid gold.

He hands her the little square of parchment paper and she takes it with some hesitation. She
stares hard at her overly flowery language and cannot bring herself to read it out loud.

“Well?” Raphael leans over her, his breath ghosting over her cheek.

“It says...thanks for the jerky.”

Raphael brightens. “Well, you’re in luck. I brought some with me so we could snack on
something while we head over to Leonie’s to pick you up a horse.”

“Oh...” Bernadetta’s heart drops through her stomach. “That is...kind of you, but I will
not be going to Leonie’s.”

“Why not? Don’t you need a horse?”

Bernadetta squirms beneath his golden-eyed gaze. “Not necessarily.”

Suddenly, the smile slips off his face. “You’re leaving.” Raphael shakes his head. “Didn’t you
tell me there are men after you? It’s dangerous out there.”

“It is dangerous for you too! I saw the scars!” she blurts, then quickly claps her hands over her mouth.

Raphael stares at her, stunned. His eyes darken momentarily at the memory, then softens when
his eyes focus on her again. “That’s nothing to worry about, Bernie.”

“I would hate to see you hurt again because of me,” she murmurs, her eyes dropping to her boots.

“C’mon, who’s going to know what I am if you keep my secret?” Raphael tries, lighthearted. “I
only turn once a month, and right now I’m about as human as you are.”

“But...”

“I promise my friend will be discreet about the horse. I’ll even ride with you part of the
way if you want.”

“You would do that for me?” she says, slightly dazed.

“Of course!” Raphael’s eyes soften again. “You made sure I was safe, and now I’m making sure
you’re safe.”

“But...but I shot you.”

“Yeah.” He chuckles, as if the entire horrifying ordeal is now nothing but a fun memory to him.
“C’mon, Leonie’s is this way.”

“But...”

Bernadetta’s half-hearted protests are swept off by the wind through the trees. Raphael points
ahead, to a barely discernible path through the thicket. The sunshine reflects off his brilliant
blonde hair, like a halo.

She hurries to follow him, for once feeling light and unburdened.





Life as a Fairytale

Ingrid didn’t know why she let those two talk her into anything.

From the very beginning, she should have been very enthusiastic in her response to Dimitri and
Sylvain when they asked her to join them and Felix at the school’s autumn masquerade dance. She
should have looked Sylvain dead in his stupid little face and said ‘no’. Instead, she allowed herself
to be convinced by his even stupider puppy eyes, and she eventually sighed before shaking her head
and agreeing to it.

If Ingrid had her say in the matter, she never would have come. The dress that she was wearing,
while beautiful, was uncomfortable as could be, and she found herself constantly fiddling with the
neck area of the stunning teal creation to keep it from scratching too much at her skin. She hated
wearing heels, and she was no good at keeping her balance in them either, but Sylvain had insisted.
She should have known that this was going to be a bad idea. When had anything good come from
Sylvain pestering her into something she hated the very thought of?

The party was too loud, and she had barely been there for twenty minutes. She wished that they
hadn’t all come in Sylvain’s car, because if she had been smart and driven there herself, she would
have already left. Since that wasn’t an option though, Ingrid stood near the edge of the room with
a cup of water in her hand as she tried to ignore the screaming of the music around her. The party
wasn’t meant to have any alcohol, but she could tell that a few students had smuggled it in based on
the way that a few upperclassmen were dancing like bumbling fools.

Ingrid closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall, trying to cut the rest of the world
out of the forefront of her mind. Unfortunately, it wasn’t working out at all like she had hoped, and she
was still painfully aware of the world around her. She knew how much her ankles hurt from the agonizing
high heels on her feet. She knew how scratchy the dress she was wearing was especially at the edges. She
knew how loud the room was with all of its rowdy occupants, and she absolutely hated it.

“Can I join you?”

Ingrid was snapped out of her daze by an unfamiliar voice. She glanced over to see that she was
no longer alone in her place against the wall. There was a muscular girl with short orange hair off to
the side. The girl in question had a black mask over her face, and she was wearing a white shirt with
the top few buttons left undone. Her trousers were black to match her dress shoes, and an orange
suit jacket was wrapped around her waist.

Ingrid completely forgot that the party was themed as a masquerade ball until after she saw the
other girl’s mask, and she instinctively reached up to touch her own. It was a sea green color, and the
edges were lined in black. It bled elegance just like the rest of Ingrid’s outfit. Her hair was left down
for the first time in ages rather than being in her regular loose braid, and she pushed a few strands of
blonde away from her eyes so that she could get a better look at the newcomer.

“Sure,” Ingrid eventually managed to say, though the word felt foreign and unfamiliar on her lips.
She managed to shake such thoughts off though, and she stepped to the side so that the other girl
had a chance to settle against the wall beside her.

“You don’t seem all that enthusiastic about being here,” the other girl commented before taking
a swig of her own drink. After she was finished, she rubbed at her mouth using the back of her other
hand, and a sigh left her lips.

Ingrid shook her head, and she couldn’t help but wonder if she wasn’t the only one there who
detested the party with every fiber of her being. “I wouldn’t have come if not for my friends dragging
me along,” she confessed. The truth was that Sylvain had been completely responsible. Dimitri had
been fine to accept her negatory response, and Felix hadn’t cared in the slightest since he knew that
Sylvain wouldn’t let him escape regardless. It had been the redhead that dragged Ingrid in with his
charming smile and pleading gaze, and no matter how much she wanted to escape it, she knew that
it was hopeless. She had saved herself a lot of time by just agreeing to come along, but that didn’t
mean that she had to like the situation that she was in.

Speaking of Sylvain, he appeared in her line of sight as she spoke the words to the girl with
orange hair. He was standing with Felix, and he was clearly trying to flirt with a girl with lengthy
white hair in a red dress. Felix had his hand pressed against his face to hide his embarrassment at
having been seen with Sylvain, but his flirtatious friend didn’t seem to get the hint that she wasn’t
interested. Dimitri was nowhere to be seen, and Ingrid figured that was for the best. She didn’t want
to see how flustered he would have gotten upon realizing what Sylvain was up to.

“Same here,” the girl with orange hair commented. She looked over to another pair of people
standing nearby. One of them was a boy with tanned skin and unruly dark brown hair. The other was
a girl with pink hair that fell down her back in gentle waves. They were talking loudly, but Ingrid
couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. They didn’t seem to notice in the slightest that they
were attracting the eyes of the others in the area, and if they did happen to observe that they were
doing such, they chose not to care.

“I wish that I could be anywhere but here,” Ingrid confessed, forcing herself to look at the ground
so that she wouldn’t have to notice the way that Sylvain was still attempting to find a way to dance
with the girl in the red dress. Her cheeks were warm with pink, and she wanted nothing more than
to sink away so that she would never have to associate with him again. Sylvain was strange enough
when he wasn’t causing problems for others, but the environment of the dance was only making his
regular bad habits exponentially worse, and she hated it.

The girl let out a laugh at Ingrid’s words. “You aren’t the only one,” she admitted. She fell silent
for a moment as the music began to switch from pounding pop that gave even Ingrid a headache
into a gentle lulling love song. The girl rubbed at the back of her head as a cringe blossomed on her
features. “Looks like the lovebirds are coming out at long last… Yikes.”

Ingrid sighed, closing her eyes as she tried to imagine herself anywhere but at that damn dance.
Why hadn’t she just put her foot down and told Sylvain that she wasn’t interested when she still
had the chance? She could have saved herself a lot of trouble and embarrassment. She would much
rather be at home eating ice cream and pizza while watching an old movie, and yet, there she was at
the stupid party because of stupid Sylvain and his stupid pleading puppy eyes.

The other girl paused for a moment, looking out over the crowd of students as couples began to
take one another by the waist to sway slowly in the music’s gentle melody. She pushed herself off the
wall. “Well, we might as well make ourselves a bit less miserable and try to have some fun.” The girl
held out her hand to Leonie as a bitter laugh escaped her lips. “May I have this dance?”

Ingrid found her eyes going wide at the other girl’s suggestion. That was the last thing she
expected to hear, if she was being perfectly honest. Still, she would have been lying to herself if she
said that it was completely unappealing. She already enjoyed the company of the other girl, and it
was certainly better than leaning against the wall and feeling miserable for another two hours until
the party ended.

She reached out one hand as a light laugh left her mouth. “Sure,” she agreed. The other girl’s
fingers were warm, and they pulled Ingrid in close as the two made their way over to the dancefloor.
They were swaying back and forth together before Ingrid could fully register what was happening.

The music continued to drone on in the background, but Ingrid barely heard it. She was too
focused on those striking orange eyes that the other girl had, and she found herself thankful for
the mask on her face. It did a somewhat decent job of hiding the pink that was blossoming across
her face. Ingrid really didn’t know why she was getting so flustered, but she couldn’t make it stop
either. What about this girl had captivated her to this degree? She simply didn’t understand.

Slowly but surely, the slow song began to wind down, and couples began to lean in for kisses of
affection. Ingrid remained still, a small distance away from the other girl but still close enough to touch
her. Even as the music shifted into something far faster, a pop song by some artist that Ingrid didn’t
care enough to recognize, Ingrid and the girl with orange hair remained perfectly still. Something
about it felt magical, as if a part of her chest was opening up for the first time ever.

“That was…” the girl began to say, but she didn’t seem to know how to finish the sentence.
Ingrid couldn’t blame her; she wasn’t sure of how to conclude the phrase either, so she simply
stared into the other girl’s eyes. The moment was captivating in a way that she had no idea how
to describe, and she simply allowed the beauty of the situation to hang in the air like a perfect
curtain of mist.

This peace didn’t last for long though, and the girl with pink hair that Ingrid had seen before
appeared next to them. “Hey! There you are!” she cried out. The boy with dark hair was at her side,
a smirk in his green eyes. “We were wondering where you got off to. Come on. We’re going to check
out the rest of the party.”

The girl with orange hair looked back to Ingrid before pulling fumbling through her pockets
for something. When she didn’t find it, she groaned in frustration. Luckily for her, the boy with
green eyes was more than ready to provide, and he pulled a small notepad and a pen from his
pocket before giving it to her.

Her face was overwhelmed with a flood of relief, and she began to scribble something down
on the front page. She tore it off before handing it to Ingrid. “Here’s my number. We should meet
up again sometime,” she said. The girl with orange hair gave her one final wave as her pink-haired
companion dragged her away, and Ingrid was left to stare in flustered shock as she fully registered
what had just happened.

Ingrid slowly made her way back to her place against the wall, and she looked down at the page
that she had been given. The numbers had been scrawled out quickly, but they were still easy to
understand. Ingrid smiled to herself before opening her purse and dropping the page inside. She
was halfway tempted to pull her phone out and send the other girl a text immediately, but she told
herself to hold back since her partner on the dancefloor was spending time with her friends.

Still, she spent the rest of the night standing against the wall with a water cup in her hand. As
she watched the ripples of the liquid, she thought of the way that the other girl had led her in a
gentle dance not long before, and her face flushed with heat. Maybe it hadn’t been such a bad idea to
come to this dance after all.

When Ingrid got home, the first thing she did was change into her pajamas. She hung up her
dress and brushed through her hair after removing her heels, and she had to resist the urge to look
over at where her purse was hanging on her bed frame. Was it too soon to text the other girl? She
had most certainly enjoyed talking with her at the party, but Ingrid didn’t want to come off as overly
clingy or weird somehow.

She could still remember the car ride back with Sylvain, Dimitri, and Felix. Sylvain had
commiserated his lack of partners on the dancefloor as Felix rolled his eyes. Dimitri asked Ingrid how
her night went, and she nonchalantly said that it was fine. Still, Sylvain, being the obnoxious little
punk he was, began to laugh in response. She said that Ingrid had enjoyed herself more than she was
letting on, but she denied such firmly. Sylvain assured her that the truth would come out eventually,
and Ingrid found herself joining Felix in rolling her eyes. She was glad that Dimitri had decided to sit
in the front with Sylvain, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to stand seeing his snide grin more than
she had to.

Ingrid forced herself out of the memory as she glanced back to her purse. She pulled her phone
out, forcing herself to keep from removing the note with the other girl’s number so soon. Ingrid
didn’t want to rush into anything or make their relationship awkward. Perhaps it would be best if
she gave it a bit of time. Perhaps the other girl needed some time to consider her thoughts on the
night’s events as well.

As she sat down on her bed, blonde hair forming a curtain around her face, Ingrid wondered what
the other girl could possibly have in store for her once they met properly. Ingrid didn’t even know
her name yet, but she had the sneaking suspicion that she would soon enough. Anxiety rose in her
chest, and she let out a slow breath. This was far from being an orthodox situation, and she had no
idea how she was supposed to handle it.

Ingrid’s eyes began to droop as a result of her night of activity, so she fully settled down beneath
her covers. Still, even if her body was exhausted, her mind was racing, and she couldn’t help but
think through the motions of her dance over and over. Suddenly, her face was warm again, and Ingrid
knew that it was going to take a long time for her to fully drift off into slumber as long as the girl
with orange hair remained in the forefront of her mind.

The first thing Ingrid thought about when she woke up the next morning was the phone number
still sitting in her purse.

Ingrid was a morning person naturally, always taking advantage of the opportunities that
starting the day early gave her. She didn’t sleep in anywhere near as much as some other people she
knew (most notably Sylvain), but even if she wanted to, Ingrid knew she wouldn’t have come close
given the events of the night before.

She sat up in bed and reached for her the spot where her purse was dangling limply from the head
of her bed frame. She pulled it free and set it in her lap as she shook a few stray threads of blonde hair
from her eyes. Ingrid shoved her hand into the bag and rustled around until she caught hold of the
familiar sensation of paper. She pulled it out before reaching for her phone. The page with the orange-
haired girl’s phone number sat in her left palm while her phone rested between the fingers of her right
hand. Ingrid stared down at both of them, unsure of what she was meant to do next.

There was a voice in the back of her head that told Ingrid to do the obvious thing: text her. Ingrid had
been given the other girl’s phone number for a reason. Her companion from the night before had clearly
enjoyed her company enough for her to wish to bridge the gap between them once again. They had made
the best of an unfortunate situation together, and Ingrid knew that she was just as eager to see the other
girl as the young woman in the orange suit jacket had been to dance with her the night before.

Still, Ingrid couldn’t force herself to find the messaging app on her phone to type out the
words that she had been agonizing over even in sleep. As she continued to look at the paper and
phone, she remembered her dreams from the night before. To put it simply, Ingrid had thought
about her incredible dance with the other girl all night, and she still found herself shuddering at
the way that the two had swayed in the dimmed lighting of the school’s dancefloor.

She shook her head and closed her eyes, dropping her phone onto her bed before pinching
at the bridge of her nose. She didn’t want to come off as too obsessive or overwhelming. Ingrid
hadn’t connected with someone this way since she first started dating Felix’s older brother a
few years ago. Her relationship with Glenn had been the best year and a half of her life. She had
thought for so long how incredible it would be to spend the rest of her life at his side.

All of that had changed the night that Glenn perished in a car accident. Ingrid could still
remember the way that her eyes fogged with tears when she got the phone call from Sylvain to say
that he was gone. She hadn’t wanted to leave her room for two weeks, so summer days passed her by
as she pressed a pillow against her features and wondered why he had to be taken from her so soon.

The girl with orange hair was something special to Ingrid, and she knew that she hadn’t even
come close to experiencing such overwhelming joy in the presence of another person until the night
before. The last thing she wanted to do was somehow mess up what they had going already. Ingrid
didn’t want to lose someone else. Even if she had only barely met the girl with orange hair, Ingrid
found herself desperate to not make a mistake. She hadn’t had a say in what happened when she lost
Glenn, but she could ensure that she didn’t drive away her new suitor so soon after they met.

Ingrid moved her hand away from her face after she had scrubbed down her cheeks with her
fingers. She shook her head and tossed her blankets aside before rising to her feet. She had to get
up and start moving. If she didn’t, she would keep thinking, and that was the last thing she wanted
to do at that moment.

Ingrid tugged on a simple turquoise t-shirt with a logo of some band Ingrid had been in love
with a few years ago on the front. She slipped into a pair of dark shorts soon afterwards before
finding green sandals and stepping into them effortlessly. Afterwards, Ingrid reached for a
brush, focusing on the way that her head moved with each gentle tug. Tangles slowly unraveled,
and Ingrid shut her eyes.

She was lost in the trance that came with brushing her hair until her phone let out a
shrill ding. Ingrid practically jumped out of her skin at the sound, and part of her wondered
if perhaps the girl with the orange hair had found a way to text her despite not having her
number. Ingrid shook off the ridiculous notion before pulling the brush through her hair one
last time and moving towards her phone.

Ingrid pressed down on the power button and saw that it was a message from Sylvain asking
if she wanted to hang out. Apparently, Dimitri, Ashe, Annette, and Mercedes were going out
with him for the day. He had yet to receive a response from Dedue or Felix, the final two in their
immediate friend group, but he decided to reach out to Ingrid in the meantime.

Ingrid immediately felt relieved at his words, and she typed out a reply that said she would
love to come. Being around Sylvain was difficult and somewhat questionable at times, but she
figured that it was better than sitting at home and wondering if she should really text the girl
she had danced with the night before. Ingrid needed to escape the hell that was found in her own
mind, and Sylvain was offering her the perfect way out.

She reached for a blue jacket before shrugging her way into it, and she dropped her phone into
her pocket. After briefly hesitating, she shoved the page with the phone number in haphazardly
along with the device. She wouldn’t be able to send any life-shattering messages while she was
out, but Ingrid still found herself comforted by the presence of the paper.

Still, none of that mattered anymore. She was going to spend a nice day with her friend, and
she wasn’t going to think about this more than she had to.

“What are you looking at?”

Ingrid snapped out of her thoughts upon hearing Annette’s voice, and she looked up to
see the smaller girl watching her intently. They were sitting at a table in the local mall’s food
court, waiting for the rest of the group to return from picking up takeout Chinese from the
nearby counter. Since the mall was so busy, Ingrid and Annette had been tasked with finding
the group of eight a place to sit.

Ingrid had gotten distracted with the idea of looking at the paper with the phone number again,
and she didn’t even notice that Annette was watching her until she said something. Ingrid let out
a sigh and shook her head. “It’s nothing,” she murmured. She didn’t know how to admit to Annette
that she was terrified out of her mind of texting the girl she had met the night before.

Annette’s eyes went wide with curiosity, and Ingrid realized that she wasn’t going to be able
to escape the other girl’s inquisition. She sighed and shook her head. “I got a girl’s number at the
dance,” she admitted softly.

A gasp left the redheaded girl’s lips, and she clapped excitedly. “That’s incredible!” she
chirped. “So what are you doing just staring at the paper? You have to actually text her if you want
anything to come of it!”

Ingrid found herself surprised at how honest Annette was about it all. She knew deep down
that her friend had a point, but she was almost afraid of admitting it. Ingrid eyed the page for a
bit longer, and she smiled nervously to herself before shoving her hand into her purse. Annette
squealed with excitement as Ingrid typed out her message.
“Hi. I’m the girl you danced with last night. Do you think we could meet up tomorrow?”

Ingrid prepared to put her phone away, but she was cut off by a shrill beeping. Annette
leaned forward, almost falling out of her seat in excitement. “What did she say?!” she asked as
Ingrid read the response in full.
“Sure. Back of the school after class?”

Ingrid offered an affirmative response before putting her phone away. “I have a meeting with
a girl,” she said, a nervous grin spreading across her features.

“You have a meeting with a girl!” Annette echoed, reaching out to take Ingrid’s hands in her
own. The blonde girl flushed, and she internally thanked Annette for being bold enough to get
her out of her rut.

In all honesty, Ingrid was nervous out of her mind.

She was standing in the place where she had agreed to meet with her partner from the dance,
a hoodie around her torso to block out the growing autumn chill. It had only been a few minutes
since classes ended, but Ingrid’s nerves were only growing with the passing seconds. What if her
companion had decided not to show up? What if something had kept her from coming to school?
What if everything had gone terribly wrong and--

The sound of footsteps drew Ingrid’s attention up, and she watched as a girl with short orange
hair walked closer. She was wearing a letterman’s jacket over a black shirt with torn-up jeans and
orange sneakers that had practically been worn into being unusable. Her muscles were notable
even through her clothing, and Ingrid found herself staring.

The girl shot her a grin. “You must be my princess from the other night. It’s nice to meet you.
I’m Leonie,” she introduced, sticking out her hand for a shake. Everything about her was as warm
as it was honest, and Ingrid found herself captivated.

It took far more effort than Ingrid cared to admit to snap herself out of her trance of awe at
Leonie’s appearance. “I’m Ingrid,” she said, allowing her fingers to slip between Leonie’s as the other
girl shook her hand firmly. Leonie’s grip was confident in a way that Ingrid had never seen before.

Leonie pulled her hand back before leaning up against the wall beside Ingrid. “I had a great
time with you at the dance,” she told Ingrid, her smile still notable. “I couldn’t stop thinking about
everything that happened even after I left. I was expecting to hate everything that happened there,
but I enjoyed seeing you a lot.”

Ingrid looked down at the ground and pushed a piece of blonde hair away from her face. “I feel
the same,” she murmured, unwilling to meet Leonie’s gaze properly. She didn’t mention how she
had been dreaming of Leonie taking her to dance each night since the dance.

“I guess that now’s the part where we decide if we want to go out on a date or not. What do you
think?” Leonie asked. There was something nervous about her voice, and it humbled her in a way
Ingrid didn’t anticipate.

Much to her own surprise, Ingrid nodded at Leonie’s suggestion. “Yeah… I would like that,” she
confessed. She hadn’t expected herself to be so forward, but she wasn’t objecting if it gave her the
chance to spend more time with Leonie.

“We can go out for dinner,” Leonie suggested. She gave a brief glance over her shoulder before
starting to walk away. “Sorry, I’ve got to go to archery club. I’ll be looking forward to receiving
another message from you though.”

Ingrid watched as Leonie walked away, and she pretended that there wasn’t pink rising in her
cheeks. She couldn’t move for a long time, too stunned to bother.

She had a girlfriend.

She had a girlfriend.

Ingrid laughed on the way to the fountain outside the restaurant that Leonie had taken her to.
It was an expensive burger restaurant that both of them were fond of, and it had been the perfect
location for their first date. Ingrid learned that Leonie was a star member of the archery club, and
she participated in basketball as well. In fact, Leonie was good at everything sporty, putting Ingrid’s
hobbies of horseback riding and swimming to shame. Still, Ingrid was infatuated by everything that
Leonie did, and she laughed at every joke the other girl told her.

Leonie had suggested that they head to the fountain to end the night since they could make
wishes if they wanted to, claiming that sometimes a bit of superstition wasn’t a bad thing. Ingrid
had agreed, and that was how they wound up standing in front of an elaborate fountain with the
moonlight shining upon their features.

Ingrid pulled a penny from her pocket and tossed it inside, wishing that her relationship with
Leonie lasted for ages to come. All of her previous concerns about dating someone were gone,
and she was desperate to see more of the glory that came with love. Something about Leonie’s
expression told Ingrid that she had made a similar wish.

Leonie’s hand appeared before Ingrid a moment later, a smirk playing at her features. “Shall we
dance?” she questioned. It was a silent way of commemorating how they had met, and given that
they were intending on remaining together for quite some time, their first encounter was certainly
something they wanted to honor.

Ingrid nodded and accepted Leonie’s fingers between her own. They began to step back and
forth together, falling into the same rhythm that Ingrid had been dreaming of for so long. She couldn’t
stop the smile that spread across her features as she recognized the warmth of Leonie’s body against
her own. This was nothing short of perfect, and she wouldn’t have had it any other way.

When they finally stopped dancing, Ingrid and Leonie were closer than ever before, staring at
each other with smiles on their faces. Their gazes questioned if the other would be alright with what
was to come, and as soon as they received confirmation, they leaned in.

The kiss was magical, and Ingrid’s heart began to speed its pace. She couldn’t have imagined a
better outcome to the dance. Ingrid found herself glad that she had decided to go in the first place,
and she found herself lost in Leonie’s mere presence.

Her life was a fairytale, and she wouldn’t have had it any other way.







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