It was the witches from The Frost Coven that commanded everyone’s attention, though. The Maja was a witch with a long, thick, bluish-white braid adorned with beads and jewels. She was tall, covered in tight fighting leather over her thick curves, and carried a large, decorated staff. Walking beside the Maja was a large cat-like creature, and a quiet ripple of surprise ran through the crowd at the sight of it.
Depending on the angle she looked at it from, its fur was icy white, black, and silver. With its mouth partially opened, revealing its canines, the creature searched for any small thing out of place.
“She has a familiar,” Zyana whispered in awe.
“That is quite rare,” Demurielle mused.
It was extremely rare, less so before the curse, but now practically unheard of. Trista had also heard that the witches from The Coven of Frost and Shadow were known to explore darker magic casually. She wondered if it was true and, if so, how she could ask them about it. Like their name suggested, they held an icy aura about them. They seemed untouchable.
“I hope we get to speak with them,” Demurielle whispered excitedly. Trista was curious how their ice would fare against Demurielle’s charm. By the flash of defiance in her eyes, the sun witch seemed up for the challenge.
Chapter IX
Withthearrivalofall the covens, besides The Coven of Iron which had been delayed, the first major event was announced. The masquerade ball’s theme was mystery and accord. The idea was to create unity and tolerance since, ideally, no one knew who they were dancing with.
The two lady’s maids, Lila and Sonet, seemed to get immense pleasure from dressing her up and using magic to add to the outfit as if it were an art form. They looked affronted when Trista protested them using their essence just to fit the dress to her perfectly. The only way to make it right again had been to let them have full control of the process.
Trista looked at herself in the mirror and was amazed at her reflection. Lila and Sonet hadbewitchedher. Having worn the same thick and simple fabrics all her life at the Akeso, she had become accustomed to the plain appearance. But at this moment, she felt anything but ordinary.
Her dress was a rich plum color and emboldened her curves. She had never seen fabric stretch to fit the expanse of her wide hips before. Any attire at the Akeso hung loose with little form. When she had trouble balancing on the accompanying strappy, gold heels, a quick spell from Sonet strengthened her wobbly ankles.
They worked hard to tame her hair with pins and thick ribbon, but it still had a mind of its own. The only blessing was that the few escaped curls framed her face well. As a final touch, Lila added a shimmering powder to her body that made her already golden skin glow.
“My secret weapon,” Lila had said through a smirk, while adding it to each freckle on Trista’s face.
Her newfound friends waited for her in the hallway. Demurielle was wrapped in a beautiful dark teal dress that made her eyes even more extraordinary. “Trista,” she gushed as she strode toward her, “lookat you!”
Trista smiled, forcing herself to be receptive to the compliment. “Me?” she breathed, gesturing at the two of them. “Look at how that dress makes you glow.”
Demurielle blushed prettily, beaming at her compliment.
“And Zy, you’re more handsome than ever!” Trista exclaimed. The mountain witch was dressed in an elegant flowy black tunic, giving her an air of mystery.
“Thanks,” Zyana grumbled as she fidgeted with the simple gold mask.
Demurielle launched straight into instructing. “We have to stick together tonight. I heard there is magic over the dance hall that muddles the senses. It ensures that people aren’t figuring out each other’s identities without breaking the rules.”
The rules were simple enough. They were told not to give names, stations, or statuses. Thus effectively ensuring that they were truly anonymous between their masks and whatever magic covered the chamber.
Donning their masks, they walked through the corridors toward the dance hall. Even with the charm for her ankles, it took her time to perfect walking in heels. Though she couldn’t deny that she felt beautiful, she envied Zyana’s pants and flat-bottomed dress shoes.
Brimming with groups of ornately dressed mages and witches, the ballroom was packed. The chandeliers radiated with soft gold light, casting the dance floor into enticing shadow. Demurielle grabbed their arms, and Trista was thankful to have someone she knew in the mass of unknown. The Witch King sat on the dais. Though he had an elaborate mask on, he would not get to take part as an anonymous participant. However, he was alone with only the kingsguard around him. That meant Prince Roan was masked and in the crowd.
Trista wondered if the princess was also present. It was a common topic of conversation that the princess had been missing from every gathering since their arrival. There had yet to be an explanation given to her whereabouts either.
A mage with a tray of sparkling drinks stopped by them, and they all took a glass. Between the masks, the lower lighting, and whatever magic the Witch King had weaved into the hall, she could not identify anyone besides Demurielle and Zyana. She wondered if the spell would have kept them from recognizing each other if they hadn’t arrived together.
When the music came to life, drowning out the chatter, Demurielle was immediately approached by someone. She took his hand, looking back at them with a puzzled expression. Trista offered a slight shrug in return and then artfully escaped toward the closest wall with Zyana. The other witch watched the dancers quietly but tapped her foot to the music. When she was asked to dance by a thin mage, she declined immediately. Cutting him off before he could even get the whole sentence out, she raised her hand up to stop his approach.
“Absolutely not.”
Stifling a laugh, Trista leaned against the wall when a low voice came from her other side. “Do you always avoid dancing?”
She turned her attention to the mage. He was tall, his voice deep but musical, and he wore a simple black mask that made him look even more mysterious. “I’m not a very good dancer,” she admitted, taking another sip from her chalice to peer at him over its edge.
“Is that so?” The mage had an easy confidence about him. He dipped his hands in his pockets and rested a foot against the wall as he leaned against it. Demurielle would probably be able to guess who he was, especially by his extremely light, almost white hair. When Trista tried to remember if she had seen anyone with such hair before, her thoughts felt fuzzy with the effort.
“And you? Do you make it a habit of avoiding the dance floor?”