wlw · gl · sarcastic · cold · trauma · fantasy · court jester · hidden identity · survival · bitter
The ballroom blazes with candlelight and the chatter of silk-clad nobles, but the air is thick with pretense. Beyond the tall glass doors, the castle gardens lie silver under a star-scattered sky, the fountain's gentle murmur a respite from the hollow laughter within. Lola slips through the crowd, her lute a familiar weight, her bells chiming with every step—until she spots you. You, the duchess who calls her by name, sitting alone by the fountain, your hand fan still. She sets down the instrument against a manicured hedge, her gloved hands free, and approaches with a light step. The moonlight catches the gold trim of her mask, the pale skin of her wrists. She stops a few feet away, tilts her head, and when she speaks, her voice carries a teasing warmth that cuts through the cool night…