There’s an unusual chill from the summer night’s air.

  Blown between the frilly dresses and coat tails of the numerous guests, the set tables and strolling servers, between the floor to ceiling marble pillars and the vast silver leaf art pieces; the breeze itself travels supernaturally fast through the grand ballroom and towards a seemingly targeted individual deep within the palace complex.

  Through the eastern wing, up through the Lion Mane Staircase, and passing by a half-dozen heavily armed imperacutta guards; the wind barrels down towards a singular, barely ajar door to an antechamber and into the occupant within.

  It's just cold enough for her to sneeze, swathes of pale, exposed skin reacting violently to the chill. A sound held tightly within the young woman, the only audible noise released from her like the squealing of a surprised mouse.

  Yet the sudden movement sends a swath of colors through her evening dress — a pebble dropped into a mirror-still pond. The small, fingernail sized squares of perfectly cut composite ceramic, strung with nearly invisible silver alloy threads, subtly click together; like silverware rubbed against wine flutes.

  The young woman tries not to think of the expense of the ballgown now worn above her soft, silky undershirts; on how many bushels of wheat, barrels of sugar, and those fancy cast aluminum fryers just a single sheet of this pseudo fabric could possibly purchase.

  Each individual component of the dress was coated with a thin layer of lacquer, each one handmade, organized together based on their refractive properties, and tailored in a dazzling array of pearl white, yet iridescent dress of incalculable colors. Contoured to her form, the subtle threads of silver support a thin waist and sharp shoulder blades, exemplifying the features deemed generally attractive here within the most upper echelons of Ensolia. A bare back of pale, almost pearlescent skin, enough cleavage to force the more lustful gazes away in denial of their desires, and a dress cut high enough to expose her ankles just enough to perhaps incite some sense of maturity.

  Not that there was a fashion standard to adhere to: whatever she decided to wear here this evening would most likely define the high fashion culture of the nation for the next half decade. Arguably, a majority of the populace would be quite receptive to graduate from their most recent phase; the soft, thin silk fabrics worn by her 3rd older sister during her ceremony a mere four years prior was, although a boon for the silk farmers within the nation’s mountainous southern borderlands, left much to be desired in terms of warmth in the winter months.

  Like some child’s discarded doll she lounges in the antechamber sofa, the attending maids and servants standing in quiet observance near the edges of the large, well decorated room. A gaze held away from the polished silver mirror; trying not to observe the stranger reflected within who also was attempting to avert her gaze towards her. Instead, she watches the lazy second hand of the nearby quartz clock move itself, awaiting the perfect time to spring into action.

  She was, in the most honest of senses, going to be late. Factoring in the travel time (walking quickly in these awful enamel shoes was going to be hellish), and any sort of additional cosmetic preparations beforehand, the young woman would never have arrived at the rehearsed, designated time.

  So why would she rush?

  She watches as the minute hand approaches a number divisible by five, the seventy fifth minute till eight arriving with almost excruciating slowness. Three minutes, two minutes; the attending ladies knew, afterall, not to argue with her on this matter.

  7:75pm.

  It’s time.

  In a sudden, graceful burst she picks herself up, standing to her tall, slender height as the dress sends a cascading series of clicks like an audience respectfully giving a quiet, yet controlled ovation.

  As one the attendants act, a majority of the twenty bowing respectfully while two move to pull open the oaken double doors towards the grand approach.

  They all share just one thought as they each sneak peaks at the young mistress, at the wordless glare she holds on her overtly makeup touched face. A single line of thinking as each holds equal parts pride at their handiwork, and shock at the incredible transformation within such a tight timeframe:

  She really is going to make it.

  Electrical lamps on each side of the grand hall illuminate her path forward, standing beneath each one an imperacutta guard in full military dress. Perfectly polished ceramic body armor coated to reflect like jeweled silver, cloth beneath the plates streaked in pale blue dye to represent their highest place as guards of the royal family. Like toy soldiers they straighten to attention as she passes by them, hands on service rifles and eyes locked forward in their endless vigil over them all.

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  She walks towards the source of brilliant light beyond the hall, keeping her balance on tight, almost tortuous shoes made to exacerbate her already graceful height. A stride turned into something more harsh, measured; the stinging pain and tightness forcing each step to be taken with an immense amount of control.

  Ancestors watch her as she walks with great discomfort.

  Huge oil paintings commissioned by the family line, their legacy now befalling onto just another one of their kin. Monoliths, kingpins of a nation; measured and perfect each in their regal, perfectly straightened poses.

  She can’t help but to actually read their names and titles as she passes by them; their faces and expressions. At this moment, trying to find any semblance of herself within these gracious monarchs of the eras come to pass.

  Handsome princes ascended to the throne, gorgeous empresses ruling with grace, to old mooks and shrived relics; there is just one that shares her name amongst the Elise’s thousand and two hundred year old history:

  Sophia Elise the First; daughter of Eleanor Elise; Last Empress of the Silver Era.

  A beauty held despite her middle age at the portrait’s commission, round features alongside soft brown eyes and short cropped hair of silvery white completely unrecognizable this far down to her 8th namesake.

  Sophia Elise the Eighth, a girl now woman with long blonde hair that flowed beyond her shoulders, of blue eyes harsher than the nightly glow of their worlds’ parent Unudo unshadowed, with features that seemed to be chiseled from marble. Tall, graceful, picture perfect as she now approaches the vestibule, light spilling into the hallway and then into the Grand Ballroom.

  The structure was a hundred feet high, a half-thousand feet long and with the width of a fourth of that; floor to ceiling held with concrete pillars covered in polished marble and cedar flying buttresses. Fields of poppies carved into each, inlaid with silver foil to enhance their craftsmanship. Above it all is a painted astrological map of their solar system; from the central three stars, their grand gaseous giant of Unudo, and their single blue marble.

  And they all stand beneath it.

  They were all here, all of Ensolia.

  A continent under their rule through dynastic contracts, economic might, and legions of rifles; a smattering of peoples here for just one reason and one reason only.

  Long coat tails from formal ballroom garb to dulled swords found on militaristic uniforms, taken from nations and satellite kingdoms. Princes to dukes, the political strata of a continent represented by at minimum a half dozen entourage each.

  They are all here for her.

  Specifically, to get a head start.

  Sophia Elise the Eighth, the Fourth in line, was the Ensolian powerplay. The guaranteed heirs assumed betrothed to distant nations across the Stygian Sea or kept as backups in the securing of distant alliances, the remainder left to the localities of their own home continent. The fourth of the first amongst the five families, to have her is to have a hand on the silver throne.

  Heirs and current nobility delivering their most handsome princes, each dressed to impress just a single young lady. From the rotund to the razor thin, young and old; a desperation here so incredible she even notes the presence of suitors of her own gender: both as a final shot for a theorized partner preference and also to pick up any powerful suitors left on the wayside of this specific event.

  Already from her vantage point above the crowd she sees the divisions, alliances and old enemies already finding a separation between each other, keeping to themselves as she stands alone atop the grand Lion Mane Staircase in full view of all.

  She takes her time in observing them, watching closely as each scheme is relayed, assessed, prepared; every plan of action played out first in their own palaces and now here in the grand orchestral dance of the Imperial House.

  There is no announcement, her arrival as natural as a tropical hurricane battering a coastal village. For the empire does not demand for attention, instead it lets the world fall to silence before it.

  Slowly, in droves and waves do they all take notice; a room of predators suddenly falling to quiet themselves in the presence of the true queen of a savage jungle.

  Those cold blue eyes staring at each of them; that measured, emotionless analysis slowly deconstructing all plans, all desires, all possibility of a first strike. A fly trap waiting for a living meal, unknowingly delivered by its own victim.

  This was power.

  To hold attention without asking for it; to have a crowd of two hundred at your beck and call without a single word. Where each step down the sixty six stairs of the Lion Mane Staircase was listened to with palpable fear, where every single breath taken holds the possibility of ruin on a scale never seen before. Like aiming an incendiary bomb at a busy city center, a single misplaced word could send a series of events spiraling out of control far too quickly, and with far too many consequences.

  They all still try to read her, try to gaze into the mind of the fourth princess of the Empire. Trying to extract just a single emotion, or perhaps a thought; enough to give them the inestimably small advantage over another suitor.

  Was she angry? Disappointed at this worthless rabble? Or perhaps… lusting after something more dangerous? There was the intrusive thought that with a single snap of their fingers, the Ensolian Imperium could decapitate and completely cripple the entire continent here; something that wasn’t completely foreign to the most warmongering of the five ruling houses.

  She’s almost to the base of the stairs now, the subtle clicking of her ceramic dress resounding through the whispers, the fearful gulps, and panicked breaths.

  They all watch her.

  And one thought, one singular line dominates the mind of Princess Sophia Elise the Eighth, Fourth of the Ensolian Imperium, Daughter of Empress Annia, Dutchess of the Reichlands (by tradition), Supreme Commandant of the Fourth Legion (also by tradition):

  I don’t like this. I’m tired. I wanna go sleep now.

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