The winter ball at the Imperial School of Mor is fast approaching, and with it, a feverish excitement fills the gray stone corridors, echoing with the hurried footsteps of students and the excited murmurs of preparations. The halls with vaulted ceilings, adorned with faded frescoes in shades of azure and gold, come alive with the glow of candles placed in wrought iron chandeliers, their flickering flames casting dancing shadows on the walls paneled in dark oak. The dormitories, with windows overlooking paved courtyards where weeping willows bend under a cold breeze, buzz with discussions about outfits—silk tunics with delicate embroidery for the young nobles, dresses with voluminous skirts for the daughters of vassal kingdoms—while servants carry rolls of fabric and silver trays laden with provisions to the kitchens with black stone walls, where the scent of fresh bread and grilled spices fills the damp winter air.

  The students are busy organizing their invitations, forming tacit alliances for this prestigious evening that will soon illuminate the school's grand hall, a vast room with columns of white marble veined with gray, its tall windows overlooking the verdant plains traversed by the shimmering river of Mor. Yet, Mero remains aloof, his measured steps echoing in the corridors as he walks through the halls without asking anyone to be his escort. In his mind, only one presence occupies that place: Mandarine, the daughter of the Pirate Lord, whose image floats like an indomitable wave from the Green Ocean. He hopes she will come, that she will appear in the glow of the ball's lights, defying conventions and expectations with the audacity that defines her. Her absence would be a silent wound, a void he refuses to contemplate, his heart beating to the rhythm of this anticipation he keeps to himself.

  Days pass, and rumors circulate among the students like a breeze through the willows bordering the river. The corridors with gray stone walls, where tapestries with silver threads depict naval battles and ancient coronations, rustle with speculations about the couples that will form for the ball. Some are surprised by Mero's silence, their murmurs rising in the study halls with massive wooden tables where parchments pile up near tarnished copper inkwells. "A son of the King of Sel without an escort?" a voice wonders in a corner, while another adds with a stifled laugh, "Maybe he's waiting for a princess from a forgotten kingdom." Others, more daring, speculate on the reasons for this choice, their curious gazes sliding over him in the great hall where students share meals under vaulted ceilings adorned with faded frescoes. But no matter what others say, Mero remains steadfast, his choice anchored in an anticipation he does not voice aloud: Mandarine will come, he is certain.

  A few days later, Dorian proudly announces that he has found an escort in the person of Princess Ki of Qit, a new arrival at the school this year, from a kingdom in the north of the continent of Kaz, beyond the mountains that separate the Empire of Mor from its southern neighbors. The great hall, where students gather under wrought iron chandeliers suspended from massive chains, comes alive with laughter as Mero and Sven tease him mercilessly. The massive oak tables, their surfaces marked by decades of cutlery and laughter, are surrounded by benches where students sit, their steaming dishes—lamb stews with herbs, golden bread still warm—filling the air with a comforting scent. Dorian, his cheeks slightly flushed under the mocking gaze of his friends, tries to maintain his composure, distractedly crumbling a loaf of bread.

  "So, Dorian," Sven begins, his smirk lighting up his dark eyes, "how did you charm a northern princess? Did you recite poetry under the snow or challenge a bear to a duel for her fair eyes?" He leans against the wall near a tapestry with silver threads depicting a fleet sailing on the Green Ocean, its stylized waves shimmering in the flickering light of the candles.

  Dorian, feigning indifference, shrugs, his fingers crumbling the bread on the table. "Very funny," he retorts, trying to keep a straight face. "Let's just say we had some interesting conversations—about politics, alliances... serious things."

  Mero, sitting across from him, crosses his arms, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. "Oh, I see," he says, his voice tinged with feigned surprise. "While we were busy rebuilding a neighborhood—houses with ochre stone walls, quays lined with beams under a sky veiled by the smoke of forges—you were quietly chatting with a princess. Quite efficient!"

  "It's not incompatible," Dorian replies, shrugging again, though his cheeks flush even more under the amused gaze of his companions. Sven bursts into a clear laugh, his voice echoing in the hall where students, seated under the faded frescoes, cast curious glances at their trio.

  "In any case," Sven adds, placing a hand on Dorian's shoulder with feigned camaraderie, "I hope you won't completely abandon us for her on the night of the ball. Who knows if Ki won't make you dance until dawn in her northern boots?"

  "Don't worry," Dorian retorts with a smirk, brushing off Sven's hand. "I'll be there. But don't count on me to keep you company all evening—Ki deserves better than your teasing."

  They continue to tease him for a while, their laughter filling the great hall where servants pass between the tables, their silver trays laden with pitchers of sweet wine and steaming dishes. The gray stone walls, adorned with tapestries with silver threads, absorb their voices, while the tall windows overlooking the river shimmer under a sky veiled by the first snows of winter. These moments of lightheartedness, under the vaulted ceilings where faded frescoes tell centuries of imperial history, are precious before the grandeur of the upcoming ball.

  A few days later, Sven announces that he too has found an escort—Eleanor de Fine, Dorian's sister. They are in a study hall with gray stone walls, seated around a massive wooden table where parchments pile up near tarnished copper inkwells, their quill pens still damp with black ink. The tall windows, framed by rough stone, let in a pale light that illuminates the shelves laden with bound volumes with cracked spines, while a black stone fireplace, where a fire crackles softly, warms the air filled with the scent of wax and old leather. Dorian, sipping a steaming cup of tea from a white porcelain cup with gilded edges, nearly chokes at the news, his eyes widening in surprise.

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  "My sister?!" he exclaims, setting the cup down on the table with a sharp clack, his cheeks flushing with shock.

  Sven, true to his nonchalance, displays a satisfied smile, crossing his arms with studied casualness. "Yes, your sister," he replies, his voice resonating in the room with a touch of mischief. "A charming young lady, by the way—pleasant to talk to, cultured, and... quite lovely, I must say."

  Dorian glares at him, his fingers gripping the cup as if considering throwing it. "Don't play games with me, Sven," he growls, his voice trembling with fraternal indignation.

  "Oh, but I'm quite serious," Sven retorts, sipping his own tea with exasperating calm, the steam rising in fine volutes in the cool air of the room. "I simply asked her if she would be my escort, and she accepted. A very pleasant conversation near the fountain in the west courtyard—she loves travel stories, you know?"

  Mero can't help but laugh at Dorian's reaction, torn between protective anger and amused resignation, his fingers drumming nervously on the table. "Well, Dorian," he says, crossing his arms with a smirk, "after finding an escort in Ki, you're now helping Sven find one within your own family. Quite the family efficiency!"

  "Don't put words in my mouth," Dorian growls, pushing a lock of brown hair from his forehead, his eyes flashing with irritation. "It wasn't my idea!"

  Sven places a hand on his shoulder, feigning exaggerated compassion. "Don't worry," he says, his eyes sparkling with amusement, "I'll take good care of her. Eleanor is in good hands."

  "That's what worries me!" Dorian retorts, shaking his head with a grimace that betrays his mix of exasperation and resigned affection.

  The atmosphere remains light, the laughter of Mero and Sven filling the study hall where parchments pile up on the table, their yellowed edges brushing against the tarnished copper inkwells. The tall windows, overlooking an inner courtyard where the paving stones glisten under a fine rain, let in a pale light that illuminates the shelves laden with bound volumes, while the fire in the fireplace casts a soothing warmth on the gray stone walls. These playful exchanges, under the vaulted ceilings where faded frescoes tell centuries of imperial history, offer a welcome respite before the winter ball, a night that promises to be memorable for each of them.

  Then comes the eve of the ball, and Mandarine is still not there. The corridors of the school, with gray stone walls adorned with tapestries depicting naval battles, buzz with growing excitement. Students traverse the halls with vaulted ceilings, their footsteps echoing on the polished floor, carrying rolls of shimmering fabric and silver caskets containing jewelry for the evening. The dormitories, with windows overlooking paved courtyards where weeping willows bend under a cold breeze, overflow with laughter and discussions about outfits—silk tunics with delicate embroidery, dresses with voluminous skirts adorned with fine lace. The kitchens, with black stone walls where ovens roar under massive chimneys, exhale scents of fresh bread, roasted meats with herbs, and sweet pastries, while servants bustle about, carrying silver trays laden with provisions to the grand hall.

  Mero, seated in a study hall with gray stone walls, scrutinizes an annotated parchment on the massive wooden table, his fingers tracing the lines of black ink that detail the work near the river—houses with light-colored stone facades bordering paved alleys, their red-tiled roofs gleaming under a sky veiled by the smoke of nearby forges. The tall windows, framed by rough stone, let in a pale light that illuminates the shelves laden with bound volumes with cracked spines, while a black stone fireplace casts a flickering warmth on the walls. Dorian and Sven enter laughing, their boots clacking on the polished floor, and take their seats around the table, their dark wool tunics contrasting with the pale light filtering through the fogged windows.

  "So?" Dorian asks, a mischievous smile playing on his lips as he crosses his arms, his eyes sparkling with evident mischief. "Still no escort in sight?"

  Sven chimes in, leaning against the wall near a tapestry depicting a fleet sailing on the Green Ocean. "It's the first time a king's son finds himself without an escort at the winter ball," he says, his voice resonating in the room with a touch of teasing. "If you want, I can ask Eleanor if she has a friend available—a noble too shy, perhaps, who dreams of dancing with a prince of Sel?"

  Dorian gives him a light elbow nudge, a stifled laugh escaping his lips, and Mero sighs, crossing his arms with feigned nonchalance. "I don't need a last-minute escort," he retorts, his voice firm but tinged with slight impatience. "Mandarine will come."

  Dorian raises an eyebrow, his skepticism evident in the furrow of his brow. "You're quite sure of yourself," he says, his voice trailing on a dubitative note. "But she's still not here."

  Sven, sipping a steaming cup of tea on the table, adds with a falsely worried air: "She might have been delayed at sea. Winter storms are treacherous on the Green Ocean—imagine a ship with torn sails, lost in the waves near the Bloody Mountains!"

  Mero shoots them a dark look, his fingers gripping the parchment before him, refusing to let their teasing pierce his confidence. "She will come," he repeats, his voice resonating with a conviction he strives to maintain, though a slight worry begins to creep into his mind like a cold breeze slipping under a poorly closed door. The streets of Mor, with their houses with light-colored stone facades bordering paved alleys, their quays bustling with the clatter of ropes and the cries of boatmen, and their squares where residents gather under faded awnings, stretch beyond the windows, but his gaze wanders to the horizon, where the Green Ocean extends to the wild shores of Mandarine's pirate city—taverns with salt-weathered wooden walls, quays lined with patched-up ships, markets with stalls overflowing with dried fish and rare spices.

  "If she doesn't come," Dorian says, leaning toward him with a smirk, his voice resonating in the hall where parchments pile up near tarnished copper inkwells, "you know you'll have to open the ball alone in front of everyone—in front of the professors in black velvet tunics, the students with curious gazes, under the faded frescoes of the grand hall?"

  "Or worse," Sven adds, setting his cup down on the table with a light clack, his eyes sparkling with mischief, "someone might offer you an emergency escort—a noble too enthusiastic, perhaps, with a frilly dress and a shrill laugh that will echo through the entire hall with marble columns?"

  Mero shoots them an even darker look, his fingers crumpling the parchment slightly, but he refuses to respond to their jabs, his mind fixed on Mandarine—her black hair dancing in the marine breeze, her laughter defying the storms, her silhouette appearing in the glow of the ball's candles like an indomitable wave. The streets of Mor, with their red-tiled roofs gleaming under a sky veiled by the smoke of forges, fade in his imagination, replaced by the white sand beaches of her pirate city, bordered by palm trees with slanted trunks under a scorching sun. But as night falls over the imperial school, enveloping the gray stone corridors in a darkness pierced by the flickering lights of candles, Mandarine has still not given any sign of life.