Chapter 7: The Ball

The ballroom was ablaze with light, and the sound of laughter echoed around Khari. Everyone danced in celebration that the war was over and peace had finally been restored to the kingdom. She longed to join in the festivities, but she felt too awkward, too out of place. Instead, she stood on the sidelines as everyone else reveled in the sense of freedom that had been hard-won after years of fighting. The colorful twirling skirts, the clinking glasses, and the music that seemed to carry more than just a melody filled her with a strange sense of belonging.

On the other side of the ballroom, Azim watched his brother from across the ballroom, spinning and whirling with a different woman in his arms for each song. But Khari, his brother’s newest mistress, was nowhere in sight. As the song’s last notes faded, Prince Wren elbowed his way through the tightly packed crowd, his eyes searching for an opening at the bar. He spotted a free stool at the bar’s far corner and sat. Azim followed close behind, not wanting to lose sight of him, and tapped his brother’s shoulder. “Brother,” he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Wren lifted his glass of whisky to his lips and said, “Well, if it isn’t the big war hero.” He smiled thinly and tipped the glass back, draining the remaining amber liquid in one gulp.

Azim’s face was etched with worry lines, and his words were heavy with the weight of the war. The last five years of his life had been spent in its chaos, and yet here he was, standing in front of his brother’s angry, scowling face. He shook his head, unable to believe the hostile reaction he was getting, “It’s been seven years since the war started. Five since I joined. I haven’t seen you all this time, and you treat me with disdain?” he asked.

Wren lifted his shoulders in a halfhearted shrug, his posture expressing his reluctance. He sipped his second drink, the ice clinking against the glass. “I figured you have enough people hanging on your every word. Must I really be amongst them?” he asked without enthusiasm.

Azim’s eyes were brimming with emotion as he stepped closer to his brother and wrapped his arms around him. He squeezed tight and said, “Regardless, I have missed you so brother.”

At first, Wren’s body was stiff and unyielding when he embraced him, but then his shoulders slowly relaxed, and he returned the hug. He pulled back, his face finally softening into a small, hesitant smile, “I suppose I sort of have missed you as well.” Wren said, the frigidness between them melting away until all that was left was the comfort of their brotherly love.

Azim raised his hand toward the bartender, beckoning for a drink. With a smirk, he continued, “So, I see you have a harem of women now,” his eyes darted around the room, settling on the group of women clustered around the piano.

Wren’s lips curled up into a sly grin, “Many royals have given them to me in return for my favor when I am King.”

“I see,” Azim slowly wrapped his long, slender fingers around the sweating glass of beer and raised it to his lips, his dark eyes never leaving Wren’s face. “So,” he said, setting down the glass, “you have five mistresses?” He knew the answer before he asked the question but waited with a polite yet expectant silence.

“No, I have six, that one over there,” Wren raised a long finger and gestured across the room to where Khari stood, “is mine too,” his voice carried a tone of disappointment.

Azim couldn’t take his eyes off Khari. She shone brightly in her dress, her skin reflecting the soft lights from the ceiling, and he felt his heart skip a beat. “Will you not dance with her?” he asked in a daze.

Wren slowly turned this gaze toward her, his dark eyes glittering with contempt. His lips curved into a sneer, and he spat out his words, “Why should I? I can barely stomach the thought of having such a useless woman as my own,” his words hung in the air like a noose, leaving Azim feeling aggravated.

Azim’s knuckles whitened as his grip tightened around the glass in his hand. His chest heaved as he took a deep breath, and he struggled to keep his voice from wavering. “Worthless? How so?” he asked, the tinge of anger just barely detectable in his tone.

“Look at her,” Wren said as he looked on in admiration. Her bright red and black dress hugged her curves in all the right places, a corset cinching her waist with a plunging neckline that put her cleavage on show. The lower half of the dress cascaded down to her feet, the black trim twirling around her legs as she moved, “All that beauty wasted on the fact she can’t see,” he muttered to himself.

Azim held his breath as anger surged through him. His hands were trembling, and he desperately wanted to inflict violence. He took a sip from his mug to try and calm himself. When he found his voice again, it was low, “You despise her because she’s blind?” he asked in disbelief.

Wren surveyed his brother with a smug expression. “If I’m to be king, then I need to make sure that my court is a perfectly presented reflection of my rule. And that includes my future queen and my mistresses. She’s a defect, a blot on my otherwise perfect group of women,” he gestured towards Khari, his lip curled in a scowl. “She would be perfect if she could see. It infuriates me to think that she’s nearly perfect. If she could, she’d be my most prized possession.”

Azim stared at his brother, his stomach churning with dismay. He finished his drink before slamming it down hard on the table, an echoing crack reverberating through the air. His brother’s words were cruel and heartless, and Azim felt a sharp pang of disappointment that he hadn’t recognized the brother he used to know. Taking a deep breath, Azim straightened up and looked his brother in the eye with a determined gaze. “Every woman of the court should dance. I ask your permission to step in your place,” he requested.

Wren’s mouth gaped in shock as he processed his brother’s request. He quickly recovered, wiping a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye, “You want to dance with her? Absolutely, brother. By all means,” he said, shooing Azim in Khari’s direction. He watched Azim walk across the room while memories of his first dance with Khari flashed through his mind. Her feet had stumbled over each other, and before long, his toes were crushed under her tiny feet. His mortification was so palpable he could almost taste it as he threw back the rest of his drink. He recalled their father bragging about how Azim had fought in The Great War like a true hero. Wren smiled to himself, hoping the war hero’s botched dance moves would at least knock him off that pedestal their father had placed him on.

Azim walked across the room, steady and intentional, his footsteps becoming louder as he approached Khari. She stood near the entrance, listening to people mingling and chatting. As he drew closer, the distinct scent of wood ginger filled her nostrils, and she felt compelled to turn around, “Prince Azim,” she breathed.

A broad smile spread across his face, “And just like that, you can recognize me without a word,” he said in amazement.

Khari’s brow furrowed with gentle curiosity. Tilting her head slightly to one side, she asked, “How can I help you?” her voice was soft and inviting.

He couldn’t take his eyes away from the curves of her body and the way she moved. He cleared his throat and asked, “May I have this dance?”

“You wouldn’t want that,” she said, her voice heavy with an unspoken sorrow.

He leaned forward, his arms crossed casually in front of him, “And yet,” he said, his voice calm and low, “it’s all I can think about.”