The ballroom was bordered by several columns holding up an overhead balcony, just beyond them were archways leading down various hallways. Guests filtered in on the south side of the room, immediately greeted by a line of slaves that came in from behind Oly on the north side. He’d been directed to stand in the shadows of the archway, just to the left and slightly behind the throne so he could be easily called forward when the time came.

Oly's presentation was that of a tantalizing ornament on display. He wore the cloth pattern of a servant slave’s robes, but tailored in sheer blue silk instead. An opaque white sash and a long sleeveless undershirt made the outfit decent. He had midnight blue paint trailing and swirling along the lines and curves of his body, thankfully subtle enough that he didn’t look like a zebra. More than that, there was dark and heavy makeup around his eyes, and pale paint masterfully matched to his skin to hide his freckles. Though it’d been protected and made matte by a dusting of some chalky powder, he was still hyper-aware that moving carelessly would make it wear out, so he was stuck standing “at attention” and growing more bored by the minute.

At first, he occupied himself by surveying the ballroom. As much as he’d grown to dislike Kishalon on principal, he’d always liked the architecture. The floor was massive polished stone slabs, carved to create contrast between types of rocks he couldn’t even guess at to create the shape of the Kishalon royal crest. Scenes of successful hunts, battles, weddings, and treaties were carved into the pillars with their limbs and movements as fluid as a river, spiraling down the length. He saw one was freshly carved, but of all the historical events represented, he thought it was funny to neglect the time their sourthern neighbor started, won, and ended a war with Kishalon. He believed tonight was the ten-year anniversary of that treaty with Sundenta.

Guests milled around on the edges of the dance floor. When they passed nearby, Oly was able to fully admire their form and beauty, but when they were as far away as the other end of the ballroom, Oly could imagine that they were fluttering tropical birds. He could only still see on the other side because all these people were early arrivals, the king hadn’t even come out yet. The music matched the air of anticipation, energy beading on the lip of a glass.

Most people were dressed in the local high fashion, heavy with glass beads, warm skirts, and long coats. Others were nonlocal, with exposed arms and thin, flowing clothing. What really set them apart as Sundentan was the gorgeous geometric patterns in their cloth and embroidery. Some of their glittering hair ornaments framed and sculpted tight, dark curls, while others pinned a gathering of many braids in place.

Another group arrived, met by a swarm of slaves who came out to take their coats and serve snacks (his stomach rumbled for the smell of cookies, fruit, and chocolate every time they walked past.)

Finally, there were enough people that the dancing could begin. Though the door was hidden from his view by the throne itself, Oly knew the king entered the room by the sudden hush of the crowd. In the sudden silence he could hear King Vendon’s boots stepping up to the throne, and then the shift of sitting down.

“Esteemed friends,” He boomed, “Thank you for coming to the celebration of this auspicious day, and please enjoy yourself on the anniversary of the friendship between our two nations. Long may our peace last.”

Oly raised a brow. The last time they’d met, Oly noticed he made things awkward by making a dramatic entrance and following up with lukewarm words, but he hadn’t expected the king to write a five-second speech for a party of this occasion. Everyone else continued to look at the king as if expecting him to wrap up the speech, but all they got was a command. “Don’t just stare! Dance!” Vendon commanded. The party laughed with various levels of sincerity and did as they were told.

It was then that Oly encountered a problem he’d had since conception. He’d grown bored with holding still and found himself shifting restlessly from foot to foot, trying to resist the music. He was well and able to be nothing but a gently swaying statue to the waltzes, but the string ensemble started something quick and playful. He groaned quietly, gave a quick glance around, and assured himself that the only people looking at him were fellow slaves carrying trays away and onto the scene. He locked eyes with one waiting in the wings for the signal to bring out more wine, and started rhythmically bouncing on the balls of his feet. He bobbed his head, snapped his fingers, and pivoted his body on the beat without ever breaking his "at attention" posture. He managed to get a smile out of her.

"Don't sweat off your makeup." She whispered, then got pulled away by the almost inaudible chime of her summons.

"Oly!" His handler hissed, his hand raised as if to strike him. Oly flinched, but at that moment they both realized that Oly’s styling for this event was too meticulous to touch, much less mark. Oly smiled mischievously as his handler grimaced. “Your time is up. Go kneel at the foot of the throne—just as you were told. Nothing funny.”

“If my master wills it one last time.” Oly teased, bowing his head. Before he went, he caught a strange man in a black velvet cloak staring at him, the hood still on. Oly blanched. He caught a hint of a smile beneath the hood, warm and gentle, and the stranger raised a hand—to greet him? Dismiss him? Oly turned away and walked to the throne.

Oly only saw the king once before this when he was first bought, he was a pale, thin man in his 50s. Oly and his friends had been stripped naked and lined up in a row for his inspection. He proclaimed that Leon would have been his preference if not for his size, Oly and Jacivik were too tall and skinny, and the target had already rejected a girl, so he didn’t have high hopes for Laya and Mavani. “Do your magic, Ashel.” He’d intoned to the handler, and left the room.  Oly approached now with his head bowed and a hand to his heart. He did not speak, nor did he expect the king to, he simply folded his legs under himself and sat beside the throne.

Oly found that sitting still was going about as well as standing still, but right as he’d begun to drum his fingers on his thigh, his boredom was swept away by the hooded stranger approaching the throne.

His black velvet cape glittered with intricate gold embroidery, designs like vines and leaves curled around a hexagonal lattice. First he carefully drew back the hood, and before the full effect could hit Oly, he was blown away by the flourish of unclasping the cloak and pulling it from his shoulders with one hand, billowing in the air before it neatly flipped over his attendant’s arm. The attendant bowed, and the man’s gilded hand gave him a gentle pat on the head.

The skin on his arms was fully exposed to reveal their winding, golden tattoos. When the designs waned, they augmented his dark sienna skin, and when they waxed, he was practically plated with gold. His flesh was etched with the symbols of his power, and his long braids were extended with gold wire and decorated chains. A section was broken off from the rest to be twisted in a bun at the back of his head, where a few of the chain’s ornaments created the array of his crown: a golden feather to hold it all in place with its quill, a sun to cap the bun, and pure amber carved to look like flowing honey to wrap around the base. Oly recognized him instantly.

The ruler of Sundenta, King Hesiat LonDwuat. So this was the man who caught him dancing. A sense of embarrassed dread settled heavy in his gut.

Oly had heard of the king, of course, and by all means they should have met before. King Hesiat was an honored guest to a peace talk of his parent's, ensuring a war wouldn't restart and spread. Oly was sick and unable to attend, but he certainly recognized him by the traditional tattoos and hair ornaments so prized among his people.

Oly glanced up at King Vendon, who was stroking his beard and still greeting his fellow king.

Everything slid into perfect clarity.

Kishalon lost the war when a spy leaked the weaknesses of King Vendon and his army. Queen Varola LonDafina perished in the penultimate battle, leaving only her heir. Vendon hoped the teenage prince would be too emotionally shattered by the death of his mother, so his final desperate attacks banked on weak leadership.

He received bloodlust instead.

King Hesiat had since softened his demands and garnered the favor of Kishalon’s people with gifts of free medicine and honey, but King Vendon tried to turn down most of it. Now, Oly could see the king’s strategy for exactly what it was: symmetrical retribution. A spy for a spy. A weakness for a weakness. A strike for a strike.

Dread and morbid anticipation rose up in equal measure. He never expected this role to be his first mark on world history.