Sophia Elise the Eighth is, in the most honest of senses, going to be late. Factoring in the travel time (walking quickly in these awful enamel shoes will be hellish), and any sort of additional cosmetic preparations beforehand, the young woman would never arrive at the rehearsed, designated time.

So why should she rush now?

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 this large, well decorated room. Her gaze held away from the polished silver mirror, trying not to observe the stranger reflected within who is also attempting to avert her gaze So, instead, she watches the lazy second hand of the nearby quartz clock move itself, awaiting the perfect time to spring into action.

And within her mind the voice, the internal dialogue, that committee of thoughts nested deep in her own consciousness, continues to debate.

We can only leave on a good, aesthetic number, one thought process argues to this council, letting the rest nod in agreement.

Of course, another thought raises its hand for an additional point. We’ll leave on a minute divisible by five.

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 staff knew, after all, not to argue with her on this matter.

7:75 p.m.

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.

She 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.

A thin layer of lacquer coated each individual component of the dress, each one handmade, organized together based on their refractive properties to form a dazzling pearly white and iridescent dress of incalculable colors. Contoured to her form, the subtle threads of silver wire support a thin waist and sharp shoulder blades, exemplifying the features deemed generally attractive here within the most upper echelons of Imperial Ensolia’s ruling class. 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 to perhaps incite some sense of maturity.

Because now, for this coming of age, for this debut of her public persona, for her party—she would have to look the part, play the part, be the part.

All we gotta do is survive for three hours, one of her thought processes assures the rest. We look the part already, don’t we?

Well, not that there was a fashion standard to adhere to for this event. 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 older third sister during her ceremony a mere four years prior was, although a boon for the silk farmers within the nation’s mountainous southern provinces, left much to be desired in terms of warmth in the winter months.

Hopefully, no more fashion trends this time around, one of those thoughts groans.

As she sets out, she feels an unusual chill in the summer night’s air.

It blows between the frilly dresses and coat tails of the numerous guests, the set tables, the strolling servers, between the floor to ceiling marble pillars and the vast silver leaf art pieces, the breeze itself snakes through the grand ballroom toward a seemingly targeted individual deep within the palace complex.

It travels through the eastern wing, up the steps of Lion Maine Staircase, and passes by a half-dozen heavily armed Impericutta guards, barreling down toward a single, barely ajar door into an antechamber and to this occupant within.

It's just cold enough for her to sneeze, her exposed skin reacting violently to this strange chill running up her spine. An explosion of sound echoes from her throat sending the blast echoing into this room and shocking to attention her waiting entourage of personal staff.

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

And they all share just one thought as they each sneak peeks 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:

Oh my Goddess, she is actually going to make it.

Electrical lamps on each side of the grand hall illuminate her path forward, standing beneath each one an Impericutta guard in full military dress. Their perfectly polished, bone white 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 faceless, inhuman toy soldiers they straighten to attention as she passes by them, hands on rifles and eyes locked forward in their endless vigil over this royal family.

She walks towards the source of brilliant light beyond the hall, keeping her balance on tight, almost tortuous shoes made to accentuate her already graceful height. Her stride turns into something harsher, more measured; the stinging pain and tightness of these slippers forcing her to take each step with an immense amount of control.

The ancestors watch her as she stumbles with great discomfort—the huge oil paintings commissioned by the family line, their legacy now befalling onto just another one of their kin. They showcase the monoliths, kingpins of a nation – measured and perfect each in their regal, 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.

She walks past handsome princes ascended to the throne, gorgeous empresses ruling with grace, to old mooks and shriveled relics; there is just one that shares her name amongst the Elise family’s thousand 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; her round features alongside soft brown eyes and short cropped hair of silvery white make her completely unrecognizable this far down to her eighth namesake.

Sophia Elise the Eighth, a girl, now a woman with long blonde hair that flows 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 hangs 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 pine flying buttresses. Fields of poppies carved into each, inlaid with silver foil to enhance their craftsmanship. Above it all lingers a painted astrological map of their solar system–from the central three stars, their grand gas giant parent world of Unudo, and their single blue marble of green continents and vast blue seas.

And they all stand beneath it.

They are all here, all of Ensolia.

A continent under their rule through dynastic contracts, economic might, and legions of rifles—their 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 an entire 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 are assumed betrothed to distant nations across the Stygian Sea or kept as backups in the securing of more local alliances, with the remainder left to the localities of their own home continent. The fourth of the first amongst the five houses, to have her is to have a hand on the silver throne.

Heirs and current nobility delivering their most handsome princes, each dressing 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 Maine 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 Imperium 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 ruler of a savage jungle.

From the Hierarchs-heirs of the northern satellite kingdoms, who shies their glances away from the predatory gaze that scans over them, to even the highest elevated dukes of the Reichlands and Erythryn Coast, who all subtly congregate together in the crowd like baitfish – they all feel this presence of ice wash over them.

It’s her cold blue eyes staring at each of them. That measured, emotionless analysis slowly deconstructs 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 is power.

To hold attention without asking for it, to have a crowd of two-hundred-fifty at your beck and call without a single word. Where each step down the sixty-six stairs of the Lion Maine Staircase is 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.

A hush falls over them all as she takes each step, all still trying to read her, trying to gaze into the mind of the fourth princess of the Ensolian Imperium. Trying to extract just a single emotion or perhaps a thought. Enough to give them the inestimably small advantage over another suitor.

Is she angry? Disappointed at this worthless rabble? Or perhaps… lusting after something more dangerous? There is 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 isn’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 thought, dominates the mind of Princess Sophia Elise the Eighth, Fourth of the Ensolian Imperium, Daughter of Empress Annia, Duchess of the Reichlands (by tradition), Supreme Commandant of the Fourth Legion (also by tradition):

I REALLY WANNA GO BACK TO BED NOW!