Foreign Beauty
Viena and Lisabelle arrived at the central plaza just as the morning sun gilded the edges of fluttering banners. The air buzzed with a restless murmur, a tide of voices swelling with anticipation. From balconies draped in vibrant colors, flags snapped crisply in the breeze, weaving a kaleidoscope over the crowd below.
Despite the throng, Lisabelle’s sharp eyes cut through the mass like a blade. Her gaze found familiar figures—underlings stationed at watchful posts around the square. Those who caught her glance gave subtle nods of acknowledgment, silent but laden with meaning. Lisabelle returned the gesture with a barely perceptible tilt of her chin—an unspoken command to stay alert, to keep the wheels turning.
Viena clung to Lisabelle’s sleeve, voice barely audible above the hum. “Lily, there are too many people. I can’t see a thing.”
Lisabelle’s lips curved into a teasing smirk as she looked down. “Tch. You’re the size of a teacup. What did you expect?”
She scanned the plaza once more, eyes settling on a low stone ledge beneath a wrought-iron lamppost. “Come on. Up you go.”
Viena wriggled free of the crowd’s embrace, slipping between legs and skirts, until Lisabelle gave her a steady boost. Soon, Viena stood a head above the throng, her eyes wide and shining as the first strains of parade music drifted through the air like a whispered promise.
Barely ten minutes passed before the royal herald entered, his blue-and-white attire crisp and radiant beneath the sun. The colors recalled the Emperor of Aramia’s surprise visit months ago—a memory fresh in Viena’s mind.
He rode a mare as white as freshly fallen snow, sleek and proud, her coat gleaming like polished pearl. Not just any steed, but Valmere — a champion of Sarbonna’s prestigious horse shows. A woman near the crowd’s edge gasped, recognition flashing bright in her eyes.
“That’s Valmere!” she exclaimed. “The star of the Sarbonna Summer Show!”
The murmur of the crowd shifted — interest now mixed with awe, whispers rippling outward like water disturbed by a single drop.
Viena tugged gently at Lisabelle’s sleeve. “Lily… what’s a horse show, really? Is it like a parade too? What do they even compete for? Is it… a big deal?”
Lisabelle gave her a sideways glance, lips twitching. “Honestly, Vivi. You really grew up in the middle of nowhere.” But her voice was warm, almost teasing.
She tilted her head slightly as she watched the herald’s white mare. “A horse show’s a real competition. They judge how well-trained the horse is, how graceful, how fast. There are obstacle courses, mock battles, formation drills — it’s not just about showing off, it’s about mastery.”
Her tone sharpened with excitement. “Win one, and you're not just ‘good with horses.’ You get real money. Fame. Nobles invite you to their weddings, their fancy ballroom dances — even the royal stables might come knocking on your door.”
Then her eyes hardened a little, something more fervent behind her pride. “Rosmayne holds its mounts in high regard. They’re companions — trusted, honored. And no other nation has our secret. Only Rosmayne ever tamed the Bluespike Basrat.”
She paused for emphasis. “A flying beast. Savage. Untamable — until us. That’s why we command the skies.”
At that, Viena’s eyes widened slightly.
Oh… so Batrisha was one of those… she thought.
That makes sense. Her tail had bluish spikes. And she could fly.
She remembered the rider too — Hirma. They had met outside Fleurein when she and Papa first came. It had been tense. Hirma hadn’t seemed very friendly at first, but luckily, they wrap it up nicely back then.
Then, she blinked, pushing the memory aside as the crowd started to hush around them.
The trumpets flared from the gates, sharp and golden in tone. The royal herald, seated tall on his white mare, raised his staff and called out for all to hear.
“Citizens of Fleurein! Raise your eyes and open your hearts—for today, we welcome the first of many champions arriving for the Ludus Magnorum!”
Lisabelle leaned in slightly toward Viena and murmured, “That means Game of Greats. The name comes from way back—when all humans were still united under the Imperium of Marnan, during the Second Age.”
Viena nodded slowly, wide-eyed.
The herald’s voice rang out again, crisp and formal:
“The delegation of the Xin Dynasty, hailing from the far eastern continent, now enters our city!”
Rosmayne’s trumpets thundered above the city as royal guards stood at attention along the grand avenue. Then came the silence—thick and heavy—as the inner gate of Fleurein creaked open. The crowd, hushed and expectant, pressed forward.
“Ugh, that was so loud. But where are they?!” Viena stood on her toes, craning her neck to glimpse beyond the guards.
“Ssh. Be quiet. Here they come,” Lisabelle murmured, eyes fixed ahead.
Then they arrived.
Dozens of performers spiraled into the city, descending through the air beneath lacquered umbrellas that shimmered in the sunlight like falling lotus leaves. They landed lightly, without breaking rhythm, and continued into a flowing, silent dance.
Then the music began.
It was utterly foreign to Rosmayne's ears. No harp, no lute, no marching drum.
The haunting, fast-paced harmony of the erhu, guzheng, and liuqin flooded the plaza, their strings plucked and bowed with dizzying grace. Dizi flutes shimmered through the air—appearing similar to common flutes, yet sounding eerily otherworldly when played by their masters. The bo cymbals and deep dagu drums provided a rich, pulsing backdrop.
The masses stood frozen, mystified. The very composition of these strange instruments—and the otherworldly sound they produced—held them in quiet awe.
Viena’s chest burned with emotion. The music stirred something within her: a wild, dizzying elation. Her body moved before her thoughts could catch up—swaying, hopping, reaching—jostling Lisabelle more than once.
“Vivi—watch it,” Lisabelle scolded, steadying herself, though her voice lacked real irritation.
Viena didn’t answer. Tears streaked down her cheeks.
Then, from the first ornate carriage behind the musicians, an old man in imperial robes stood tall and raised his hand. His voice rang out in the language of Xin, deep and poetic:
“守得云开见月明!”
A younger man beside him translated fluently into the common tongue:
“Watch until the clouds part and you shall see the moonlight. After the hard-fought war, we finally stand at the door of a new age of peace and prosperity!”
The old man spoke again, and the crowd hushed as if listening to a spell:
“患难见真情!”
“In hardship, we see true friendship! Let us rejoice! For today, Xin arrives as a friend of Rosmayne—to celebrate our glorious victory and commemorate our venerable heroes!”
The crowd stirred with murmurs of wonder and admiration.
Then, from the third carriage, a woman in flowing blue robes lifted a delicate ceramic pitcher—its glaze a serene, sky-blue hue. With a single graceful motion, she tilted it forward.
A sudden wind surged outward, scattering a thousand flower petals into the air. The petals whirled in a wide arc above the people before slowly descending, shimmering. When touched, they dissolved into nothingness—leaving behind only a faint, fruity fragrance on the skin.
Children laughed. Elders stood in stunned silence. For a fleeting moment, everyone in Fleurein forgot the world’s weight.
Lisabelle’s eyes followed the petals. “Well,” she murmured, the corner of her mouth lifting, “this is certainly no less than what I had expected.”
The dazzling procession continued down the royal avenue toward the Royal Field, its music, spectacle, and symbolism trailing behind like a long, splendid dream. And the people of Rosmayne followed, unable to resist the pull of wonder.
"Ah. It's over now," Lisabelle said, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "What a pity they won't let us into the Royal Field."
"THEY WERE SUPER COOL! RIGHT?! RIGHT, LILY?!"
Lisabelle flinched a little at Viena’s sudden burst of volume. "Y-Yeah, I know. Careful now, I think you're a little too excited for your own good—"
Before she could finish, Viena threw herself into Lisabelle’s arms, trembling with joy.
"Thanks for keeping me company!"
"Ugh—okay, okay! Let me go! I can't breathe!"
The hug tightened before Viena finally released her.
Truthfully, Lisabelle had found the performance impressive—graceful, colorful, unlike anything she’d seen before. But she wasn’t swept up in it the way Viena clearly was. Still, seeing the younger girl so full of awe and wonder made her heart soften. She said nothing, only offered a crooked smile and ruffled Viena’s hair with one gloved hand.
She could indulge her a little longer.
Later that afternoon, Lisabelle brought Viena back into the winding alleys of the lower quarter, to that tucked-away building. The same creaking door, the same smell of oil, fabric, and something vaguely sweet greeted them. But this time, the inside felt different.
Theo was already inside when they arrived—bare arms dusted with chalk, a sleeveless linen shirt clinging to his back, and wild curls half-tamed by a strip of cloth. He stood tall before a towering blackboard scrawled with diagrams, numbers, and sketches only he could make sense of. Every now and then, he paused to squint at the mess, mouth twisting, then resumed scribbling.
When the door creaked open, he didn’t turn around immediately.
“Late,” he called without looking. “I was about to charge you rent.”
He finally tossed the chalk into an old wooden bowl, wiped his hands on a rag slung over his shoulder, and turned. That half-smile was already there. “Well, well. Thought you two vanished off the map.”
There were more people now—thrice as many as Viena remembered from her last visit, before the cold breath of winter had set in. The room was alive with quiet chatter and laughter, some of the boys busy stitching, others hunched over drawings or tools. Faces turned the moment the door clicked shut behind them.
And like clockwork, the room shifted.
One by one, the boys stood—some quick, some hesitant—and gave small, respectful bows. It wasn't rehearsed, but instinctual. A wordless sign of reverence, not fear. To Lisabelle first, and then to Viena beside her.
They were boys and young men from all walks of life—twelve to twenty-two, by Viena’s guess—each with the kind of hardened eyes that only came from living in the alleys and underbellies of Rosmayne. Refugees, runaways, forgotten sons. Some legal, some not. And yet here, they smiled. Here, they had purpose, dignity, names, and companions.
"This place looks different," Viena whispered, leaning closer to Lisabelle, seemingly getting anxious from being surrounded by people she isn't familiar with.
Lisabelle nodded faintly. "That’s because it is. Theo’s been taking in more since spring. We need all the hands we can get."
Then, without missing a beat, Theo raised his voice. “Gather everyone! You too, Vivi—take a seat. Gino, stop fiddling. Gina, don’t think I didn’t see that.”
The room shifted. Chairs scraped. Young men straightened. A few newcomers shuffled in from behind curtains and stairs. As they assembled, several boys nudged one another and snuck glances at Viena.
"You're the boss’s sister!" one of them whispered, wide-eyed.
“Damn, you look nothing like her,” said another.
“And that’s what I’m telling you, dog,” Theo said with a chuckle, arms crossed as he watched from the front.
Everyone was in place now—some perched on crates, others sitting cross-legged on the floor. A few leaned against posts or windowsills. There was an expectant silence, save for the soft crunching of dried fruit or bread in the back rows. No one dared interrupt.
Lisabelle stepped forward, one hip cocked, hands clasped behind her back. Dim light from the upper windows caught the broad shoulders of her coat.
“Before we begin,” she said, a sly smirk playing at her lips, “I’ll tell you now—I'll go over the plan and your tasks. Do it right, and you won’t have to worry about your life for the next three years.”
And just like that, La Muse became a council hall.