The Hallowed Ball (Concept)

I stared at myself in the mirror, my chestnut skin raw from the rough scrubbing I'd been subjected to, a thin towel hanging limply from the hands clutched to my chest to give me some modesty. My hair was drying swiftly, thick black locks bouncing into life about my round face, as I scrutinised myself.

I wasn't the most beautiful thing in the world, more plain than anything, heavy-chested and big-hipped like my mother, my skin soft from years of care and lack of labour and my body plump from the ability to eat freely. My eyes I thought were the most striking thing about me, almost a golden honey glow. So no, I wasn't ugly. But my appearance didn't matter when it came to the Hallowed Ball. Everyone was dressed up, fancy gowns made to both show-off a woman's body while hiding it with mystique, and ordained in jewels and feathers and threads of silver and golds, black and whites. My own was like a bird, covering me from the tip of my nose to the tip of my head with a wealth of feathers acting as a crown. All anyone could see were my eyes, the slope of my jaw and the fullness of my mouth.

It was the soul, and only the soul, that mattered when it came to the Hallowed Ball.

The Hallowed Ball was a place where those of magic and wealth gathered once a year, seeking the grandest event to seek the grandest spouse. One would dance with a potential suitor and, in that moment, their magic seeped into one another as the spell was woven with footsteps and music, twirling and melding them, slipping into the future to pluck free what they wanted to know. It whispered to them about who this masked dancer was, the happiness they could bring, fortune or fertility. Or it would drone about the misery, heartbreak and faithlessness, a loveless marriage or useless value. We danced and danced, seeking the partner that would bring the best future, and that 'good' future depended on what the induvial wanted. Love? Fortune? To make bounds up the political ladder? A wealth of heirs? Access to magic and spells greater than they could on their own?

I personally sought out love. Happiness. Someone who could love me until the end of my life. Someone who'd be faithful and who would support my desire to have a career with the Great Library I loved so much and my father despised. I didn't care for politics or the vying of greater power and stronger blood. But it was difficult than I imagined to find this husband I wanted.

During the Ball, everyone was a blank slate. We never used names. We never saw faces. We only spun this powerful and deeply invasive spell, with a great orchestra singing a majestic tune for us to whirl over the ballroom floor to. As per tradition, the woman would be the one to offer her name after a successful dance. I could give my name to a dancer I was interested in and then, if the dancer was in turn interested, would contact my father or the closest thing to it, and would accept my request. This wouldn't marry us, only trigger the year's courtship. The woman would move to the intended courtier's abode, (with a female guardian of course to make sure nothing untoward happened), and then the courtier would again offer if they were still wishing to marry and the woman would have the final say. A long process, but one that worked with the barest shift over the years as some daring men had begun to give their names to their dancers. A tradition that continued after hundreds of years it began in this lofty city of magical knowledge and educated society.

Apparently, it worked anyway. It had worked for my best friend last year. She was to marry soon to a decent wizard with decent prospects. I, however, had given my name to five different suitors since I started going when I was eighteen. But I never received word from my father of a proposition of any of the gentleman wizards I'd danced with and chosen. Whatever I saw in them, they clearly didn't see in me.

And this is why I was standing here studying myself, naked, before a mirror two hours before my ninth Hallowed Ball began. I didn't feel joy like I had before. This giddy sensation I was potentially going to find a suitor, one I knew would be the best fit, had dwindled after the four Ball. I didn't feel anxious either anymore. I just felt...nothing. I was bored. I was bored of dancing with the same suitors, knowing that even if I offered my name, they wouldn't come calling me to begin a year of courtship. Despite the wealth in my family and the strong lineage of powerful wizards, I was weak. I had no strength. No real magical power. No real position or money. I was the third daughter with two older brothers, making me the dregs of the Arbero family. And I knew that power was what the men and women who attended the Hallowed Ball really wanted. Not love. Not security. But power. A partner who would strength their magical blood-line, who could bring better standings within the Ivory Courts, who could bring great wealth or rare spells. I had none of that. There was no husband waiting for me there.

With a soft frown, I turned sideways, observing the small of my back and tiny flurry of feathers sprouting from my soft flesh. Tiny wings, downy white and barely bigger than that of a pigeon. I had no control over them, they just hung limply, useless. Cancerous. I touched them, not feeling a thing, and plucked a soft downy feather, raising it to my nose.

When I'd been a child, I had nearly died. My father had fought for my survival, enough that he had summoned a Highly Being to give me life. I twisted the feather, observing with a dull expression. Maybe this was why none of those men accepted the offer of my name. They sensed I was a dead-woman walking. I lived for now, but my life was short and unpredictable. It could abruptly end at any time. I may die before giving children. I may die before being useful to my husband. I may die before they even finish the courtship. And for those men who did want me to love me, they didn't want to face that sudden heartbreak. I wasn't worth the time and effort.

I sighed and let the feather drop, just as a fist slammed against the door and my mother's voice shrilled.

'Gwendolen! Gwen are you bathed yet? We have two hours to get you ready, so you best not be faffing about!' My mother harped. 'Meredith is ready to help you dress and your gown is ready to be donned!'

I sighed, the boredom heavy in me at the prospect of once again putting on so much finery I couldn't breathe, make-up slathered over me to make my bland face a little more interesting (which was pointless as half of it was obscured), all the while my mother would pace, clucking like a hen and demanding my handmaids to do better. A flare of defiance burned. No!, I wanted to say. I don't wish to go. I don't wish to dance with the same wizards again and the new ones were too young to interest me. But my defiance was squashed when the door was wrapped on again and my mother called me with a shrill demand. Quickly, I snatched up the soft brace to wrap about my lower back, trapping the little, useless wings against back, hiding them from sight.

I'd best get this over with. I dreaded my parents' nagging and disappointment more than failing to find a husband yet again. Next year, I'd put my foot down and refuse to go. It wasn't like they needed anymore grandchildren. I'd push to become a librarian again and work with unraveling cursed books and finding lost spells in the Great Library. I'd find love the hard way.

This year would be my last year attending the Hallowed Ball.

I just didn't realise that it was because, tonight, I'd finally find someone who'd accept my name.

A murderer. A dark sorcerer. A cursed beast. A man who devoured women's souls.

But I wouldn't realise until I tumbled into him and unwittingly bound myself in courting him, all too late to turn around and run.