Xanthe idly strung her fingers together, watching her nails, painted a shimmering, color of constant change that was meant to match the dress of last night, reflect the light coming in through the ornate cathedral windows. The paint had chafed away in sections, leaving only a thin layer where her hands had been taken in those of another noble's last night, in Dances. They were all as mundane and trivial as they usually were, but by now, when the Court meeting Kael had mentioned did arrive, her focus was still fragmented, both from the message itself and how it was given to her. This meeting would have been just as generic as those Dances of the night before, but, also because of Celadon, this one half a deeper meaning to Xanthe, in a way.

And the attendance of the meeting didn't help matters. She had tried her very hardest to ignore the thoughts of last night, to push them away somewhere hiddden, where she would never have to face the anxiety they brought. But she was stupid to hope that sheer power of will could change things. Despite her foolish, childish hope that Celadon would be absent from the meeting, not just several representatives but every noble had arrived. That in and of itself was a novelty; much of the time, the entire Court was away, choosing the thrill of whatever those following the Thief enjoyed over the dry procedure of a meeting.

To many of them, it was obvious that the discipline did not come naturally to them. Xanthe could see half a dozen of them drumming their fingertips along the hardwood of the table; fidgeting and squirming in their seats like a young child might when forced to sit still. The sight was almost absurd to her; nobility, impatient and anxious. For a moment, it almost distracted her from what was currently on her mind.

Almost. 

Among the twelve Celadon faces circled around the meeting table, there was only one that truly stood out to Xanthe. Just one of the generically sharp-edged, angular faces -- nobles who looked the part of a dashing trickster -- was one Xanthe would recognize anywhere. One that always wore a smirk of passive, unearned superiority. One that brought Xanthe's blood to boiling in a way that betrayed all the laws, all the rules of discipline she forced herself to believe she had set for herself. The one face that could, that had brought her to tears, to screams, to pure agony and frustration and anger beyond everything. 

Maybe it was beautiful, with its perfect, delicate features. Supple, coppery ringlets framed its beautiful eyes, an electric blue that was hard to believe were natural. It was the sort of face that had such beauty it needed no makeup. The beautiful, beautiful face was set aflame by the sunlight streaming through the elaborately carved windows, which in and of themselves paled in comparison. But, Xanthe had to remember, was forced to remember, that beauty can forgive a thousand evils, make up for a thousand ineptitudes. And in Irasi, beauty could do far more. It could take someone far more than they ever might have otherwise dreamed.

It was the beautiful face of the girl who was not deserving enough to sit at their sacred hardwood table. The girl who had not earned her way through the ranks and worked her way up like Xanthe had -- like everyone else had. Her beauty that Xanthe so despised had granted her anything she could have ever wanted, and everything Xanthe could have possibly dreamed of. Without facing a fraction of the consequences; the darker side of their perfect world Princess Rhoswyn, of the Court of Celadon, had achieved everything Xanthe might have dreamed of without ever fighting her way through a Dance.

The beautiful princess. The false princess.

After several pained, focused, severe moments, Xanthe's thoughts were shattered as she realized that she was pressing her fingernails into her palms -- hard. She forced herself to unclench her fists, sure she was mere moments from drawing blood. In a split second, she tore her piercing gaze from Rhoswyn, taking back the practiced, careful attentiveness and perfection that had been robbed of her so recently. Xanthe let out a long exhale, trying to breathe away the panic and maybe a touch of fear that bit at every fragment of her being.

A strange, uncomfortable tension hung thickly in the air. Not the kind of tension the Ira craved, the kind of tension that hinted at something that would happen. No. It was a painful, stifling tension that felt as if Xanthe was being suffocated. With the nobles of each Court of Color dressed in their respective hue, the power imbalance was starkly visible to even the most politically incompetent eyes. The room was enveloped in green, and Xanthe was forced to admit to herself that -- yes, the Court of Celadon had every advantage, both in numbers, and in the psychs of every other noble of power in the room.

"I beg of your attention,"

The smooth, polished voice of the Court of Celadon's prime regent rang out across the room to Xanthe. As was customary over Court Meetings, he had clinked the empty, Cordisite-infused wineglass in front of him on the edge of the table, letting the sound resonate and echo around the entire room. On any typical occasion, Xanthe might have been bothered at the regent's blatant, ignorant disrespect towards High Queen Petra's authority at meetings (as a general rule, the High Monarch spoke first). But today, everything was different. She had been changed, in a sense. Her attitude had shifted -- fundamentally. Through her core, her corset suddenly seemed to clasp inward, as if the laces were tightening themselves, threatening to choke her. She bit down hard on the inside of her lip to stop herself from letting out a sound from the ache that had been festering deep in her chest.

Through her peripheral vision, Xanthe saw the other nobles' visible discomfort. The haze of unease and tension coating the room thickened. But while some looked purely nervous, through and through, Xanthe could see -- she could feel -- the wildness, the hunger in the eyes of others. And as much as she tried to deny it to herself, she knew that it was in her, too, as if it were a part of her fundamental makeup through anything. Even if it were buried under layers, and layers, and layers of fear.

"As you all may know, we have a beautiful young woman currently residing in the Celadon Court as our princess-" Xanthe's attention snapped to Rhoswyn. Anger began to simmer in her stomach, further developing at the sight of her arrogant expression. Nothing separates you and I. But Xanthe didn't truly believe herself, even as she thought the words. She forced her hands together in a delicate clap, joining the smattering of applause that had come over the room. Affairs among nobility, she thought, were far too tame for the nobles themselves. Far too stilted, far too strained.

The regent gave as much a placid smile as a Celadon noble could muster. Xanthe's jaw involuntarily flexed at the sight of his doing anything at all, in truth. She knew it was unfair, but he was Celadon. And Celadon was everything she hated. "Princess Rhoswyn is what we all strive for, isn't she?" He met her eyes and took her hand from his seat beside her demurely, and Rhoswyn seemed to lean into it, fluttering her eyelashes. Far too obvious, Xanthe though. But no one else seemed to care. "Has it ever once occurred to you that our dear Princess could meet the level of her father? Exceed it? Yes, the dear King of Celadon. But..." he shook his head in what seemed to be sorrow, releasing Rhoswyn's hand and letting his fall to his side. For everything in her, Xanthe truly couldn't tell if it were genuine or not -- regents were notoriously close to the Monarch they served. "His beloved consort, as you all are surely familiar with, has been facing health issues of unfortunate significance, as of late. A sad thing, it is when a Monarch must give up their place at such a young age, and yet it may become reality."

For all he had hinted at, what the regent was saying only then truly fell into place for Xanthe. Rhoswyn. A Queen. Immediately, a thick bubble of anger began to simmer in the depths of her stomach. No. It did not begin to simmer. Anger that had been compressed within her for years slowly began to ooze out of her; it had begun last night, and now it was finding an outlet for itself. An outlet. Yes. That was the right word for it.

"-the Coronation will commence on Saturday of two weeks from now."

The regent clinked his glass against the table's edge to signify the end of his statement, and the rest of the table echoed him in a chorus of almost musicality.

The rest of the meeting was typical. Generic. Uneventful. Mundane. Just as every Meeting was meant to be. And yet Xanthe could feel the mood of every other noble in the air, the excitement that had mixed into their unease. The addiction that afflicted nearly all of Irasi, perfectly oriented in this room. A constant cycle of pain, agony, fear anxiety. Excitement. Ecstasy. Drama. And that was what every Court member craved.

And so did Xanthe, even if she feared it, hated it, in equal.

No.

Xanthe knew what the word's Celadon's regent had said meant. She knew what they signified, what they implied, in their purest, rawest form. In theory, she understood it -- it was familiar too her, a simple, simple thing to grasp, really. She had been trained to understand complex political strategy since her very youth, when she had first truly committed to the path she was on in life. Even still, something in her mind merely did not connect. It felt alien, impossible. Like it shouldn't be possible. And yet, it was.

She had done nothing for the entire day. Her maid had come five separate times; twice for meals, once to simply check in on her. Twice again to report messages from the Queen of her court. And Xanthe had ignored everything, as much as her fingers itched for something to occupy them, as her mind ached for something to strategise, or plan. Something to do. But still, she found herself to be in sonewhat of a perpetual state of shock. For the first time ever, she was bitter that Meetings were held early in the morning, In the past, as tedious, as mundane as they were, their timing gave her a sort of fresh start after they were over. And, of course, time to process new information. That was, naturally, the purpose of the strategic timing. But now, she hated it for that very reason. She had nothing to do but think of the events of the morning, and worse, she had nothing she could find the motivation for. It was as if a switch had been flipped in her mind last night, transforming everything that made her worthy into something weak, depressing. Pitiful.

Mid-afternoon sunlight flooded her windows, basking her in a glow that seemed glaringly, inappropriately ironic, given her state of mind. It cast long shadows across much of her polished-to-a-shine hardwood floor. It is far too beautiful day. She could only imagine what she looked like in the mirror; some of her was restrained for fear of her appearance. Her skin felt hot, burning, just the way it had last night, after Kael had left her. She had stripped off most of her clothing, abandoning them on the floor without making an action at putting them away. Her makeup was likely atrocious -- she had neglected it, and rubbed at her face far too many times for it to have remained intact. Her foundation had begun to flake off from both its chafing against her skin and just time, leaving streaks across some of her pillows. 

She had locked her door, since her maid had come with lunch, to hide herself from the eyes of her Court palace's service workers. Her pride, she thought, was even still a restraint for her. Arrogant, fragile little Xanthe.

Thoughts of her Queen, to her relative surprise, brought frustration as well. Deep in her heart, Xanthe knew that the Queen would never give up her presiding position to Xanthe. Though technically she did have the political knowledge, the prowess, the attributes, she was a figurehead more than anything else. In the case of anything, her Court's regent would be the first to take over the Queen's reign. She couldn't help a bitter laugh from rising in her throat; princesses were figureheads, weren't they? Figureheads who had earned a higher place. And yet, the one princess who had earned nothing was the one to rise up in the rankings.

Xanthe had always though Rhoswyn would be kept a figurehead.

But apparently, Xanthe was wrong.