Zaketa presents a carefully crafted mask to the world; one of sharp edges, privilege, and bravado. Only those closest to her, her most loyal guards, know the real Zaketa. And she is so much more than what her warlord father has crafted her to be.
In...
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Maquis Hall was lit with electric lights, a rare treat, and a relief from the constant smoke gas lamps. The strangely magical glint of the harsh white lights reflected off the tall windows and polished wood floors. Floral arrangements adorned every corner of the room, greenery interspersed with convincing fabric facsimiles of flowers that were long out of season. The floor was already more than half-filled, conversations and laughter floated over the soft, tinny music piped in over speakers.
Though she was in disguise, her face covered with a mask, painted and bejeweled in painstaking detail, it was not the comfort and protection that Zaketa craved. She found herself wishing for the protection of the cloth half-mask she wore over her mouth and nose when moving about the city.
This mask was meant to draw attention, not deflect it. She took a deep breath. That had been the point, to make a statement, and she'd known it would draw attention. Her nerves, though, she hadn't planned for.
"Are we going to watch from the wings, or do you plan to actually go in?" Rhys' voice, a rumble of amusement, was exactly what Zaketa needed. The sight of her nonplussed guard leaning casually against the door frame, eyes narrow as she studied the crowd, was a comfort. Zaketa had always relied on, loved, and adored Crucis and Ismay. Rhys, though, she felt a bond with, a kinship.
She wanted Rhys at her side-- wanted rather than needed. Where she knew without a doubt that she needed Ismay and depended on Crucis, Rhys was different. She knew that Rhys had little choice but to follow her orders, Zaketa did her best to not abuse her power. Even so, she couldn't help but feel that increasingly Rhys did so because she wanted to.
Zaketa tugged and adjusted the bodice of her dress, taking a stilted breath before running her hands lightly over her skirts. "I'm more nervous than I thought I would be..."
"Well," Rhys said, considering, "it's just a room full of pompous elites. You're used to rubbing shoulders with them, aren't you?"
Zaketa snorted, delighted by Rhys' daring and snark. "Just because I'm used to it doesn't mean I like it." She turned, making minute adjustments to her guard's attire before slipping her hand into the crook of Rhys' arm. "At least tonight I can pretend I don't know them. For a while, anyway." And with that, she stepped out of the alcove, past the curtains, and into the mass of costumed forms.
Without much effort, Zaketa recognized many of the figures and faces that swirled around them. It was a gathering of the elite, despite the pretense of the event being open to all. Men and women her father had worked with, whose land and resources he'd stolen or demanded over the years circulated, gathering in clusters, no doubt talking business and trading news. Zaketa could only hope that she was not as easily recognizable as she'd found them to be.
Among the press of bodies, Zaketa spotted a lovely young woman in a flowery, flouncy gown. Her figure was padded rather than naturally plump, and Zaketa snorted a laugh at the attempt to imitate her own ample form. Weaving through the throng, carrying a generous plate of hors d'oeuvres, one of the main draws of the event to the less wealthy, was another girl dressed in flowery garb. Then another, and another. Girls giggled, ate, and chattered in clusters, bursts of color scattered throughout the crowd. "Izzy has been hard at work, I see."
