the trick is to keep breathing

Larsa has requested, nay, commanded them all to commence mingling, and much as she longs to depart, she doesn’t need to start a diplomatic incident. Rising from her chair, she can already see the predatory eyes of half a dozen suitors working their way through the dining hall of the Archadian palace to request a dance. She’s stuffed to the gills with the lobster and mutton and gods know what else she’d been fed that evening, and dancing is the last thing she wishes to do.

Al-Cid nabs her first, and she allows him to march her around like some prize. In truth, Ashe isn’t looking for a husband here at this ball. She doesn’t require one, but as the most eligible lady in Ivalice and beyond, her ministers keep prodding her to attend these events – these “goodwill parties to strengthen diplomatic ties” which are in actuality blind dates for the Queen of Dalmasca.

After the first few dances and dull conversations, she spies an elegantly attired blond gentleman leaning on Larsa’s table laughing and joking. She’s not seen him at these events before, and there is a certain intelligence and spark in his eyes that sets him apart from the other irritating suitors. Breaking away from the Duke of She-Can’t-Remember, she approaches Larsa’s table, insinuating herself between the new man and the Archadian Emperor.

“What a lovely event, Lord Larsa,” she cheers, although her eyes suggest otherwise and the young Emperor nods knowingly. His advisors are trying to find him a match as well. She turns to the other man and raises an eyebrow. “I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced?”

To her surprise, the man immediately drops to a knee and takes her hand, laying a kiss on it that puts all of Al-Cid’s previous attempts to shame. “Edgar, King of the great land of Figaro, Your Highness.”

Oh dear. She mistook the lust in his eyes for intelligence. And now she has made the first move by coming over. “I am unfamiliar with Figaro. Where is that exactly?” She tries to put a bit of scorn into her words – perhaps this Edgar will be deterred by the icy manner of speaking that has scared off so many dukes, counts and gentlemen these past few years.

But King Edgar is undeterred, finally rising to his feet but not releasing her hand. Ashe can see Larsa’s embarrassment from the corner of her eye. “Ah, it is far west of this great place, my dear lady.” He is daring to brush his thumb over her knuckles possessively, and she understands immediately why this man, though a King, remains a bachelor even now. He’s rather greedy.

She snatches her hand back as smoothly as possible. “Well, it has been lovely to meet you, but I really must be…”

He’s already got her by the elbow and is half-escorting, half-dragging her to the floor. She can see the eyes of others upon them, and it disgusts her to read approval in their faces. Surely she is mistaken. “Lord Larsa has informed me that Dalmasca is in need of an heir?”

“Are you propositioning me so soon?” she hisses as he pulls her to him.

“You are not a romantic, are you, Lady Ashe?”

“No.” She tries to step on his foot, but he dodges gracefully. “What is your game, sir?”

“I will win you.”

“I am no prize to be won.”

“So you say.” He leans forward to whisper in her ear. “If you win, I’ll leave, never to trouble you again. If I win, you let me court you.”

She stops dancing to glare at him. “Win? Win what?”

He slips a hand into his pocket, producing a shiny golden item. “Just a coin toss. What do you say?”