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With a sigh, you and Sieg take to the center of the practice hall, where a pattern of tiles shows you where to stand. The smug grin on his face when he rests his hand upon your waist melts away when you squeeze down on his shoulder, not quite loud enough to crack. Taking his right hand in your left, your fingers intertwine with his and let sigils that brand your palms touch and exchange
Yours is the crest passed down to you from your mother. It takes the shape of
a) A blood red heron
b) A pure white snowflake
c) A night black star
d) A golden yellow rose
Sieg's came from his father. You do not know its nature, for it is rude to ask unprompted, but it is something that ties the both of you together, loathsome a thought that may be. Children rarely bear them, for they are as much a gift of magic as a sign of the head of a family. Scions of the palace who carry them are even rarer, for though a daughter may be given to the Emperor in tribute, all but the lowest family would be loathe to give over their high mysteries over to the Throne.
Yet both of you do. Sigils inherited from deceased parents who bore those marks themselves, making you both unique among the children of the palace. Not a dozen more of the two hundred and fifty seven children bear such a mark, and most of those are of their own crafting.
Yours and the dragon-mark on Sieg's palm both carry a heavy weight, a hundred generations before you.
Which means that even if you detest the boy, even if he derives some perverse joy at flipping your skirt, you both take your dancing lessons <span class="mu-i">quite seriously</span>. From the moment that Dieter commands the Etherhorn to play its song, every emotions stills. Your distaste for Sieg, your weariness at practicing the same dance yet again, even the sense of satisfaction you have from seeing Anke's sparkling eyes as she beholds your graceful rendition of King Karl's Waltz.
Every movement is perfect. Every step, every twirl and pirouette, every motion carries unthinking perfection. To his credit, Sieg is no less flawless in his execution from start to finish. The shifting tiles on the floor, guiding and measuring and chastising imperfection... they have no complaint today.
And when you finish, Dieter has this to say: "Well done, my students. I believe this will be the last time we perform this exercise."
"Really!?" Sieg jumps with excitement, his blue eyes sparkling.
Your response is more muted, because you can only think of, "What's the next dance we need to master?"
"None." Your dancing Master's answer surprises you. "I think it is time to see how you both fare afield. As soon as I can manage it, we shall be taking a trip. Until then, I think it best you practice dancing of a different sort."
He throws the two of you a pair of practice swords. The tiles soften beneath your feet as he touches a sigil on the wall and demands that you: "Begin."
<span class="mu-s">Roll</span>
1d8 for location
5d8 for time
1d100 (Bo3) for the spar
