Les rois mages (The Three Kings)

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You look towards the gold gilt mirror and sigh. Your face has been scrubbed ruddy, and your hair is scattered haphazardly around your face. The party is supposed to begin in less than an hour, but you’ve barely started getting ready. Due to your years of experience in the Serresian court, you know that there isn’t nearly enough time to make it to the ball in time. Of course, there is always something to be said for being fashionably late—but then again, the rules probably change when the soirée is being held in your honor.

There’s a shuttering sound behind you, and you quickly snap to attention. Your eyes are automatically drawn to the door, hoping that someone has come to assist you, but there is no such luck. You continue to sit awkwardly on your burgundy ottoman, anxiously grinding your fists into the crushed velvet. Your servant should have been here by now. Had they forgotten about you? You doubted it. After all, it wasn’t every day that the heir to The Seat turned thirteen years old. It was your birthday. How could anyone forget?

Another minute ticked by and the stone in your stomach grew heavier. Would you have to dress yourself? You’d barely been taught how to put on your satin stockings, let alone how to tie, button and cinch and elaborate party ensemble. What were you supposed to do now?

Suddenly the door snaps open in a hurry and in rushes…

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