Chapter 22: A Dance of Ice and Fire

When Faruxil opened her eyes again, all emotion had faded.

She pushed the prophecy stone toward Nilo.

“I’ll handle the banquet. Senior Nilo, I need your help to analyze all its functions. I need to know: First, can it foresee malice or conspiracies targeting specific individuals?

Second, what is the scope of its foresight—does it only see actions on the physical level, or can it sense deeper flows of energy or magical traps? Finally, and most importantly—can it be shielded, interfered with, or even… reversed by certain powers to display a false future?”

Nilo nodded solemnly.

He carefully cradled the stone.

“I understand. I’ll do everything I can.”

Faruxil seemed to want to say more, but the exhaustion from days of sleepless battles finally caught up with her.

Her vision darkened, and her body swayed involuntarily to the side.

Zhao Yingyue quickly reached out to steady her.

“Don’t push yourself, Lady Divine Favored.”

Zhao Yingyue rarely let a teasing tone slip into her voice.

“Leave it to the senior. If you keep this up, I’ll have to carry you back myself.”

—

Three days later, at the royal palace banquet.

The air was thick with the mingled scents of rich spices, mellow wine, and the cloying sweetness of expensive perfumes worn by noble ladies.

A massive crystal chandelier hung from the dome, scattering thousands of fragments of light over the elegantly dressed crowd below, the glow flowing across the polished marble floor like a cold, extravagant river.

Faruxil wore a finely tailored black tailcoat.

The crisp fabric, silver-embroidered cuffs and collar, accentuated her already tall, slender figure, making her appear even more sharp and poised.

Her pale blue hair was meticulously tied at the back, revealing a smooth forehead and a cold, defined profile.

It was a man’s attire.

The Arslan noble waltz had both a leading step and a following step.

Compared to the following step, the leading step emphasized power, guidance, and control—a declaration of one’s identity as a swordbearer.

Faruxil, born a commoner, had not been immersed in noble social circles since childhood, nor had she spent much energy on such matters after entering the military academy.

She learned the less complicated leading step to handle these inescapable social occasions.

This phenomenon was actually common—many young women from newly risen Arslan noble families attended balls using the leading step.

Some stubborn, proud old nobles used this to distinguish so-called true nobility from upstarts.

But when it came to Faruxil, those old nobles dared not speak, and instead actively spread the rumor that her use of the leading step was a testament to strength, command, and her status as a swordbearer.

Zhao Yingyue stood beside Faruxil, a living flame.

She wore a modified Night Dragon Nation qipao—black silk embroidered with dark red clouds and faint dragon scales.

With each stride, the high slit of her skirt revealed the breathtaking lines of her strong, shapely legs.

Unlike Faruxil’s icy severity, she radiated the heat and wild vitality of a warrior.

She held a glass of fruit wine, unaccustomed, her sharp gaze sweeping over the nobles whose looks ranged from curiosity to scrutiny to ill intent.

“I don’t get these people,”

Zhao Yingyue muttered, her lips nearly brushing Faruxil’s ear.

“The front lines are desperate for supplies, but they have time to compare skirt lengths.”

Faruxil didn’t respond.

Her gaze passed over the whirling dancers to lock precisely onto a corner.

The Pope of the Rishin Church, Faynk, was surrounded by a small crowd.

He still wore his flowing robe embroidered with moons and night flowers, a gentle and compassionate smile on his face, as if listening to a believer’s most sincere confession.

Those around Faynk were not Arslan’s traditional nobles, but several uniquely poised, well-equipped players.

The man with a hood and glasses—shrewd aura—was [Jingwei Sage].

He leaned forward, listening intently to the Pope, the chandelier’s light glinting off his lenses.

Beside him, [Shadowfang Breaker] was more flamboyant, boasting of battle achievements with wild gestures, drawing giggles from nearby noble ladies.

Faynk listened patiently, nodding with a benevolent smile, the image of a kindly elder watching over promising youths.

“They’re courting the players.”

Faruxil’s voice was quiet.

“I see it,”

Zhao Yingyue snorted.

“That old fox. His nose is sharper than anyone’s. He knows these outsiders are a force that can’t be ignored.”

As they spoke, a waltz began to play.

It was the first dance of the evening, traditionally led by honored guests.

In an instant, countless eyes turned to Faruxil.

As the Divine Favored, the hero of the kingdom, she was the undeniable focus of the hall.

Even the king, Durannil, who had been lounging on the throne, attention wandering over the maids, fixed her with a look both greedy and wary.

Accept an invitation from a man and dance together?

As the star of the banquet, her choice of partner would signal her political alignment.

The Church, the royal family, the players—each power seemed eager for a share of military authority.

Faruxil felt a surge of irritation.

She despised this feeling of being scrutinized.

She took a deep breath, suppressed the turmoil within, turned to Zhao Yingyue, and bowed with flawless form, extending her gloved right hand.

A classic gesture of a gentleman inviting a lady to dance.

“General Zhao, may I have this honor?”

Her voice was calm, devoid of emotion.

Zhao Yingyue blinked, then understood her intent.

Rather than be entangled by scheming nobles or oily politicians, it was better to seize control herself.

The flames in Zhao Yingyue’s eyes flickered with mischievous amusement.

She set her glass on a passing servant’s tray, lifted her skirt, and returned a lady’s curtsey, placing her supple hand in Faruxil’s palm.

“The honor is mine, Commander Faruxil.”

As they glided onto the dance floor, all conversation paused for a heartbeat.

The entire hall’s attention, like a spotlight, locked onto this unique pair.

One was the icy Divine Favored of Arslan in men’s dress, steady and commanding; the other, the fiery rose of the Night Dragon Nation, in qipao, graceful and fierce.

Their pairing alone was a declaration of power.

Faruxil’s steps were cold and precise—every movement measured, every turn exact.

Her focus was wholly on the rhythm and guiding her partner, her expression unchanging.

Her hand rested on Zhao Yingyue’s waist, feeling the taut, explosive muscle beneath the qipao’s silk.

Zhao Yingyue, though being led, moved with effortless ease.

Her body seemed weightless, each step matching the music, her skirt swirling like a blooming black flower.

As a master martial artist, her body control was exquisite—these complex steps merely another form of footwork.

She smiled lightly, eyes meeting Faruxil’s with warmth and reassurance.

“Relax,”

She laughed softly during a close turn.

“With that look, someone might think you’re commanding a siege. The floor isn’t about to crack open with a tentacle monster.”

Faruxil’s lips twitched.

“To me, this is more exhausting than fighting a tentacle monster.”

She admitted.

“On the battlefield, enemies have clear intent—kill or be killed. Here, enemies smile, and every word may hide poison.”

“That’s why we dance,”

Zhao Yingyue’s arm circled her neck, close and natural.

“Let them see we stand together. Anyone who wants to touch you has to get past my gun first.”

The song ended.

They finished with perfect poise as scattered applause rang out.

All the men who’d hoped to dance with Faruxil or Zhao Yingyue had their dreams dashed.

The political maneuvering of the banquet was deftly neutralized by Faruxil’s choice to dance with Zhao Yingyue in men’s attire.

They ignored those who tried to approach and walked straight to the terrace at the side of the hall.

Cool night air blew in, dispelling the stifling heat and relaxing Faruxil’s tense nerves.

“Still thinking about the Pope?”

Zhao Yingyue had somehow returned with two glasses of iced lemonade.

Faruxil was silent.

She leaned against the cold marble railing, gazing at the sea of lights of the royal city below.

Each light was a home, a peace she had sworn to protect.

Yet to her, this peace felt fragile—as if a single gust could shatter it like a sand painting.

Currents beneath the city converged, forming a vortex ready to consume all.

As her thoughts tangled, a soft, steady voice, carrying a weight that time could not erase, sounded from behind.

“This night seems eternal, but it is not. Is that right, Faruxil?”

The voice was deeply familiar.

Once, it had been the Arslan Kingdom’s undisputed command, the highest battle song for all magical girls.

She and Zhao Yingyue turned together.

A woman in a gold-and-red noble gown approached.

She appeared about forty, with faint lines at the corners of her eyes, but they only added to her innate elegance and dignity.

Her long red hair was swept into a delicate bun, pinned with a silver hairpin engraved with a family crest.

Her makeup was impeccable, yet could not hide the fatigue and sorrow deep in her light brown eyes.

The complex emotion of one long accustomed to power and sacrifice.

It was the previous generation’s Divine Favored—Janet.