I learn two things the night of the Royal Victory Ball.
One: Ball gowns are actually just high-difficulty equipment with zero mobility and maximum aggro.
Two: Four max-affection heroines at the same social event is not a "route," it's a raid boss.
My HUD pings before I've even opened my eyes fully.
Main Event Triggered: Imperial Victory Ball & Engagement Celebration
Location: Sunrise Palace Grand Ballroom Recommended Build: High Charm / High Stamina / Low Self-Preservation Warning: FIRE Genre. Emotional Combustion Likely.
"Fantastic," I mutter as maids swirl around me like a clothing hurricane.
Someone is lacing me into something red, gold, and complicated. Another is taming my hair into an elegant updo, leaving deliberate curls to spill down my neck. Jewels, silk, perfume—I am being buffed to within an inch of my life.
"Lady Fiametta, please hold still," one of them begs. "If this line isn't perfect, the train won't fall correctly."
"What train?" I ask, then catch sight of the mirror.
Oh.
That train.
The gown is…a problem.
Crimson silk that fits my torso like it was poured on, then explodes out at the hips into layers of tulle and embroidered velvet. Gold thread curls across the bodice in flame-rose patterns, scattering tiny garnets that glint like embers. The neckline is daring without being indecent; the back dips low, exposing pale skin and the faint shimmer of some defensive ward Mira insisted be inscribed there.
My waist looks tiny. My shoulders sleek. My chest
"Okay," I tell my reflection. "You are a war crime."
The girl in the mirror flushes; I realize it's me.
A knock at the dressing room door rescues me from my own face.
"Fia?" Seraphine's voice. "May I come in?"
The maids snap to attention like someone hit a quick-time event.
"Yes," I manage.
Seraphine steps inside and everything in the room ratchets up three notches in saturation.
She's in white and gold again, but it's not armor this time. Her gown falls in luminous layers, the fabric catching light like starlight on snow. Gold embroidery traces the imperial crest across her bodice. Diamonds wink in her hair, holding her braids in a half-up style that shows off her neck.
She is the very picture of "crown princess at a ball" CG.
Then she sees me.
For a heartbeat, all the poise drops out of her expression.
"Fia," she breathes. "You're…stunning."
My brain error messages.
"You too," I blurt. "Obvious. Very. Great. Excellent princess."
A maid quietly adjusts a hairpin to hide her smile.
Seraphine crosses to me, one hand behind her back. Up close, I can see the faint, stubborn puffiness at the edges of her eyes; she's been arguing with the council again, no doubt about the legal circus that is "multi-party imperial union."
"Here," she says softly. "I brought this."
She reveals what she's been hiding: a small velvet box.
Every route-trained neuron I have goes on high alert.
"Before you panic," she adds quickly, "it's not that. It's…this."
She opens the box to reveal a hair ornament: a comb of gold shaped like a single flame-tipped rose, petals studded with red and white stones.
"It's the other half of mine," she explains, turning her head slightly so I can see the matching ornament in her hair. "They were made as a set, for…for couples."
My heart does something structurally unsound.
"Seraphine," I say softly.
She lifts the comb toward me, hesitating.
"May I?" she asks.
"Please," I whisper.
Her fingers brush my hairline as she slides the comb into place above my ear. The metal is cool against my scalp. When she's done, she steps back, studying the effect.
"Perfect," she says, satisfied. Then, lower: "Now there isn't a soul in that ballroom who won't know you're mine."
My cheeks ignite.
As if summoned by the word, the HUD pops up a tiny note.
Shared Accessory Equipped: Flame-Rose Pair (Seraphine + Fiametta) Passive: Couple Aura – +10% intimidation to political rivals, +15% jealousy to nearby heroines.
"Great," I mutter. "Jealousy buffs."
"What was that?" Seraphine asks.
"Nothing."
She smiles, then produces something else: a slim cream card, edges gilded.
My stomach sinks. I recognize it from the game's flavor text.
A dance card.
"I took the liberty of reserving a few dances," she says, the tiniest hint of mischief in her eyes.
I take the card.
Every line is filled.
1st: Seraphine
2nd: Seraphine
3rd: Seraphine
4th: Seraphine…
10th: Seraphine
I stare.
"'A few,'" I repeat.
She coughs delicately. "Traditionally, the first dance is reserved for the host's chosen partner. The rest are…flexible guidelines."
"So this is a…highly persuasive suggestion," I say.
"Exactly," she says, pleased. "Of course, if you want to leave one or two spaces open for our…others, I won't object. Loudly."
My heart squeezes at the pronoun.
Our others.
Before I can answer, another knock rattles the door.
"Your Highness?" Elira's voice. "The ball begins in twenty minutes. Protocol says I have to drag Fiametta away from whoever is monopolizing her and get her to the antechamber."
Seraphine rolls her eyes. "You see?" she murmurs. "Already staking claims."
She calls, "Enter!"
Elira slips in, for once without armor. It's…a lot.
She's wearing a dark, midnight-blue tailcoat over a crisp white shirt, cravat tied neatly, trousers perfectly tailored. It's not quite masculine, not quite feminine; it's something sharp and in-between that looks like it was designed specifically to ruin me.
My thoughts, very politely, stop.
"You" I say.
She tugs at her cuffs, suddenly a bit self-conscious. "Too much?"
"No," Seraphine says flatly. "It's illegal."
Elira grins, then looks at me.
"Well?" she asks. "Do I meet the villainess's standards?"
"Overachieved," I manage.
Her grin widens. "Good."
Her gaze drops to the card in my hand. One brow rises.
"Busy schedule?" she asks.
I press the card to my chest defensively. "It's under negotiation."
Another knock. This time Lyriel doesn't wait for permission; she simply opens the door and glides in like she owns the concept of evenings.
Her gown is a cascade of deep blue and silver that looks like someone bottled the night sky. Arcane sigils stitched in faint thread shimmer when she moves. Her hair is up, pinned with tiny blue crystals that spark like stars.
Behind her, Mira enters more quietly, closing the door with a soft click. She wears white, as always, but tonight the trim is a soft rose, embroidered with tiny vine patterns. Her hair is braided with little white flowers. She looks like exactly what she is: a living prayer.
The dressing room suddenly feels like a crossover event.
All four heroines. All in ball attire. All looking at me.
[Seraphine Affection: MAX ❤️]
[Elira Affection: MAX ❤️]
[Lyriel Affection: MAX ❤️]
[Mira Affection: MAX ❤️]
Lyriel's gaze flicks to the dance card like a hawk spotting prey.
"Oh?" she says. "Monopolization, Your Highness?"
"It's called planning," Seraphine replies sweetly. "You should try it outside of your lab."
"I plan constantly," Lyriel says, taking the card neatly from my unresisting hand. "For example, I planned to claim at least one dance near the middle so I can monitor Fia's vitals after the first exertions."
She pulls a pen from somewhere in the folds of her gown of course she has a pen—and in one elegant motion crosses out "Seraphine" on the fifth line to write "Lyriel."
"Hey," Seraphine says, offended. "That was my waltz."
"Now it's my waltz," Lyriel says calmly. "Magic users need movement too."
Elira leans over her shoulder. "Put my name on the third," she says. "She'll be warmed up by then."
"This isn't a rotation chart," Seraphine protests.
"It is now," Elira says, grabbing the pen. She crosses out another "Seraphine" and writes "Elira Waltz, please don't faint."
Mira wrings her hands for a second, then steels herself and steps forward.
"Um," she says softly. "If it wouldn't…trouble anyone, may I have the last dance?"
Everyone goes quiet.
Last dance. The one that lingers the longest in people's memories. The one the game always highlighted with sparkles and soft focus.
Seraphine looks like someone just asked to borrow her heart and promised to return it eventually.
Then, slowly, she nods.
"Fine," she says. "But I keep the first."
Elira shrugs. "I just want any excuse to spin her around the room."
Lyriel sighs. "The last dance is when her stamina will be lowest. It makes sense for a healer to have immediate access."
Mira's face brightens like dawn. Lyriel gently writes "Mira" on the final line.
The card now reads:
1st: Seraphine
2nd: Seraphine
3rd: Elira
4th: Seraphine
5th: Lyriel
6th–9th: assorted "OPEN" scribbles with increasingly aggressive handwriting
10th: Mira
I take it back, looking at the mess of names and crossed-out lines.
My otome gamer soul whispers: Perfect harem route unlock conditions.
My survival instincts whisper: You are going to die of sheer attention before the illness gets you.
"Okay," I say weakly. "Ground rules: No duels over who cuts in. No hexing each other's feet. No holy smiting in the middle of a waltz."
Four sets of eyes look away very innocently.
"Swear it," I insist.
Mira is the only one who says "I swear," but I'll take what I can get.
The Sunrise Palace Grand Ballroom is exactly as dramatic as I remember from the game's CGs only bigger.
Crystal chandeliers drip light from the ceiling, casting everything in a warm glow. The marble floor gleams, polished to a mirror. Musicians on a raised balcony tune strings and woodwinds. Flowers—roses, of course, in red and white spill from vases along the walls.
As we stand behind the great doors, waiting for our cue, my HUD pings.
Public Notoriety: Great Hero of Dawnridge – 78
Status Effect: Awe.
Side Effect: People will stare at you. A lot.
"Ready?" Seraphine murmurs beside me.
"No," I whisper. "Yes. Maybe. Please don't let me trip."
"I'd catch you," Elira says from behind us.
"So would I," Mira adds.
"I'd freeze time before you hit the ground," Lyriel says matter-of-factly.
"See?" Seraphine smiles, squeezing my hand on her arm. "You're very well insulated against gravity."
The herald's voice booms.
"His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Albrecht! Her Imperial Highness, Crown Princess Seraphine Lys Albrecht! Hero of the Ridge, Lady Fiametta von Ardentis!"
The doors swing open.
A thousand eyes turn.
I'm used to being stared at in games—sprites turning as you pass, NPCs pivoting to deliver lines. This is different. There's weight to it. Whispered breaths. Fabric rustling. The entire room seems to lean in.
Seraphine leads me forward on her arm. My skirts whisper across the marble. The Emperor walks ahead, regal as always.
People bow. The crowd parts.
My HUD throws up a little graph of reactions.
Awe: 60%
Fear: 20%
Obsession: 15%
"Who is that with Her Highness and can I flirt?": 5%
"I can hear your system muttering," I tell myself, pasting on the villainess smile I practiced in the mirror. "Shut up and posture."
We reach the center of the ballroom. The Emperor says something eloquent about victory, sacrifice, and the future. My brain catches maybe three words. I'm too busy not hyperventilating.
"And so," he concludes, "let this night not only celebrate our triumph, but herald the changes to come."
He gestures.
"The first dance," he declares, "to be led by Crown Princess Seraphine and Lady Fiametta."
The musicians strike the first chords.
Seraphine turns to me, bowing slightly. "May I?" she asks.
"You're literally already holding my hand," I say faintly.
She smiles, and we step into the waltz.
If my body weren't so absurdly competent, I would eat floor. As it is, some ingrained muscle memory kicks in—Fiametta's, not Fumiko's—and I find myself moving in perfect time with Seraphine's steps. Our skirts swirl, catching light. The world blurs into color and music around us.
"See?" she murmurs as she spins me. "You're perfect."
"That's the dress," I reply. "It's doing the heavy lifting."
"That's you," she says softly. "Always has been."
I don't have a comeback for that.
When the first dance ends, there's polite applause. My heart is hammering. My cheeks are on fire. Seraphine looks unfairly composed.
"Water?" she offers.
"I'm okay," I say automatically.
Her eyes narrow.
"Later then," she says, clearly filing it under "Fia's Terrible Choices: To Be Addressed."
The music shifts. Guests begin to pair off. Nobles approach, bowing to the Emperor, to Seraphine.
And then—to my slight horror—toward me.
"Lady Fiametta," a young duke's son says, offering a hand. "May I have this dan"
Elira appears like a teleporting bodyguard.
"I'm afraid not," she says pleasantly, sliding between us. "The lady's third dance is mine. And the second is still ongoing."
"She just finished the first," the duke's son protests.
Seraphine raises an eyebrow. "And she has the second reserved for me again. Didn't you hear the herald?"
Elira snorts. "You can dance with her every day after you're married. Let me have this one."
"I'm not married yet," Seraphine says sharply.
"You will be," Elira fires back, then looks at me. "Unless you've changed your mind?"
"Absolutely not," I say quickly.
Seraphine brightens. The duke's son withers under the combined force of their smiles.
"I'll…withdraw," he says, backing away.
"Good idea," Lyriel murmurs from where she's been watching, sipping wine.
"Lyriel," I hiss. "Aren't you going to rescue me?"
"In about three dances," she says. "That's when my slot is. I don't see why I should deprive myself and the others of this display."
Mira, at least, looks sympathetic.
"Don't worry," she says. "If you need a break, just say so. I'll declare a 'healing interval.' No one argues with those."
I love her, I think helplessly.
Then the second waltz starts, Seraphine seizes my hand again, and I'm back on the marble sea.
By the time Elira cuts in for the third dance, I'm floating somewhere between dizzy and euphoric.
Elira's hands are bigger than Seraphine's, callused from training. When she places one at my waist and takes my other, it feels…safe. Solid. Like stepping behind a shield I didn't know I needed.
"Okay?" she asks quietly, searching my face.
"Absolutely not," I say. "But in a good way?"
She laughs.
"As your future knight-wife, I am obligated to say you look incredible," she says, spinning us into the flow of dancers. "As your friend, I am obligated to say if you get any more attention, half the room might self-combust."
"Isn't that your job?" I ask. "Combusting things?"
"That's yours," she says. "I just swing metal."
She slows suddenly, jaw tightening.
"What?" I ask.
She nods toward the edge of the floor. A small knot of foreign envoys is watching us. One of them—a tall woman in dark green with the snake-crest of a neighboring kingdom—meets my gaze and smiles, slow and assessing.
"Elira," I say, "your glower is going to melt that envoy's shoes."
"Good," she mutters. "Let her try approaching you, see what happens."
"I am not property," I remind her gently.
"I know," she says. "You're…everything. That's the problem."
My heart does the thing again.
Before I can turn that into coherent words, the music ends. Elira reluctantly lets go.
I barely have time to breathe before Lyriel is there, offering a hand with a little half-bow.
"May I steal our hazard for five minutes?" she asks.
"You call me a hazard like that's not rude," I say, placing my hand in hers anyway.
"It's affectionate," she says, lips quirking. "Come. We'll talk while we dance."
Dancing with Lyriel is different. With Seraphine, it felt like being swept up in a story. With Elira, it felt grounded. With Lyriel…it feels like being part of an equation she's already solved.
"So," she says casually as we move. "How much did you intend to annihilate at Dawnridge?"
"Less," I say.
Her hand tightens almost imperceptibly on my waist.
"I figured," she murmurs. "Your mana output was…impressive, but the vessel" she glances meaningfully at my chest, "—is cracked. We'll need to reinforce it."
"If you have a cure for 'terminally ill,' I'd like to file a request," I say.
"I don't have a cure yet," she says. "But I have theories. And after I watch how your body reacts to half a dozen dances and prolonged adrenaline, I'll have more data."
"Is that why you wanted this slot?" I ask.
"Partly," she says. "Mostly I wanted an excuse to hold you where no one could interrupt without violating etiquette."
My brain stalls.
"Lyriel," I say, "that's…shockingly direct for you."
She smiles, genuinely.
"I thought you preferred direct," she says. "You've been very clear with us so far. I plan to reciprocate."
I open my mouth to reply.
"Lady Fiametta!" a voice calls from the side.
A young baron has approached the edge of the dance floor, bowing. "Forgive the intrusion, but might I request—"
Lyriel doesn't even look at him. The air between us shimmers faintly.
The baron's feet…stick. His shoes are suddenly glued to the floor.
He blinks, tries to step, fails.
"Oh dear," Lyriel says blandly, finally glancing his way. "Careful, my lord. The wax on the floor must be uneven in that spot. Perhaps move aside before you fall?"
Several nearby nobles subtly sidestep. The baron, face red, tugs helplessly at his shoes.
I stare at her.
"You promised no hexing," I whisper.
"I promised no hexing during a waltz," she corrects calmly. "I merely improved the floor's tactile affinity in his immediate vicinity."
"You terrify me," I say.
"Yes," she says. "But in a sexy way, I hope."
Before my tongue can finish rebooting, the dance ends.
Lyriel releases me, but her hand lingers on my wrist for a heartbeat longer than necessary, checking my pulse.
"Still steady," she says, satisfied. "Good girl."
I nearly explode on the spot.
The ball becomes a blur after that.
Nobles attempt to approach; my heroines appear out of thin air to deflect them.
"Lady Fiametta is needed at the buffet table," Elira says firmly, physically interposing herself.
"Apologies, I have to borrow her for a brief warding adjustment," Lyriel says, looping an arm through mine and towing me away.
"Her health requires a short rest," Mira says, appearing with a glass of water and a look no one dares argue with.
Seraphine doesn't bother with excuses; she simply appears, smiles like a knife wrapped in sugar, and says, "My fiancée is busy," in a tone that brooks no disagreement.
Normally, they're subtle about their rivalry.
Tonight, subtlety dies.
At one point, I find myself at a refreshment table, sipping juice (no alcohol, Mira's orders), when Seraphine drapes an arm loosely around my shoulders from behind.
"Tired?" she murmurs in my ear.
"A bit," I admit.
"I told you we should have limited your dances."
"You reserved eight of them," I remind her.
"A mistake I am willing to repeat," she says. "You're adorable when you're dizzy."
"Elira!" someone hisses.
Seraphine's arm tightens reflexively. We turn.
Elira is on the other side of the table, arms folded, glaring.
"She needs to sit," Elira says. "Not be used as an armrest."
"She can sit with me," Seraphine replies, nonchalant. "On the throne dais, where no one else can bother her."
"That's not sitting, that's being politically displayed," Elira snaps.
"Accurate," Lyriel says, wandering up with a strawberry on a little plate. "But also strategically useful."
Mira appears with a chair out of nowhere. "She can sit here," she says firmly, setting it down. "Away from all of you, before you pull her apart."
I put the glass down and raise both hands.
"Hello," I say. "Sentient person. Still present."
They all look at me, then immediately start talking over each other.
"I'm just saying"
"She needs to be protected from"
"Her mana reserves"
"Her emotional state"
Words pile on words. Voices rise. Energy in the air spikes. I can see actual, literal sparks where Lyriel's irritation meets Seraphine's possessiveness. Elira's aura is starting to crackle. Mira's usually gentle presence is gaining a sharp edge.
The HUD flashes.
Warning: Local FIRE Parameter Rising Risk: Spontaneous Emotional Combustion Event.
Great.
And then someone touches my hand.
I look down. Mira's fingers are wrapped around mine, small and warm.
"Fia," she says, softly but firmly enough to cut through the noise. "What do you want?"
The question lands like a bucket of cold water.
The others stop mid-argue, eyes snapping to me.
Right. Remember that thing I learned earlier about not being a prize?
I take a breath.
"I want," I say slowly, "to dance with each of you. I want to sit down when my legs feel like jelly. I want to talk to the people who are not trying to marry me, just to remember the world is bigger than our weird little bonfire."
A couple of nearby nobles pretend very hard not to be listening.
"And," I add, turning in a small circle so I can meet each heroine's eyes in turn, "I would like you not to set the ballroom on fire fighting over me. Literally or metaphorically."
Seraphine winces, glancing up.
I follow her gaze.
The nearest chandelier's candles have…lengthened. Flames stretch upward, licking at the crystals like eager tongues. A few rose arrangements have started to smolder at the edges.
"Oh," I say faintly. "That's new."
"Genre: Fire," Lyriel mutters under her breath, already sketching sigils in the air. "If we let this escalate, the entire ball turns into a bonding event in a very literal sense."
She snaps her fingers. The errant flames die down, obedient.
Mira squeezes my hand.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "We didn't mean to make you feel like you were being pulled apart."
Elira exhales, tension in her shoulders easing. "Yeah," she says. "Sorry. I just seeing others reach for you makes me see red."
"For the record," Seraphine says stiffly, "I am not sorry about wanting you by my side. But I am…excessive. Sometimes."
"That's one way to put it," Lyriel says dryly.
Seraphine glares; Lyriel smiles back, all teeth.
I step between them and grab both their hands.
"Hey," I say. "Look at me."
They do.
"I'm not going anywhere," I say quietly. "Not yet. Not while we're still trying to hack the system. Not while there's legal chaos to unleash and portals to accidentally explode and a war to mismanage. You have time."
Their grips tighten.
"And," I add, because if I'm doing this, I'm doing it properly, "I love all of you."
The words hang there, shocking even me.
I've thought it a dozen times, in pieces. Admired them. Crushed on them. But saying it out loud, here, in the middle of the ball, feels like clicking "Confirm" on an irreversible choice.
Mira gasps, hands flying to her mouth. Tears spring up immediately.
Elira goes very still, then smiles, slow and bright and disbelieving, like the sun coming out after a storm.
Lyriel's eyes widen. Her carefully composed expression cracks; something raw and astonished shows through.
Seraphine…just closes her eyes for a second, as if absorbing the impact, then opens them again shining.
"You can't just…say that," she whispers. "In public. Without warning."
"Fire genre," I say weakly. "Go big or go home?"
She laughs, half hysterical, half overjoyed.
The HUD chimes.
Affection Parameters Adjusted: Confession Flag Achieved.
New Condition: If protagonist dies, all four heroines will absolutely wreck reality.
That…seems fine.
"New plan," I say, feeling suddenly lighter despite the fatigue dragging at my limbs. "We rotate. No more sabotage. If you want my time, you ask. And I'll tell you when I need to sit, or breathe, or hide under a table."
Mira giggles. "I can make a tent of tablecloths," she offers.
"Allies only," I say. "No random lords."
Elira nods. "Deal."
Lyriel inclines her head. "Reasonable."
Seraphine sighs dramatically. "I suppose I can share," she says. "Since she wants it that way."
She leans in, brushing her lips against my forehead, very quickly, very softly. My heart tries to exit my body via my ribs.
"Don't pass out," she whispers.
"I make no promises," I whisper back.
Later that night, long after the big dramatic confrontations, the ball settles into a softer rhythm.
I do end up under a table, briefly, with Mira, sharing stolen pastries and gossiping about noble fashion while the others run interference. Lyriel gives me a slow dance where we don't speak at all, just breathe in time. Elira spins me so fast I nearly lose my shoes, then catches me with a hand on the small of my back and a grin that says I've got you. Seraphine and I slip out onto a balcony for fresh air, and she points out constellations while I pretend I'm not using her shoulder as a pillow.
My illness reminds me it exists, of course.
A couple of times, a cough sneaks up on me, rusty and sharp. Each time, at least two pairs of hands materialize with water, handkerchiefs, healing spells. Each time, the HUD shows my vitals dip, then stabilize under Mira's gentle magic and Lyriel's careful monitoring.
"See?" Elira murmurs at one point, tucking a stray curl back behind my ear. "We can handle the battlefield. You handle…this. Us. The stupid feelings."
"That's the hardest part," I complain.
"Exactly," she says. "You're the strongest."
By the time the last dance arrives, I'm bone-deep tired but strangely content.
Mira takes my hand, cheeks pink, eyes shining.
"Last one," she says. "If you're still up for it."
"For you?" I say. "Always."
We dance slow, turning in a little bubble of quiet while the rest of the ballroom blurs. Her hand in mine is small but firm. Her other hand rests light on my shoulder, warm even through the fabric.
"Thank you," she whispers at one point.
"For what?" I ask.
"For choosing us," she says. "For letting us fight over you, and then reminding us you're not a prize. You're…you. Fia. Fumiko. Flame and all."
My throat tightens.
"Thank you," I say, "for always catching me when I fall."
She smiles, soft and certain.
"Always," she repeats.
The candles burn low. The music fades. The ball winds down.
As we leave the ballroom together—Seraphine on one side, Elira on the other, Lyriel and Mira just behind—I glance up at the chandeliers one last time.
For a moment, just a moment, the flames there flare into the shapes of roses and hearts.
Then they settle.
The HUD gives one final ping.
Event Complete: Imperial Victory Ball – FIRE Variant
Outcome: Love Rivalry Stabilized. Public Perception: "They're all dangerously in love with her and honestly we support it."New Quest Unlocked:
"Find a way to live long enough to see the next ball."
I squeeze the hands holding mine.
"Okay," I think, as the doors close behind us and the night air cools my overheated skin.
"Next event. Let's see what you've got."