"Welcome, welcome~! Enjoy yourself, alright?"

The doors have opened to the Askran ball room, and it's already brimming with life. A magic barrier covers the space, keeping it warm despite Ragnarök's invasion.

Eve's own heroes were the first to arrive, milling about to enjoy the fruit of their labors. To look up is to get assaulted by effort. The amount of streamers, flowers, banners, and freshly polished chandeliers coloring the sky.

To look back to the floor, tables and seating line two opposite sides of the room, just enough to sit as needed for guests. Along the same wall the reader entered from, Hunter's Hearth has been set up to feed all*. There's a few other tables of food, for those who are interested in something else*.

*Hunter's Hearth's contract states they can deny food to those they choose (within a reasonable limit), and as such the other tables of food would be that guests options. Eve and Eden have worked hard with the cooking-loving heroes to make this a pleasing option.

The final wall of the ballroom is left only partially decorated- the curtains covering the glass balcony windows changed to white ones, changing to a dark blue where they meet the flooring. If one were to go out on the balconies, they'd find they're not as heated as the ballroom yet warm enough to take a moment of respite.

The first night of the Dame Ball has begun, and for the moment it feels like a place untouched by Alfaðör's will.

The ballroom is at it's busiest in the evening hours during more traditional party hours, but with the cold being chased away by the barrier Eve prepared it finds itself a casual space to linger.

Heroes and staff run around cleaning and setting up for the evening. Eve herself currently looks exhausted, a stern Alfonse letting his dress shift with his weight and revealing the sword underneath as he talks to her.

She gestures towards the ceiling as she replies, then fixes his dress for him. The prince's face reddens and she winks in return. More seriously, she says one last thing before turning back to the room with the air of a happy hostess wrapping around her once more. Their words were nothing for guests to worry over.

Linhardt seems overly excited, explaining something to a classmate of his with frenzy. You listen in.

'...Clearly, our Summoner was replaced.'

'....You of all heroes should remember how she used to be, correct? Back when she wouldn't show her face, and...'

'...Whatever she might claim, it's just too drastic to be a mere change of heart. From a calculating, harsh tactician to /this/? It's just too much...'

'...And why open the gates to other Askrs? Or host parties like this at all...'

'...She never did anything like this before. She hardly wanted to spend more time than necessary with anyone, let alone other Summoners...'

'...Really, all those excuses for her memory lapses can't be genuine. They change every time she tells them...'

'...And her constitution! Hale and hearty for four years, and then suddenly falling ill right around the time of our Summoner's 'change of heart'? Suspicious, if you ask me...'

'...Why would she lie about that? It's hard to say. Perhaps she doesn't want to say what befell our Summoner...'

'...Of course, that gaff with that child shouting about how she likes messing with minors was telling, too. Not because of the actual statement, mind you, I'm not implying anything untoward. I'm talking about the context. Approaching strangers, provoking them, /teasing/ them? A mischievous streak? Perhaps occasionally to a hero or two, but nothing like that...'

'...Proof? Haven't you noticed? Oh, right. You've got next-to-no magical ability. Of course you can't tell...'

'...I borrowed (stole) this from Camilla. A gift from the Summoner, long ago. She has a tendency to pour magic into any gift she gives. Like those glasses Commander Anna wears--they're /doused/ in it, and always accumulating more. This one from Camilla... How to put it... '

'...The magic is older. There hasn't been any new flow into it in a long, long time. And not only that, but the magic itself /feels/ different. Like...the difference between different elements of black magic.

Hm?

...Ugh, you really are hopeless. Listen, it's like this:

The flow is the same, but the sensation is drastically different. Like the difference between wind and fire magic. Can you sense it--no, of course not. Your magical aptitude is worse than Caspar's, I swear. Do you understand at least...?'

It seems Linhardt's excitement is infectious. Word is spreading fast along the ballroom floor. When it hits Eve's ears, all the hostess does is sniff and turn her nose up to it. Her mannerisms won't reveal the truth by themselves, unless the gossipers decide that not halting the rumors is a sin of its own. Wine glass in hand, she takes up innocent topics with guests instead.