#this is my humble attempt to highlight 1) caleb's painful ways to avoid dancing with jester again

[kaptainkit]

Trent Ikithon invites them to a ball.

As if the mere idea of sharing a table again with the man whose beating heart Caleb has imagined clenched in his fist and froth with flames for years is not enough, they make their way to the southern side of The Candles only to be greeted by a party.

After a long moment where not a single one of his limbs can be willed to move, Caleb blinks and gasps around a mouthful of cold, bitter air.

Consider this a proper family reunion.

Behind him, the Nein are uncharacteristically silent, no doubt waiting for his lead, and Caleb grits his teeth against the impulse to do something.

He wants to look over his shoulder and laugh. To tell them that this is all an illusion, an elaborate farce. The Empire is many things, but a source of revelry is not one of them. It thrives under the death of innocence and knows nothing of merrymaking. It knows nothing of joy.

He wants to tear off the sleeves of his new coat and throw it at the feet of all these dancing fools. To expose his scars for all the planes to witness. Let them watch what this celebration is trying so hard to conceal — what their nation and the Assembly and Trent gottverdammt Ikithon will never allow to see the light of day.

He wants to go home.

To turn around, gather his family in his arms, and teleport back to Nicodranas. Or out of Wildemount. As far away from Rexxentrum as Caleb can take them using every drop of his magic. The walls between his past and present are beginning to crumble, and this should’ve been the last place for any of them to be. He is a dummkopf, a true and proper idiot, for dragging into this game everything he stands to lose.

Caleb’s jaw aches as he relinquishes his hold on a long and shaky breath.

Instead, he squares his shoulders and allows their group to be led by the waiting servants, all of whom are distant and polite. Who usher them up their master’s private chambers with a distinct air of purpose and efficiency. Who call Caleb Bren and treat him like they would someone they know. Like they would a returning heir.

.

The pain is inconsequential. It’s love that saves them.

As soon as their host leaves — summoned by the need to attend to more important guests — Caleb finds he can breathe a little easier again.

Not easy, no. Not in this tower. Or this city. But as he stares at the space his former teacher occupied a moment ago, Caleb’s shoulders stutter with a good imitation of relief. Easier.

Caduceus Clay’s parting words sounded significant, and while they barely pierced through the fog in Caleb’s mind, he knows they must’ve rang true by the way Master Ikithon’s eyes flickered. For the briefest of seconds, the man's dark gaze flashed with anger — true anger, the kind you feel for things you keep close to your chest — and Caleb almost gaped.

“Well that was fun.”

Beauregard’s voice cuts across the table like one of Veth’s arrows, and Caleb’s fingers curl into fists again.

Unsurprisingly, Astrid and Eadwulf are the first to stand. They appear unbothered by the ripple of murmurs and scattered conversation that erupt in the wake of Beau’s declaration, and even if Caleb wants to be rid of the sorrow that staring at his old friends still brings, it is the safer thing to do.

Blunt and fading grief is better than fresh guilt, which is what he will be facing if he turns to his left. The last thing he needs is a pair of worried, purple eyes that he's sure will be waiting for him at the other end of the table.

Caleb has accepted a long time ago that he’s always going to be a coward.

“Shall we?” asks Eadwulf, his hand already on the gilded knob of the ornate door.

His question is addressed to everyone, but the smirk on his lips is for Caleb. The curve of it is knowing, challenging, and, even after all these years, still always skirting the edge of playful.

They all move after that, none of them willing to spend a second longer in this tower than necessary. Though Caleb started feeling several pounds lighter right after Master Ikithon vanished in a single, spiteful pop, a frantic sense of urgency still lingers in his veins.

“Bren.”

But instead of leading the Nein outside the estate, Astrid and Eadwulf bring them back to the grand ballroom. Caleb blinks and suddenly finds himself in an endless sea of silk and golden light.

There’s a pale hand in front of him, terribly familiar, and he follows it right back to Astrid’s dangerously beautiful face.

Something in his stomach lurches. “What?”

“I want you to dance with me,” she tells Caleb in their shared tongue, the demanding tone in her words a perfect mask for the desperation only those who’s known her since childhood can ever truly recognize. “Surely you still know how.”

Sheer self-preservation urges Caleb to move and take her in his arms, into the memory of a position that, somehow, over a decade of blood and fire and madness has yet to completely erode.

He's not sure how long they stay like that, amidst well-dressed strangers and Zemnian whispers. The only thing Caleb knows is when Astrid’s hold on him grows more insistent, all but a handful of pairs have left the dance floor.

“You weren’t careful enough,” she whispers right against his ear. “Something slipped, and he took it. Like he always does.”

“Astrid—”

Her fingers tighten. “This is just the beginning, Bren. If you waver now, he’ll take it all.”

Something in her words makes Caleb’s gut turn to ice, and he jerks his head up.

He scans the crowd, eyes probably wild, and thankfully doesn’t take long to find what he’s looking for. They’re all still in the dance floor.

Veth is with Fjord and Caduceus, their three-way interpretation of the waltz seeming to reach a confusing end as the music starts to fade. Beau and Yasha are not far away, and while they are still locked in an almost-embrace that mirrors Caleb and Astrid, their forms are tense. Poised to strike.

Something is wrong.

It takes Caleb a single, terrible moment to realize that everything and everyone else has gone still.

Walking into the circle of the ballroom is Trent Ikithon, his coat pristine and his pace even. He stops at the center, just a little out of reach, before gesturing for the musicians to resume.

Caleb’s vision blurs as the entire room tilts to the left.

When he comes back, he knows there's no denying the unmistakable color and shape of the woman about to dance with his old master.

“Jester.”

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