"Why are we here again, Cherion?"
The heavy doors of the dancing hall opened with a deep, resonant sound that echoed through the silent corridors of the castle like the awakening of an old, slumbering beast.
Cherion didn't look back. He moved into the center of the room, his footsteps light against the floor. He stopped in the center, spun slightly, and threw his arms out like he was presenting a stage. "To dance, obviously. What else do you do in a ballroom? Play cards?"
Zarius's brow furrowed, that familiar confusion crossing his face. "To dance? Now?"
"Why not now?" Cherion turned, a playful, sharp-edged grin cutting through the gloom. "You're sad, Your Grace. You're standing there like a statue of a grieving gargoyle, and frankly, it's depressing me. Besides, I need practice. If I'm going to be the 'Duchess' of this frozen wasteland, I can't be tripping over my own feet at the next party, can I?"
