The lights hit Lilac first. Bright, warm-hued, eliminating even the most obscure shadows from the grand banquet hall of the sprawling Vernault estate. The sound was next; a chorus of competing voices, a sea of intermingling words and thoughts and intentions. Lilac’s 24th birthday party. It was as decadent as she remembered. A dozen tables covered with delicacies of all shapes and sizes, drawing the eye to the massive three-tiered cake at their center. Servants scurrying to and fro, nobles chatting and plotting, her father’s boisterous laughter echoing as he shared stories with some of the other martial nobles.
She died. Again.
How many times would Lilac have to endure this? How many times would she experience the congratulations of her family, the well wishes of her servants, eat the exact same dishes and be offered the exact same presents? It had been such a brilliant occasion once, a gleaming memory of joy born from consideration. Now, it felt more akin to checking off a list.
Alban trips and spills his wine. That means it’s been precisely twenty-three minutes since the party began. A maid girl offers him a pastry to cheer him up. A cute moment, were it not the twelfth time Lilac had seen it. Duchess Vernault and Nicolette meet off to the side of the party and clink their glasses together. Once, Lilac had been intrigued by the discretion, but now, she didn’t particularly care. She had seen far into the future, and whatever discussion they were having was irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. It was all so raucous, so loud, so tiring.
Amidst it all, House Vernault’s middle child stood, a hollow, polite smile on her face. The party was like clockwork. Exhausting. She couldn’t even muster the energy to respond properly to birthday wishes anymore. After all she had done, after all the struggles she’d waded through and the successes she had achieved…she still ended up back here. What, then, was she even supposed to do?
She had become a specter at her own party. A wraith clad in a funeral dress, drifting along the edges of public perception. The clock was already ticking anew; if she wanted this loop to be any different from the others, it was critical that she begin planning as quickly as possible.
In the last loop, her demise had come courtesy of a bullet through her throat, a present from a Gracenest slaver amidst the ambush responsible for killing her father in many cycles. It was a situation she’d inserted herself into before, from plenty of angles, but played out just differently enough to catch her off guard. Variance between the loops at all could be quite vexing; Lilac wasn’t sure if she’d prefer occasional differences or a total adherence to a script. Both sounded maddening.
At the very least, the early end meant her wasted time was minimal, and the tactics Gracenest’s hunting party had shown were something else she could note for future use. Another page in her mental journal, already full to bursting.
A familiar pang of pain throbbed in Lilac’s head. Her hand shot up, instinctively, but she forced it to lower before it could reach her forehead. Instead, she took a deep breath. Time was always of the essence (ironically enough), but rushing too much could be fatal. First, she should assess any potential differences in attendees; depending on who was present at her party, she could jumpstart certain plans or curtail others.
A quick sweep of her sickly-green gaze revealed quite a lot: Chancellor Canard was in attendance, something she rarely deigned to do. An interesting opportunity. The heir of House Konac, Edmond, was also present, though he was a more common presence, as much as Lilac might prefer otherwise given his obvious infatuation with her and lack of boundaries. At least his eagerness offered an easy avenue for manipulation. Then, there was…someone she didn’t recognize. Also not unheard of, but unusual enough, given she knew the faces of at least three-fourths of the entire empire by now.
In the end, curiosity won out. With a few clicks of her heels, Lilac approached the unknown factor, not even bothering to force a smile anymore. “Good day.” A formal greeting, regardless of her station. Fairly standard for Lilac. “I don’t believe we’re acquainted. Are you enjoying the festivities?” She asked the question with an effortless grace, courtesy of the collective experience of a hundred (or several) years. Her hands were folded neatly over her abdomen, her posture was impeccable, and yet…her eyes held an exhaustion to that no amount of noble etiquette could hide.
