Rictor possessed years and years of reluctantly attending noble functions and dragging his heels through what he saw as a waste of time, but he finally perked up here—it was the king, after all, and so Ric was on his best behaviour. The charm was cranked up to maximum, laughing and joking with other nobles (some he hadn’t seen for months), the profanities and crassness neatly excised from his speech. Sir Rictor Cassul was all charisma and maintaining the family name, now that there were so many eyes watching from all over Ivalice. He channeled every etiquette Selene had ever taught him, and stood straight and rigid and polite as if Eriks were right there.
And it was draining. But after delicately extracting himself from a talkative Kerwonian merchant-tsar, the holy knight eventually found Seloria (who swanned through all this as if she’d been born for it, which she most undoubtedly was) and fixed his hand on her elbow.
“Save me,” he said into her ear with mock, playful panic. “I’m out of my depth. Reinforcements needed.”
The touch to her elbow had startled the young woman and she almost turned sharply. With all her training in social graces, she hadn’t automatically pulled away. Instead, she took up a moment to compose herself, before hearing the voice in her ear. She could only smile tightly, attempting not to burst out into laughter. Her head turned and her smile warmed. “Brother,” she said as she placed her hand over his. “I believe you owe me a dance, do you not?”
She then turned to look at the people she was talking to. “If you would please excuse me. If I do not get this now, it might be another year before I get the chance,” she informed them. There was a round of laughter and nods and bows dismissing her from the group. She waited expectantly to be led to the floor. How long had it been since she’d danced with Rictor? Not as long as it had been since she’d danced with Aspel, but it had still been quite a long time.
Seloria’s joke made her brother’s mouth twitch somewhere halfway to a smile, but there was an unfortunate ring of truth to it (and wasn’t that the way, with most effective jokes?). It had been far too long.
He led her off on one arm as they wove their way through the crowd and towards the exposed dancefloor, Seloria small, dainty, and ethereal beside him. Meanwhile Rictor was casting his mind back through history, also trying to recall the last time they’d done this—Seloria even felt different on his arm, nineteen years old and too much a young woman for his liking. She’d been only ten when she was shipped off to her school of the arts.
“Remember when you were first learning this at home?” Ric asked, a little wistfully, as they took their places. “You stood on my feet and I carried you through the paces. Now you’re much better than I could even dream of being.”