The marbled floor in front of the small band is slowly filling with bodies; the brave first, and then the rest after. The dancers vary in performance, their skill levels ranging from clear classical training to those who get by only with simple, awkward swaying. The officers from the neighboring academy make up most of the crowd, the Nova Lux cadets smaller in number but high in demand. Amidst the cadets are the occasional dignitary or individual of importance, though the full-fledged Ars Magi in attendance remain off to the sides.

As Rivka sets out toward the sea of dancers she quickly finds that she is missing one crucial element to the waltz: a partner. This, however, is soon rectified by a gentle tap on the purple-haired girl’s shoulder as she draws nearer to the edge of the dancefloor. 

“Excuse me.” From behind emerges a girl, one of the cadets from the Officer’s Academy judging by her uniform. She’s plus tie, unlike Rivka. Her hair and eyes are brown, the former a voluminous bob and the latter framed by freckled and pale skin. “You played at the Victoria the other night, didn’t you?” She refers to the establishments downtown, one of the few that allowed Rivka entrance and permission to perform a set on stage. 

“You were very good. You would mind if—I mean, are you looking for a partner? To dance?” She extends a hand after her stumbling question, adding: “I need a partner.” Her demeanor indicates her nervousness, as does the subtle shake of her neatly manicured hand. 

Aoife finds a partner quickly enough among the sea of dancers, an easy task given the privilege of having an Ars Magi on ones arm. 

The problem is that she doesn’t tend to keep them for very long. There’s a lot of stumbling around and stepping on feet, and one partner leads to another, and another, each polite hand-off coming at the end of a poorly performed spin. She ends up, after several trades, in the arms of her former teammate: one Noel Nilsson, who is almost as bad of a dancer as Aoife. 

“Hey babe.” Says her former partner, between bouts of swaying. “How’s the new team? Settling in okay? I’m getting a reassignment for the next exercise too, they said. It’s going to involve robots, did you know? The last guy I was dancing with was talking about it. Maybe we’ll get to work together again, that’d be fun, right?”  

Back at the table containing the other three, Selma and Chie are able to begin making their way toward the dance floor. Crystal, however, does not quite get a chance to make her escape before she’s accosted by a cry of: “Little Crystal Caelestis, is that you?” 

From amidst the tables comes an older man, perhaps in his sixties, mocha-skinned and mustachioed. Crystal recognizes him as Siervo Castra Neptune, a diplomatic, frequent visitor to her home, and friend of her father. Growing up she’s born witness to his visits often enough, most of which were preceded by important (and boring) political discussion that she was less privy to. 

“How have you been? I heard you went away to Nova Lux, but I wasn’t sure I’d see you. I remember when you were just this high.” His hand is raised accordingly, to demonstrate the recalled shortness. “Now you’re an Ars Magi! How are you finding the academy? Are they treating you well? Have you been enjoying your time in Palmyra?”