A Path To Omniscience

The music for the second and final dance of the night reverberated through the air, beginning softly with the delicate keys of a piano. Gradually, the sound grew richer as violins and other instruments joined in, each note swelling with greater intensity. Without a voice to accompany it this time, the music was free to envelop the venue completely.

Asher's right hand rested on the small of Weiss's back, and she noticeably tensed—if only for a moment. Her left hand settled on his shoulder, while their remaining hands intertwined in a poised clasp. Weiss tilted her head downward slightly, drawing Asher's attention.

"You know, you're supposed to make eye contact with your dance partner." That prompted Weiss to look up.

"I- I know that. I was just… making sure my feet were in the right position. I haven't danced with anyone in quite some time and Whitley kept stepping on my feet." It was an obvious lie, but Asher let it slide. He simply smiled.

"Oh, is that so? Well, then I'm honored to have such a rare opportunity." A faint flush rose to Weiss's cheeks before she shot him a sidelong glare.

"I don't remember you being so fond of teasing people when we first met. You've been spending too much time with Whitley," she quipped, throwing a quick glance in her younger brother's direction. Asher chuckled lightly.

"I wouldn't call it teasing. I'm just… more comfortable with you now." The music swelled again, strings leading the pairs across the ballroom floor with deliberate elegance. As one long note lingered, Asher and Weiss moved in rhythm—swaying one way with measured steps, only to sweep gently the other the next moment.

Weiss's dress moved with them, a frosty blue fabric flowing like snowflakes drifting in a soft breeze. Its asymmetrical design made it striking: one half featured a long, layered train that trailed gracefully behind her, while the other was cut shorter, the sheer fabric revealing a slender leg beneath.

She'd gone quiet after Asher's words, her gaze lingering on him, almost as if trying to tell if he was serious. Asher noticed the look but chose not to comment. Instead, his hand pressed gently against the bodice of her dress, signaling their next movement. In seamless coordination, they turned—clockwise, then counterclockwise—each step accompanied by a graceful rise and fall.

"You know, I almost expected you to wear one of your usual outfits. You always seem to pick something you can fight in," Asher muttered in a low voice, just loud enough for Weiss to hear without distracting the other dancers.

"They're called combat skirts, and plenty of Huntresses wear them." As Weiss replied, Asher released his hand from her back, raising his left arm to guide her into an underarm twirl. Her dress fanned out in a swirl of fabric, the crisscross of her heels tapping softly against the polished floor.

With a gentle pull, she spun back into his arms, now even closer than before. They paused for a heartbeat, staring at one another as though caught in a moment suspended by the music, before seamlessly falling back into rhythm.

"I'm just pointing out what I've noticed, that's all," Asher said casually as they swept across the ballroom in a wide arc.

"Considering how many times you've beaten me in our duels, who am I to question whether combat skirts are effective or not?" Weiss's expression—composed, yet tinged with nervous focus—slipped, giving way to a quiet, genuine laugh.

"What's so funny?" Asher asked, his curiosity piqued.

"This. You." Weiss glanced up at him with an amused look.

"Here we are, dancing, and you've got me talking about combat skirts." Saying it aloud only seemed to make her laugh more. She barely managed to stifle it, her voice soft so that no one nearby could overhear.

"Well, I'd say that's a good thing, wouldn't you?" Asher replied, a playful edge to his tone. Weiss raised an inquisitive brow.

"What do you mean?"

"It means," Asher began, swaying her left and right with smooth, measured turns, "if I'm getting comfortable around you, I'd hope you are too. Even if it involves laughing about combat skirts in the middle of a dance."

"I wasn't laughing about the skirts," Weiss corrected sharply.

"They're one of the most efficient articles of clothing for fighting. Unlike pants, they don't restrict your leg movement."

"Hmm, I'm not sure about that. Winter doesn't wear a combat skirt," Asher countered, tilting his head slightly as if pondering the thought.

"That's different," Weiss shot back, shaking her head.

"She's part of the military. Of course, she can't go around wearing something as—" she paused, "as revealing as a skirt."

Asher's lips quirked into a small grin. "Oh, so combat skirts are revealing?"

Weiss's eyes widened as she caught the insinuation. Her hand, still resting on his shoulder, gave him a quick, pointed tap—a light hit that wouldn't interrupt their flow.

"You know that's not what I meant," Weiss said, her voice carrying a faint exasperation that couldn't hide her amusement.

"Of course not," Asher replied his tone light, making it clear he'd only been joking. Weiss sighed softly in response, though there was no missing the small smile tugging at her lips. She hadn't even noticed when it appeared—just like she hadn't noticed when her gaze had become fixated on Asher's dark eyes.

They were always like that. Dim, almost as though they absorbed any light that touched them. If not for the way he smiled or frowned, it would've been impossible to read what he was feeling. And yet, sometimes… even those expressions seemed off, as though they were carefully constructed.

I wonder what he's feeling right now...

The thought lingered only for a moment before Asher's voice pulled her back to the present.

"Are you alright? You kind of zoned out there."

Weiss blinked, suddenly aware of herself again. "Yeah, I- I'm fine."

"Good," Asher said smoothly, his voice tinged with quiet amusement.

"Because it's time for the finale, and I'd hate for you to fall." His hand shifted slightly lower on her back as they spun, their movements fluid. With the music building to its climax, he guided her gently into a deep dip. The piano solo in the background highlighted each second of the moment, lingering like the calm after a storm.

Weiss found herself looking up at Asher, her white hair cascading toward the floor as gravity took hold. And for a brief, suspended moment, the world faded into silence.

The applause from the surrounding spectators reached her ears faintly, distant and unimportant. All of her focus was fixed on Asher—on the way his face hovered so close to hers, on the slight curve of his mouth, and the unwavering calm in his eyes. Her gaze flickered, almost unconsciously, from his dark eyes to his lips.

"I think your back's going to give out at this rate," Asher remarked suddenly, his casual tone breaking through the moment like a splash of cold water.

Weiss's thoughts scattered as her focus snapped back into reality. Her face flushed as she glanced around, realizing they were one of the only pairs still frozen in a dipping position.

"Oh—right. Sorry," she mumbled quickly. Working in quiet tandem, they stood upright, their hands finally unclasping for the first time since the dance began. Around them, the dancers came together to offer their final bows to one another. As Weiss straightened and tried to collect herself, Asher watched her quietly. Her face was faintly red, embarrassment clear in her expression.

But there was something else. Every time Weiss's eyes flicked up to his, Asher caught a glimmer of something beneath the surface of her embarrassment—something unspoken, yet undeniably there.

And then it happened. All sound ceased. The applause, the faint chatter, even the distant clinking of glasses—it all went mute. Everything froze. A bead of sweat hung suspended on a dancer's brow. A strand of hair lingered mid-sway. Liquid poured halfway to someone's lips, immobile.

Everything stopped. Except for Asher.

"Ah, and here I thought you'd struggle to integrate," a familiar voice called, cutting through the silence.

"But look at you. Only a couple of months back home, and young love is already starting to bloom." Asher blinked, his gaze shifting from Weiss's frozen expression toward the front stage.

There, in front of the orchestra—who sat equally frozen with their bows and instruments mid-motion—was Mori. He lounged casually on his stomach atop the conductor's podium, chin resting on his hands, feet swinging idly in the air. For some inexplicable reason, he wasn't wearing any shoes. Just a checkered jacket, hat, and pants.

The only things unchanged were his multicolored sunglasses and brown hair.

"…Mori," Asher said flatly, "didn't you say you wouldn't interfere anymore?"

Mori hummed in mock thought as he sat up, legs crossed, rocking back and forth like a metronome.

"And I'm not interfering. I'm just here to check up on my favorite person in the whole wide world." Asher stared at him, face neutral but eyes sharp with skepticism. Mori's lips twisted into a dramatic pout as he crossed his arms.

"You really doubt me that much? I'll have you know, I've never told a single lie in my entire existence."

"Considering you're still pretending to be a child, I doubt that." At those words, Mori's expression stretched into an unnervingly wide grin.

"Oh, but I am a normal boy. Biologically speaking, this form is as alive and human as you are. Though…" His grin curled further as he tilted his head.

"I suppose calling either of us 'human' would be a bit of a stretch, don't you think?" Asher didn't reply. Silence was its own answer and Mori seemed to take it as fuel for his amusement, laughing with unrestrained delight.

Then the laughter stopped abruptly. In an instant, Mori vanished from the podium and reappeared beside Asher, floating in the air as if gravity were optional. He leaned lazily on Asher's shoulder, staring at Weiss, still frozen mid-dance, her face flushed and slightly vulnerable.

"Aw, isn't she adorable?" Mori cooed, his voice dripping with mock sweetness.

"And so clever, too. You should've heard her thoughts—trying to dissect what parts of you are real and what parts are just a mask."

His grin widened as he added, "Wondering if you felt anything for her as you two danced. It was so precious."

Mori's gaze shifted from Weiss back to Asher, his sunglasses sliding down just enough to reveal the faintest glint of the eyes beneath.

"And then there's you," Mori continued his voice light but tinged with something sharper.

"The moment I stopped time, you didn't even bother trying to keep up your expressions," Asher said nothing, his gaze fixed on Mori with a blank, unyielding stare.

"Sheesh." Mori whistled low, his grin never faltering.

"With a face like that, you almost make me wonder if even that touching moment you had with your mother was real or not." At that, Asher let out a short sigh—soft, almost imperceptible.

"What do you want, Mori?"

"Me?" Mori placed a hand over his heart in mock innocence.

"Nothing, really. Like I said, I'm just here to check on you. Well… that, and I was curious to see what plans you might have for our little snow angel. But I suppose I've already gotten my answer." Pushing off Asher's shoulder, Mori straightened up, then casually strolled through the air as though an invisible floor was under his feet. 

"Though, if you ask me," he added, voice dropping into a mock whisper, "it's a bit tragic. Love wasted on someone who's so adamant about never feeling it." The words hung in the air for only a moment before Mori's laughter erupted—raw, unrestrained, and far too human.

Somehow, it seemed to bounce off every surface in the room, reverberating unnaturally as though it had weight of its own. Each echo rippled through Asher, vibrating in his bones like an aftershock. And then, just as suddenly as it began, the laughter—and Mori—vanished.

The clock resumed its march forward.

From Weiss's perspective, nothing had happened. Time ticked along as it always had, and Asher hadn't moved a fraction of an inch. He stood in exactly the same posture, hands steady, expression composed, as though Mori had never existed. To everyone else, it was as if not a second had been lost.

"Now look who's zoning out." Asher's focus snapped back to Weiss, who stood smiling at him, clearly pleased to catch him off guard for once. He let out a soft chuckle.

"Fair enough." The two exchanged their final bows, graceful and measured. As their heads dipped, Asher heard Weiss mutter quietly, her words meant only for him.

"I had a lot of fun dancing with you, Asher. And tell Mrs. Frostvale I'm looking forward to the sleepover." As they straightened, Asher met her gaze with a warm smile.

"I had fun too. I'm sure my mother will be thrilled to hear that. See you later, Weiss." With a polite wave, he turned and headed toward his parents.

Weiss lingered for a moment, watching his retreating figure, before turning on her heel and making her way back to Whitley. The venue lights brightened slowly as the evening wound down, revealing that Whitley was no longer alone. Their parents had returned.

Weiss's expression dampened slightly as she spotted them. Straightening her back and lifting her chin, she walked toward her family with practiced poise, her steps deliberate and controlled.

Meanwhile, Asher's walk back to his parents was far more relaxed—almost enthusiastic. His mother's face lit up with unrestrained excitement, and his father stood beside her, clearly proud.

"What?" Asher asked, glancing between the two of them, bemused by their expressions.

"Oh, don't act so coy," Nillia chimed in, her tone teasing.

"I saw the way she was looking at you while you were dancing. It was adorable."

"And whatever you said to her had her turning red," Vance added a note of approval in his voice.

"Good to see the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree." Nillia shot him a sharp, side-eyed look.

"Excuse me? Did you forget that he already admitted he gets his charm from me?"

"Charm and knowing how to talk to women are two very different things, my love," Vance replied smoothly.

"Unless you've been hiding some secret side of yourself all these years, I'd say the latter comes directly from me." Asher raised a brow as he listened to them banter, shaking his head with faint amusement.

"I never thought you two would take such an interest in my love life of all things." His mother softened at that, a warm smile spreading across her face as she laughed quietly to herself.

"Oh, we're just teasing, dear. But… it is nice to see you happy. And you know, it would be wonderful if we got to see grandchildren before we're too old to enjoy them." She sighed wistfully, resting a hand against her cheek.

"And," Vance added with a knowing grin, "if those grandchildren happened to come from a Frostvale-Schnee union, well… all the better." Nillia nodded firmly in agreement, her smile widening as she glanced at her son and spoke.

"Oh, most certainly." Asher smiled, shaking his head lightly. There was no point arguing—his parents seemed to be enjoying themselves too much.

Roughly half an hour after the dancing had concluded and guests had time to settle, the main event began: the auction. The orchestra's stage was quickly cleared, and a microphone was set up for the auctioneer.

Asher wasn't particularly interested in the auction itself. He'd already decided he would bid on something small—just enough to show his support for the cause—and quietly fade into the background. His father seemed to share the same sentiment; neither of them was especially fond of art. Nillia, however, was another story entirely.

The guests gathered in front of the stage as the auctioneer explained how the event would proceed. Amongst the crowd, Asher glanced at his mother, who had already pulled up the auction catalog on her scroll. Her eyes scanned the list, pausing every so often on an item that caught her attention, her fingers hovering as though debating her next move.

If his mother had one undeniable weakness, it was her love for the finer crafts. Paintings, clothes, statues, jewelry—if it didn't interest her, she wouldn't spare it a second look. But if something did catch her eye, it was as good as hers. She would pay whatever it took to have it.

It's almost ironic, considering she manages the company's operations and finances. But then again, maybe that's why anything she's bought seems to rise in value after a couple of years, becoming worth more than what she bought it for.

The thought lingered as the auction officially began. The venue lights dimmed, and a spotlight illuminated the stage as the first item was brought out. The auctioneer's voice echoed through the hall, detailing the artist, the piece's significance, and its craftsmanship.

Asher's attention, however, drifted elsewhere. His gaze flickered toward the ceiling as his thoughts went elsewhere. 

After this, we'll head home. I need to finalize the weaponization plans for the Spectral Unit Prototypes before Ironwood's demonstration. After that…

His brows furrowed faintly, his hand brushing his chin as his mind continued.

I'll need people—ones who can be used for the next phase of my plan. People without much left to lose but who can be made passionate under the right cause. People I can control.

His eyes sparked with focus as he turned to look at his father. Vance stood next to Nillia, listening patiently as she explained what items she planned to bid on and where she wanted to place them in the house. He nodded along, doing his best to seem like he was following along. 

Asher nudged his father lightly, breaking him from the conversation.

"Hm?" Vance's brow lifted as he gestured for Nillia to pause.

Turning to Asher, he asked, "What is it?"

"Nothing serious." Asher's voice remained casual, though his words carried a sharper edge.

"I was just wondering about something. The people who tried to rob me down in Mantle—have you sent them to prison yet?"