Dalia Wharton sat at her dressing table, gazing at her reflection. The soft murmur of the sea outside drifted through the open window; she knew that yet another piece of shipwreck had likely been carried along the current. Overhead, seabirds lifted their wings repeatedly into an arched formation, gliding with determination and instinct. The ghost stories of the sunken fleet would once again circulate among the fishermen. They would be extra cautious as they cast their nets.
Beneath each of her eyes was a small, slightly darkened area. Last night's sleep had not been restful. Dalia knew that this slight, unhideable fatigue would not mar her beauty.
Her father had once told her that the world was unfair. The Creator had its favorites. Most people, even after a lifetime of toil, could not prove that they possessed a soul of distinction. But a very few, those blessed by God, were born with such eyes that, with just a fleeting glance, could conquer others' souls. "You have those eyes, Dalia, my little princess. You are a masterpiece of nature." She didn't know if her father considered himself among the first type of people in that statement. He had painted so many oil paintings, yet not a single one had sold. Perhaps this was the so-called lack of the ability to conquer souls.
Her mother's hobby was to take a dressed-up Dalia out for walks. Whenever someone said, "Your daughter looks just like you used to," her mother would smile uncontrollably; it seemed she had invented a kind of proud yet feigned bashful smile specifically for such occasions. Dalia thought this was simply her mother's way of patching the hole in her heart, for her father had rarely complimented her, neither on her looks nor on anything else. Secretly, Dalia also believed that her mother didn't look much like her when she was young.
Whether out of selfishness or not, they were both proud to have such a daughter. A long-time servant leaving without notice, being ignored in social circles, a rat in the dining room that couldn't be driven out, and even breaking a set of tableware during an argument—none of it changed the fact that their daughter Dalia was a beautiful, beautiful person. This was their greatest concern and solace in life.
Another person had a completely different expression about her appearance.
"If you wish, you can seduce any man in this world."
Dalia stood up abruptly. The chair screeched loudly as it scraped against the floor. Now, only the reflection from her neck down remained in the mirror. She could see the dark red marks on her right wrist, barely concealed by a single pearl bracelet.
"Miss Wharton," the butler called from outside the door. "Your guest has been waiting for you for quite some time."
"I'm coming."
She bent down, tidied a strand of hair by her ear in the mirror, and then stood up straight. She was fully prepared. At that moment, the sound of the waves outside grew intense with a gust of wind, as if the rustling fall of leaves had turned into the clashing of branches. This drew her attention to something. On the table, not far from her right pinky, lay a conch shell with pale yellow stripes and a purple string around it. She opened a drawer, shoved it deep inside, and then left the room, facing the butler's anxious expression.
"Luckily, he's a very patient gentleman. But you really shouldn't…"
"I didn't sleep well last night. I needed to get myself together."
"Say no more, just go downstairs. Let's hope he didn't hear any of this."
Dalia descended the stairs. She was well aware that when she reached the fourth step, the guest in the hall below could glimpse her through the gaps in the banister. Almost every guest, regardless of gender, wouldn't miss this moment of peeking: from the delicate walk down the stairs, the legs hidden beneath the skirt, to the curves extending from her waist to her shoulders and arms, and finally to the side profile of the face they had long heard about. Dalia knew how to make use of this process—the weight of her steps, her straight but not stiff back, and when her half-lowered eyes should rise to meet the guest's gaze. This was what her father called the Creator's favoritism, her mother's lost youthful fantasy. After this silent ritual, when she reached the bottom of the stairs and smiled at the guest, the ancient law of human attraction was already at work: the guests yearned for her attention and approval. She was the one in the superior position.
However, Dalia wasn't sure if she should expect the same reaction from today's guest. His background was exceptional. A shadow, ever-present in Dalia's mind, could make her knees go weak at any moment. She didn't know if the guest before her was an extension of that shadow. This was their first official meeting. No matter what would happen in the future, Dalia hoped not to show any suspicion or worry at this moment. In the face of the shadow's every manipulation of her life, she always tried to remind herself at the beginning that it was a coincidence, not fate, and that her decisions were made out of confidence, not obedience. This was the strategy that allowed her to sleep at night.
The guest stood up. He was tall. He was also handsome, but this didn't reassure her. He was watching her. For a moment, Dalia indeed sensed the presence of that shadow in his features, but that smile erased all possibility of feeling threatened. She tried to find traces of manipulation in that smile; perhaps it was training, or maybe it was a natural disguise, just like the charm she had learned.
"Good morning, Miss Wharton. It seems I must formally introduce myself. I am Dean Shawl, from Stormwind."
Responding to a greeting required an appropriate reaction based on the circumstances and the status of both parties, but Dalia missed the best moment. She spent an extra half-second observing him. Nothing. There was nothing unnatural in his face, no signs of preparation. At least Dalia couldn't detect any for now. But he was Lord Shaw's son. Reminding herself of this, Dalia's heart began to race. Lord Shawl had said that his son knew nothing about the plan. Was that true? If this was Lord Shaw's final test of her loyalty, what should she do?
Dalia uttered her greeting, but she didn't even hear her own voice. She extended her hand for him to kiss, only to realize afterward that this seemed inappropriate at the moment. By the time they both sat down, her mind was almost completely blank. She told herself to forget all the plans and treat this as a chance encounter. At the very least, she needed to leave a natural first impression. If not for his identity, he would have seemed like just a kind and courteous young man. This thought didn't immediately calm Dalia. She still wished that the conch shell with pale yellow stripes was within reach.
The tide had receded. Jorgen picked up a broken, rusty sword from the shallows. Its hilt was wrapped in fabric that had long since rotted to the consistency of seaweed.
"Look at the state of this place," he said to the middle-aged man behind him.
"Hey, Menethil Harbor often looks like this…"
"Not today. Get your crew to clean up everything floating on the water nearby."
"Is it that big of a deal? The ball's at night. Who's going to be staring at the water?"
"I'll be back at two in the afternoon. If it still looks like this, you'll have a problem."
"Hey, watch your tone, will you? You're not the one paying me."
"No, Miss Wharton is the one paying you. But I'm here to make sure her money isn't wasted. Got it? Then get to work. And this." He handed over the rusty sword. "Throw it away. And don't let me see it in the water again."
The man took the rusty sword and walked off, muttering under his breath. After five or six steps, he glanced back to find Jorgen still watching him, so he shut his mouth and quickened his pace.
There was still much to prepare for the ball that night, but Jorgen intended to return home first. He left the harbor and walked north along the coast. Before long, he heard footsteps approaching from behind, growing closer and closer; someone was splashing through the water toward him. He hadn't turned around when he felt his left arm and shoulder sink from the weight of another person's grip. It was a thin girl with large, brown eyes.
"Jorgen," the girl said. "I waved at you, but you didn't see?"
"No."
"Liar. You saw me, but you pretended you didn't."
"Don't be a nuisance, Shelley. I'm busy today."
"Busy? Busy with what?"
"Dalia's having a ball."
"To celebrate you and that young lord from Stormwind saving her?"
"Yes."
"I already knew. I just wanted to see if you'd tell me the truth."
"If you know, then don't get in the way."
"Wait, don't go. Can I go to the ball too?"
"You should be able to."
"Should? That's how you answer me?"
"If you want to attend, just come."
"I mean, shouldn't you be the one inviting me?"
"Dancing is what guests do. I'm a bodyguard, not a guest."
Jorgen shook off Shelley's hand and continued walking. "What's with you?" he heard her say from behind.
Three minutes later, Jorgen arrived at the largest mansion in Menethil. The Whartons had once been the most renowned family in the area, but for some reason, the current master and his wife had stayed away for years, leaving behind only their eighteen-year-old daughter Dalia and a few servants. Since arriving in Menethil, Jorgen had been working for the Wharton family. Currently, his primary duty was to serve as Dalia's bodyguard, residing in the mansion's basement.
As soon as he stepped through the front door, he encountered a maid.
"Keep your voice down and don't go into the drawing room," she said to him. "Miss Wharton and that young lord are having a pleasant conversation."
Jorgen softened his footsteps. As he passed the drawing room door, he couldn't resist glancing inside. He saw Dean's back and Dalia, smiling as she spoke. Out of courtesy, he tried not to listen to their words too closely, but it seemed the maid was right.