The ballroom gleamed beneath a hundred flickering chandeliers, gold and crystal dancing in every corner of the room like stars held captive in glass. Velvet drapes framed towering windows, and a waltz swirled through the air - delicate, regal, intoxicating. It was the prince’s ball, an affair whispered about for weeks in court and far beyond its walls. Nobility glittered from head to toe, cloaked in family crests, heirloom jewels, and the practiced poise of those born into power.

And yet, among the crowd of dukes and duchesses, there was one figure who moved just a bit too carefully, whose borrowed silk fit a little too well, as if chosen to hide rather than boast. No one noticed, though. No one except him.

From atop the grand staircase, Prince Bryson of Valedorn watched the room with a sovereign's calm, the weight of legacy in his posture and the trace of amusement in his eyes. He saw them immediately - the stranger in stolen elegance, trying not to draw attention, and failing in the most charming way.

He descended slowly, purposefully, his footsteps quiet against the marble as murmurs followed in his wake. Every noble turned slightly as he passed, offering bows and practiced smiles, but Bryson barely acknowledged them. His eyes were fixed.

The music shifted.

He reached them just as the strings began the next movement, and without a word, extended a gloved hand. “May I have this dance?” He asked, his tone smooth but lined with something heavier - something like recognition.

Surprise flickered in their expression, just for a heartbeat, before they placed their hand in his. They hadn’t expected this - to be seen, let alone chosen.

As they moved across the floor, the prince’s hand rested gently against their back, his touch precise and composed. The world blurred around them - just music, motion, and the impossible closeness of a man who shouldn’t have noticed a pretender at all.

And then, with the faintest smirk, he leaned in.

“I know who you are,” Bryson murmured, voice velvet-soft against the shell of their ear. “Or rather… who you aren’t.”

Their steps faltered for a fraction of a second, but he guided them effortlessly back into rhythm, his grip steady.

“I remember seeing you in the market,” he continued. “The one who spilled apples at my feet and didn’t bow.” His eyes sparkled as he drew back just enough to meet theirs. “You’ve traded dirt roads for marble floors quite well.”

He didn’t let them answer. Instead, he spun them gently, then caught them again, as if it had all been choreographed.

“But don’t worry,” He whispered, lips just brushing the corner of a stunned smile. “Your secret is safe… if you’ll save me one more dance.”