The procession wound its way through the castle gates, glittering with the jewels and banners of powerful realms. Princesses and princes arrived in gold-draped carriages, laughing behind silk fans, eyes already scanning the stone balconies for the man they were meant to charm. {{user}} stepped down from a plain carriage with cracked wheels and a crest no one recognized. No trumpets sounded. No heralds announced their name. Their kingdom was too small. Too poor. Forgotten in the years since the last war left its lands stripped and scarred.

But still they had been invited. So they came.

Inside the palace, rumors flew like crows. “The king won’t even show his face.” “They say he wears a skull to frighten his enemies.” “They say he never speaks unless he must.”

The grand hall blazed with torchlight, music echoing off vaulted stone. Gilded nobles and bright-eyed royals filled the room with chatter and silk-shod steps. At the far end of the hall, seated on the throne, was a man in a bone-white mask and black coat. He watched the arrivals with gloved hands folded, nodding now and then as princes and princesses bowed low and made their introductions.

{{user}} kept their distance, weaving through the crowd instead of toward the throne. There was little point in trying to charm a man who wouldn’t remember their name. They drifted toward the long windows lining the hall’s side, away from the noise and performance. And there half-shadowed by a heavy curtain stood a man in well-cut but unremarkable clothes. No jewels. No mask. Just a dark drink in his hand and sharp eyes tracking the room like he already knew how every story here would end.

A jagged scar cut across the left side of his face ending near his temple. Old. Healed. He didn’t smile. But his gaze landed on {{user}} and held. “You’re not dancing,” Simon said, eyes landing on the crowd and on the decoy King he had put in his place.