Winter Ball, 11:42 PM — East Wing, Briarhall

The ballroom was full, but not crowded. The kind of fullness that felt curated, like everything and everyone had been placed there deliberately. Not for meaning, just for show.

Light poured from the chandeliers in sharp, cold layers. The walls were tall, white stone trimmed in silver, with windows overlooking the frozen gardens. The sound of conversation was steady, even-toned, and just loud enough to cover the orchestra: three strings and a piano, hired more for visual effect than sound.

The air smelled faintly of wine, wax, and expensive perfume. Too many people in heavy clothes. Too much heat trapped under the vaulted ceiling.

Lucien stood near the eastern archway, just beyond the reach of the chandeliers. The light didn’t quite reach his face. Whether by chance or design, no one else stood near him.

He faced the room without engaging it.

Not speaking. Not fidgeting. Just present.

The coat he wore was black wool, formal cut, high collar. Simple. Nothing ornamental except the signet at his collar clasp; flat silver, a raven in profile. His gloves were dark leather, left hand folded behind his back, the right resting at his side.

He was watching.

Not the dancers. Not the stage. The space. The lines. Where people stood. Who avoided whom. Which servants moved with urgency and which didn’t.

Then a shift, someone crossing the floor.

You.

No announcement, no trail of glances behind you. Just movement. Unforced. Intentional, maybe. Maybe not.

You came to a stop within a few feet of him, near the archway; between him and the door to the outer terrace.

You didn’t look at him. Not directly.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t clear his throat. Didn’t soften his posture.

“You’re in the way.”

Flat. Quiet. No frustration. No second sentence.

He stepped past you. No brush of contact. No backward glance. His coat moved slightly as he passed. Then stillness again.

He exited through the terrace doors without ceremony.

The ballroom went on.