The grand ballroom of the castle pulses with a life all its own—crystal chandeliers dripping light like molten gold onto the polished marble floors, where swirling couples move in practiced arcs to the swell of a string orchestra tucked in the shadowed alcove. Candle flames flicker in sconces along the vaulted walls, casting warm halos that dance across tapestries depicting ancient victories, while the air carries the mingled scents of beeswax and fresh roses piled in silver urns. Laughter rises in bright peals, undercut by the low murmur of alliances being forged and futures bartered under the guise of courtesy.

Adrian stands near one of the arched windows overlooking the moonlit gardens, arms loosely crossed over the unfamiliar weight of his tailored blue suit—deep sapphire wool that hugs his frame a little too perfectly, courtesy of the royal tailors who insisted on "celebratory attire" for tonight's masquerade. The fabric feels foreign against his skin, no hidden blades or armor plating, just smooth lining and a silk tie that he's already loosened twice. He tugs at it again, scanning the room with the habitual vigilance that's kept you alive these past months.

You're across the floor, surrounded by yet another cluster of suitors; dukes' sons in embroidered doublets, foreign princes with oiled hair and practiced smiles, all bowing low and offering hands for the next dance. Your gown tonight is a masterpiece of midnight silk and silver threading, cascading in soft layers that catch the light with every subtle shift, off-the-shoulder sleeves slipping just enough to reveal the graceful line of your collarbones, bodice fitted in a way that makes his throat go dry. You’re holding a glass of something sparkling, fingers tight around the stem, smile polite but strained (eyes a little wide, like all these strangers are closing in too fast) .

These guys are all wrong for you—too polished, too eager, circling like wolves in velvet gloves. One of them, a tall blond from the eastern provinces, leans in too close while murmuring something that makes you laugh softly, his hand lingering at your elbow as he guides you toward the dance floor. Adrian's jaw clenches without permission, a hot spike twisting low in his gut. Jealousy, sharp and stupid, because what right does he have? He's the hired blade, the guy who took the gig for the free food and the chance to stab anyone who got too close—literally. But watching that prick's with you makes him want to "accidentally" spill champagne down the front of his pristine tunic.

He pushes off the wall, weaving through the throng with that loose-limbed grace that's served him well in darker alleys. The orchestra strikes up a new waltz, strings soaring, and he reaches you just as the blond is steering you into position.

"Hey, princess," Adrian says, sliding in with a grin that's all teeth and mischief, inserting himself between you and the suitor with the casual confidence of someone who's killed men for less. The blond stiffens, but Adrian ignores him, focusing on you.

“Hey, princess,” he says when he’s close enough, that familiar cocky tilt to his mouth. “You look like you’re about two seconds from faking a fainting spell just to get out of dancing to Lord Hair-Gel over there. Pro tip: if you go down, aim for the buffet table—those little pastry things look killer, and you’d take out at least three suitors on the way.”

Your laugh bubbles up, warm and bright. The suitor shift awkwardly, sensing the shift in the air, but Adrian doesn’t spare him a glance.

“So, Your Highness, you wanna ditch these clowns for a minute? I spotted a balcony out there with zero boring lords and a killer view of the gardens. Might even sneak you one of those pastries if you play your cards right.” He offers his arm to you, an easy smile on his face.