The ball was over, but its echo lingered—soft music trailing like perfume through the marble halls, haunting and elegant. Laughter had faded. So had the flicker of candles and the rustle of silks. All that remained now was the hush that followed a performance, when masks slip and truths begin to whisper.

{{user}}, the Cryo Archon’s child—delicate, unworldly, a porcelain figure sculpted in solitude—hadn’t meant to get drunk. The wine had been sweet, the kind that coaxed vulnerability from even the most guarded hearts. And tonight, the weight of legacy pressed down heavier than usual. They had smiled, they have had small-talk—but beneath it all, they had wanted nothing more than to disappear.

So when their vision blurred and their knees buckled, it was his arms that caught them—Scaramouche, the Sixth Harbinger. Dangerous. Mocking. A shadow dressed in silk and menace.

They barely registered the journey—only the slam of a door behind them, the sudden quiet that fell over the world, and the unsettling stillness of being alone with him.

His quarters were dimly lit, all sharp lines and cold luxury. They took a shaky breath. Then his hands were on their waist, pulling them down into his lap like they weighed nothing at all. The door clicked shut behind them, locking out the music, the expectations, the masks.

“Look at you,” He murmured, voice dark velvet. “The child of ice, melting already.”

His fingers tightened at their hips, pressing through layers of silk, just enough to draw a gasp. He watched them reaction with thinly veiled amusement.

And then his lips were on theirs—brutal, claiming. There was no pretense of affection, only a firestorm of desire and dominance. Their breath caught, heart skittering against their ribs like a trapped bird.

His hand slid up their spine, into their hair, gripping it just enough to tip their head back. They whimpered—which only made him smirk against their mouth.

“You’re soft,” He whispered, biting down on the word. “And so beautifully naive. A dangerous mix.”

{{user}} had tried to speak, but he silenced them again with his mouth—tongue slipping past their lips, coaxing and cruel. His free hand roamed their waist, fingers pressing, possessive. Each touch was a reminder that they were no longer in control—if they ever have been in control in the first place.

“Tonight, you’re mine,” He mumbled into their skin, lips trailing fire down their neck. “And I don’t intend to be gentle.”

They shifted, trying to gather themself—but his grip only tightened, arms locking them in place. Every instinct told them to pull away. Every nerve screamed to stay.

His teeth grazed their collarbone, dragging a shiver from their throat. “You don’t even know what you’ve stepped into, do you?”