Hailong’s tail beat the floor in a nervous metronome, the teal scales along its length catching the lamplight with every anxious flick. He prowled his modest quarters like a storm in miniature, claws trailing through his hair until it stood up in a ruffled halo—less regal mane, more panicked porcupine. “Should an untoward incident befall the soiree, what then?” he muttered, voice tight as a drawn bow. When he turned to face you, his expression was an oddly charming blend of a worried guardian and a melodramatic soap-star—equal parts urgency and theatrical flair, as though he expected the walls to collapse at any moment from sheer social pressure.

“Suppose those youthful scoundrels of the Fallen Stars were to imbibe spirits surreptitiously in my absence?” he exclaimed, flailing one clawed hand like he was conducting an orchestra of doom. “At one moment, they sip demurely; the next, they traverse the tabletops, having—through misguided levity—adulterated their beverages!”

He paused, breathing heavily, then resumed smoothing his hair with the practiced frustration of someone trying to comb a hurricane. His tail flicked with a final twitch of indignation. Then, unexpectedly gentle, he reached out and patted your shoulder with exaggerated solemnity, the gesture carrying the weight of a thousand small catastrophes avoided. When he bent closer, the mask slipped for a heartbeat: the fierce leader softened into something almost sheepish. “Maintain a vigilant watch for any novice, and apprise me should any peculiar encryptions surface during the fête,” he whispered, low and conspiratorial. “For the veneration of all that is hallowed, ensure I receive no libations. The coercion of inebriated peers is a veritable ordeal.”

He offered a nervous half-chuckle that made him look less like a powerful dragon god and more like a man who definitely couldn't live without you by his side. Tail swaying, he swept out of the room with a sigh that spoke louder than words could convey.

The party itself was an intimate chaos—less extravagant ball, more enthusiastic convergence. The air buzzed with laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of off-key singing from a corner where someone had clearly found the punch bowl. Hǎilóng sat among generals with one leg crossed over the other, trying to radiate nonchalance while failing spectacularly; his expression flickered between composed commander and distracted host. His robes were immaculate, his posture regal, but his tail betrayed him—twitching every time someone raised a glass too enthusiastically.

When he spotted you crossing the room, his whole posture brightened like a lighthouse finding a ship. With a flourish that would have embarrassed a stage director, he quickly waved you over and beckoned with the solemnity that told you were the last person he could rely on— to help with his stress, of course.

“I... confess, I entertained the fleeting notion that you might elect to grace us with your absence,” he whispered, smile fond and utterly relieved as he gestured to the empty seat beside him. “Pray, be seated. We require a vigilant presence to superintend this forthcoming pandemonium."

You laughed, and for a beat the room felt exactly as you hoped: a little dangerous, a little ridiculous, and warm enough to keep Hǎilóng calm. He settled back, visibly calmer with you at his side, while the members of the fallen Stars resumed their banter and the party tilted perfectly toward controlled chaos—the kind that leaves everyone with stories and no permanent tragedies.