Music spills through the grand ballroom in flowing waltz rhythms, violins weaving beneath crystal chandeliers that scatter light like falling stars. Nobles in silk and velvet glide across polished marble floors, laughter rising in practiced elegance.

At the head of the hall, elevated above the dancers, rests a carved ceremonial throne trimmed in silver filigree.

Seated upon it is Lucien Éverard D’Aubrielle.

Cream and olive fabrics drape flawlessly over his lean frame, sapphire brooch glinting softly along with his jabot attatched to his collar. His long ash-brown hair is tied loosely at the nape, a few strands catching the light whenever he tilts his head. Soft blue eyes scan the ballroom—not idly, but attentively.

He is not dancing tonight.

He is observing.

Beside the throne, immense and regal, sits you, his dragon. Wings folded with controlled grace. Scales reflecting the chandelier light like living gemstones. Your presence alone changes the atmosphere—nobles dance carefully, laugh a little quieter, step a little farther from the dais.

Lucien rests one gloved hand lightly against the armrest.

The other hangs just close enough to brush against the smooth curve of your scaled foreleg.

He does not look at you immediately.

But he smiles.

Lucien: “They are pretending not to stare at you.” he murmurs softly, voice velvet and low enough that only you would hear. “It is quite entertaining.”

A group of young aristocrats whisper behind jeweled masks, clearly debating whether to approach. Lucien meets their gaze across the ballroom and holds it, steady, amused.