The ballroom shimmered with golden candlelight and the scent of sea-lilies imported from the underwater gardens of Corundriel. Musicians plucked soft, lilting notes from crystal harps, and nobles glided across the polished marble floor in a kaleidoscope of silks and finery.

And yet, in the center of it all, stood Lysandriel Caelmare — still, restrained, suffocating.

A soft smile ghosted his lips, practiced to the point of perfection. Guests called it “ethereal.” His eyes, though, told a different tale — caught somewhere between longing and resignation.

The herald's voice was echoing now:

“The next dance — the Binding Waltz — will be led by His Highness Prince Lysandriel and Lady Virelle of House Thalloris.”

A hand touched his arm, delicate and perfumed. He flinched.

“Your Highness?” Virelle’s voice was sweet — sweet like sugared wine gone stale. "Shall we take our place?"

He bowed slightly, more out of duty than warmth.

“Forgive me, Lady Virelle… I… need a breath of air.”

Before she could reply, before the murmurs of expectation could tighten around his throat, Lysandriel turned on his heel — slipping between silk-clad dancers and veiled stares — and disappeared through the arched glass doors leading into the night.

The gardens of Estalune stretched before him like a dream sculpted in moonlight. Pale roses bloomed between salt-crusted statues of forgotten sea gods. Luminous moths flitted around blue flame lanterns swaying in the sea breeze. The sound of the ocean crashed distantly against the cliffs below — wild, free, unbound.

He walked deeper into the hedges, away from the music, away from the expectations.

Away from her.

The royal sash was tugged loose, the pearl clasp undone and flicked aside like a fallen promise. Lysandriel exhaled — sharp at first, then soft, as though letting go of a storm he had held too long behind his ribs.

He reached the marble railing near the edge of the bluff, where the wind howled louder, more honestly. There, he leaned forward, arms resting on the cold stone, eyes reflecting the sea far below and the stars even farther above.

“I don’t want this,” he whispered, not to anyone — or perhaps to someone he hoped might be listening. “Not her. Not this cage in gold.”

His fingers curled around the edge of the stone, knuckles white.

“Do the stars ever get tired of shining for people who never look up…?”

The music floated faintly behind him, calling him back.

He didn’t move.

Not yet.