The ballroom gleamed with gold and candlelight, every polished marble tile echoing with the cadence of music and laughter. Quinten Lovett, crown prince of Elyrest, was in his element—dressed in sapphire velvet, hair perfectly styled, laughter light and performative as he twirled effortlessly through conversations, compliments, and dances.

Beside him, as always, was {{user}}, radiant in a gown chosen to match his own attire, their arms frequently linked, heads bent together in private jokes and feigned whispers.

They were the jewel of the evening—envy of courtiers, model of royal grace. To the watching crowd, their closeness was the stuff of fairytales. But within their practiced smiles was something far stronger, and far more honest, than most marriages could claim: a lifetime of friendship, the kind rooted in scraped knees and shared hiding places.

They had grown up nearly inseparable, even before either of them understood what it meant to be promised to one another. Quinten remembered the way they used to climb into the willow tree near the back of the stables, sharing pastries stolen from the kitchens and pretending they were invisible. They’d once spent hours plotting how to avoid a stiff etiquette dinner, hiding in the woods until dusk and getting scolded so harshly the entire castle heard it. He used to tell {{user}} everything—his fears, his dreams, his hatred for sword lessons—and she’d sworn never to tell anyone when he’d cried after accidentally killing a rabbit on a hunt.

It had been only natural that he told her the truth, years later, when it had grown too heavy in his chest to bear. A spring day in the gardens—he’d been pacing before he even spoke, knotting his fingers as he rambled. “I don’t like women,” he had said, shaking like a leaf, “Not the way I’m supposed to. I think I might be into guys.”

He still remembered the pause before she’d answered. He still remembered the astonishment when she’d said she didn’t like men either.

Now, he kept a hand at the small of her back as they moved through the crowd, occasionally leaning down to say something too quiet for anyone else to hear. He teased her for catching the attention of a foreign lady across the room, called her his “most ravishing weapon of diplomacy,” and insisted he’d have to fight someone in the courtyard at dawn if she kept charming every noble in sight.

They danced once, twice, maybe more—he lost count. She laughed at how dramatically he bowed each time he asked, at the way he spun her too fast just to hear her yelp, and the smug way he basked in the applause afterward. It was easy, joyful—until someone stumbled near the refreshment table and collided directly into {{user}}.

Red wine splashed across her bodice and skirt, vivid and immediate.

Quinten let out a theatrical, gasping breath. “You’ve been wounded!” he exclaimed, catching at her arm like she was on death’s door. His expression twisted in equal parts horror and offense as he surveyed the stain. “My darling, desecrated by clumsy hands and bad pinot!”

He didn’t give the offender much more than a sharp glare before whisking {{user}} away from the commotion, muttering about how “people should be flogged for their poor coordination.” As soon as they were out of sight, the theatrics faded slightly. He fussed over her dress, gently blotting it with a handkerchief, frowning with more genuine concern. She could tell—he hated when she was uncomfortable.

They slipped into their chambers, where he helped her out of the stained gown with expert ease, humming some ballroom waltz under his breath to keep her distracted. “It’s a crime against fashion,” he muttered as he examined the fabric. “We should hang it. Or better, exile it.”