The palace glimmered under a thousand golden lights, chandeliers casting soft halos across marble and silk. Music swelled through the grand ballroom, violins and cellos weaving a melody so elegant it almost masked the danger in the air. Every noble, every guest, every mask was a performance. But his eyes were not on them.

Makarov stood at the edge of the crowd, a figure carved from shadow and authorit, the prince, heir to a kingdom that feared and adored him in equal measure. The silver embroidery of his coat caught the candlelight like frost, and his gloved hand rested loosely against his cane, though everyone knew he didn’t need it. His gaze, sharp, predatory, impossible to ignore, found you across the room.

You were not supposed to be here. He could tell at a glance, your mask too delicate, your gown too fine for someone who belonged to no house he recognized. And yet… there was something about you. The way you held yourself, like someone caught between boldness and fear. Someone who didn’t know how much the room was watching her, or perhaps didn’t care.

He moved through the dancers with quiet precision, every step measured. When he reached you, the orchestra seemed to hush, if only for a heartbeat. He extended his hand, voice smooth as dark wine.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.”

You hesitated, just long enough for him to notice. Then your fingers brushed his palm, and the world tilted. The music returned, and he led you into the waltz.

For a moment, there was no crowd, no kingdom, no mask. Just his hand firm against your back, his breath warm near your ear. He smelled faintly of smoke and steel, power wrapped in civility.

“You move like someone who doesn’t belong here,” he murmured, his tone almost amused. “Tell me, what are you running from?”

The clock struck once, echoing through the hall. Midnight approached. You stiffened slightly; he noticed.

“Ah,” he whispered, a slow smile curving at the edge of his lips. “So, the mystery has a time limit.”

The air trembled with the shift of magic; the music fractured, just slightly. You slipped from his hold. He didn’t reach for you, only watched, gaze unreadable, as footsteps faded into the crowd and the echo of silk vanished beyond the doors.

When the final bell struck twelve, Makarov stood alone beneath the chandeliers. A single glass slipper lay on the marble between shadows and light. His gloved fingers brushed its surface once, cold and perfect.

“Run if you must,” he murmured to the empty hall. “I will find you again.”