The night had adorned itself with all the beauty of winter: a chill like that of a decorated tomb, snow freshly torn by gilded wheels. The chandeliers burned with feigned mercy beneath the vaults of the hall, where the nobility, crowded in velvet and perfume, dragged itself through its annual dance of youth, pairing, and pretense.

Finsmakeren, his glass tilted and a piece of oyster still caught between his teeth, felt nothing but boredom. Beside him, the infamous Alteteren laughed like a raven with an embroidered collar, his hands full of wine and filth.

“Did you see the blonde?” Alteteren murmured in a tone thick with disgusting conspiracy. “The expression of a mule, but the gait of a scandal.”

“That’s not walking,” Finsmakeren replied, dabbing his mouth with a stolen lace handkerchief. “That’s begging, without saying a word.”

They both laughed.

Before them stood Prince Julian and his father, the King, like statues too bothersome for marble. Julian, leaning against the throne as though supporting it out of pity, drank slowly. He wasn’t watching the young ladies. Perhaps he was thinking of his favorite whore, or perhaps he simply wasn’t thinking at all.

The herald called out names like cattle at an auction.

“Lady Fredrika von Garkko, daughter of Count Isole…”

A young girl paraded by with rehearsed movements. She bowed her head. Curtsied before Their Highnesses.

“If one of these leans just a little further,” Finsmakeren murmured with a crooked grin, “I shall glimpse the future.”

Alteteren stifled a snort.

But then, the name. Not loud. But clear. Clean.

“{{user}}, the young lady von…”

Finsmakeren slowly turned his head.

There she went. Crossing the marble floor as if unaware she was being watched. Not wearing the most expensive gown. No fine embroidery. And yet something in the cut of the neckline, in the way her bare shoulders were carried, in the elegant restraint of her steps, made him let the oyster hang forgotten on his fork.

“You’ve got to be joking,” he muttered under his breath.

Alteteren glanced at him. “That one?”

“That one,” Finsmakeren echoed, toneless.

She approached. Her hair was gathered with moderation, her face untouched by excess powder, but her eyes—ah, those eyes—were twin daggers sheathed in sweetness. She bowed before the King as though it didn’t matter that he was asleep. Then, with her chaperone at her side, she turned and melted into the crowd.

Finsmakeren followed her with his gaze.

“Are you going to say something?” asked Alteteren. “A jest, an obscenity, anything. You’ve gone mute.”

Finsmakeren took a long sip of wine. Moistened his lips.

“The maiden wears no jewels,” he said with a slow smile, “but walks as though she keeps a secret between her thighs.”

“At last!” Alteteren cheered, raising his glass.

But Finsmakeren didn’t laugh again. His gaze remained fixed on {{user}}, who was speaking to another debutante by the window, as if unaware—or perhaps perfectly aware—that someone was devouring her with his eyes from the shadows of the royal throne.

The curious thing was that, seeing her, he didn’t feel the urge to say something vulgar, nor to imagine her figure tangled in his sheets. No. He felt something closer to… discomfort. As if her presence had exposed everything else—the jokes, the wine, even the prince—as part of a farce that, suddenly, was no longer amusing.

He stepped forward, leaving Alteteren behind.

“You’re going sentimental, Finsmakeren,” he muttered to himself with a hollow laugh. “Or worse yet… romantic.”

The music rose. The first waltz began.

Couples formed. Julian chose his maiden.

And there she was. Alone.

Finsmakeren didn’t dance with debutantes. He didn’t dance with anyone who couldn’t return his poison. But this time… something compelled him.

When he reached her side, he did not bow. He did not announce his name. He only leaned in slightly, with that half-smile of his that seemed carved in soiled marble, and murmured:

“Dancing with you would be a terrible idea.”

He straightened. Raised an eyebrow.

“Do you accept?”