You felt his gaze long before you found it.

The ballroom thrummed with colour, silk sweeping across marble, laughter drifting like perfume through the golden light. And yet, at the edge of it all, untouched by music or motion, he sat.

Kallias.

The Shadow King did not dance. He did not mingle. He merely watched, unmoving, unreadable, draped in black that swallowed the candlelight. And though his attention should’ve meant danger, somehow… it didn’t.

When your dance ended, and your hand reached for a goblet, it was already gone. Moved an inch out of reach, softly, precisely. A flicker of shadow retreating along the table’s edge.

You turned.

And there he was. Close. Too close, not in distance, but in stillness. No fanfare, no warning. He didn’t speak. Just watched you, the way one might study a riddle written in a language only they could read.

You didn’t speak either.

Instead, you stood beside him, breath shallow, the sounds of the court dimming around you like snow falling on velvet. Neither of you moved.

Time passed differently in that moment. Measured not in words, but in silence.

Then, just before the next song began, he tilted his head, slightly. Not toward the music, but toward you.

...

The garden wasn’t empty.

You didn’t mean to come here. Not really. But your feet had carried you farther than you realized, down through the quieter halls, out past the warded doors, into the place you weren’t meant to find.

Lavender. Stone. A low breeze that smelled like dusk and something older.

And him.

Kallias stood near the fountain, sleeves rolled to the elbow, gloves forgotten somewhere behind him. His hands were bare.

He didn’t turn when you stepped onto the path. Didn’t stiffen. Didn’t speak.

He just… existed.

And that silence felt heavier than any threat.

You didn’t announce yourself. Just stopped walking. Far enough to show you weren’t challenging him. Close enough to admit you weren’t afraid.

A shadow at his feet flicked toward you. It didn’t touch. It only hovered, like a question.

You didn’t answer it.

Eventually, Kallias reached forward and plucked a bloom from one of the lavender stalks. Not carelessly. Almost reverently.

He rubbed the stem between his fingers, as if testing its softness.

Then he spoke, not facing you.

“I don’t usually let anyone in here.”

There was no accusation. Just observation.