“To distant lands, she takes both my hands…” — The ballroom is a blur of velvet gowns and polished armor, candlelight glittering off every jeweled crown in the hall. The music swells, and Peter’s hands are steady at your waist as he turns you in time with it—like he’s done this a thousand times, though you both know he hasn’t.

He’s been pulled in a dozen directions tonight—by lords, generals, and foreign diplomats—but now it’s only you he sees. “You wore that for me,” he murmurs, his gaze slipping down to the soft folds of your gown—bronze silk catching the light like firelight on water.

You smile. “I thought you wouldn’t notice.”

Peter huffs a breath of laughter, almost shy. “I notice everything when it comes to you.”

The room spins around you, but you don’t move. For a moment, neither of you do. His fingers linger at your wrist, brushing lightly over your pulse. “Dance with me,” he says again—softer this time. Not a command. A plea.

Because even here—surrounded by nobles and titles, responsibility and war—he is just a boy in love with the girl who makes everything else fall quiet.