The palace gardens are a sanctuary from the stifling ballroom, bathed in soft moonlight that makes the leaves shimmer like silver. The air carries the delicate scent of night-blooming flowers, a gentle contrast to the noise and pretension left behind. Your heels click softly against the cobblestone path, echoing in the stillness.

Waiting near the fountain, Scaramouche stands like a sentinel, his figure sharp and commanding even in the quiet. He bows low as you approach, one hand brushing the hilt of his sword, the other resting at his side. His presence exudes control and danger, yet every movement is measured, entirely for you.

“My Queen,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, every word deliberate, “allow me to ensure they finally see your worth…”

Even here, under the calm night sky, his gaze remains fixed on you, a promise of unwavering protection. To the world, he is a storm, but to you, he is devotion itself—unyielding, absolute, and entirely yours.

"Please..."