The voice of the master of ceremonies rose like a psalm, echoing between the golden columns and candlelit chandeliers of the Grand Hall.

A crescent of young women stood before him, clad in silks perfumed with peony and pretense. Their eyes glimmered with ambition, yet Julian saw only reflections — glass dolls arranged for display.

He descended the stairs in black and gold, a living monument to expectation. His face unreadable, his movements practiced.

He chose Elvira. Because of her gown — a dangerous green, overloaded with lace and yellow flowers, the kind of costume designed to seduce rather than suit.

She bowed too deeply. She smiled too wide. She danced as if she’d choreographed the prince into her fate.

Julian let her believe it. He led the waltz with ease, his touch light, his conversation empty. But even as they turned across the mirrored floor, he felt it: the absence of something real.

Then, from across the room, he noticed a figure.

A boy.

No.

A man.

Not a suitor. Not a rival. Just… present. Uninterested in the rituals around him.

Julian found his gaze returning again and again — to that posture, that restraint, that strange, almost priestly calm. A young man dressed simply, but impeccably. Standing beside Elvira, as if he were guarding her. As if he were the only one who saw her as anything but an ornament.

When their eyes finally met, Julian felt a shift — something small, unspoken. Not desire. Not yet. But curiosity, edged with heat.

After the dance ended, Julian made his way through the crowd, weaving past generals and debutantes, until he stood before the stranger.

“You’re her brother,” he said. “Von Rosenhoff.”

{{user}} nodded. “I was asked to accompany her. She's my stepsister.”

Of course. The protector. The dutiful son. An orphan caring for his sister Agnes in a home with unwanted tenants. The brother who'd stepped up after the death of Otto von Rosenhoff.

Julian spoke of Elvira — her prospects. He feigned interest in the family’s reputation. It was all excuse. He didn’t need approval. He was the prince.

But he wanted time.

Because something about {{user}} unsettled him. The way he carried himself like a man twice his age. The quiet fire in his eyes. That savior's spine, so eager to bear the burdens of others.

Julian hated that kind of man. The kind who made selflessness look noble. The kind who needed to fix everyone.

And yet, he wanted to touch him. To shake him. To undo that calm and watch what was underneath.

He stepped closer. The candlelight caught the embroidery on {{user}}’s sleeves — muted gold against navy blue. Snowflake patterns, crisp and understated. Not fashionable. Thoughtful.

“I imagine,” Julian said slowly, “it’s tiring. Carrying other people’s pain.”

{{user}} didn’t flinch. “I manage.”

Of course he did.

Julian looked at his hands — strong, careful hands. Not polished like a noble’s. Steady like a doctor’s. A man who would cradle his sister’s bleeding foot without fear.

Something sharp twisted in Julian’s chest. He didn’t know what to name it.

“Would you allow me a moment?” he asked, voice smooth but low. “A walk. Just a few steps beyond the hall.”

He didn’t wait for permission. He simply turned. Expecting — hoping — to be followed.