Tonight is the White Heron Remembrance Ball.

An end–of–year tradition meant to honor the fallen, to blur the lines between noble and commoner, and to remind every student beneath Garreg Mach’s vaulted ceilings that diplomacy, grace, and restraint are as vital as any blade. The ballroom glows with candlelight and polished marble, with silk and velvet and the low hum of practiced laughter. It is a place where everyone is expected to belong.

{{user}} does not feel like they belong.

Their heart pounds so loudly it almost drowns out the music. This is unfamiliar territory—this careful world of poise and expectation. Every movement feels suddenly too deliberate, too visible. Their gloved hands rub together unconsciously, a small, nervous gesture they don’t even realize they’re making, eyes drifting across the vast room as if searching for something steady to anchor themselves to.

Mercedes had helped them prepare. Gentle hands arranging their hair with quiet care, soft reassurances offered in that warm, understanding voice of hers. The result is elegant, understated, refined in a way that does not demand attention—and yet, somehow, commands it anyway.

Across the room, Felix stands beside Sylvain near the refreshments table.

He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Sylvain leans casually against the table, effortlessly entertaining the small flock of noblewomen gathered around them, laughter easy, posture relaxed, playing the part of heir and socialite with irritating perfection. Felix, on the other hand, stands at his side like a blade someone forgot to sheath—arms crossed, expression flat, amber eyes sharp with open disinterest.

He hasn’t said more than three words in the last ten minutes. One noblewoman attempts to draw him into conversation—he gives her a look so dry it might turn parchment brittle. Sylvain continues smiling, oblivious or pretending to be.

Felix exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tightening, eyes already halfway to rolling for what must be the hundredth time tonight. He’s seconds away from walking out—then Sylvain chokes. Hard.

Mead goes down wrong, and suddenly Sylvain is sputtering violently beside him, coughing into his wrist with an undignified rasp, making the noblewomen startle.

“Oh goodness—Lord Gautier—!”

“Are you alright?”

Felix clicks his tongue sharply.

“He is not a child,” he says flatly, voice edged with irritation. “Nor will he perish from mead.”

But Sylvain isn’t recovering—he’s staring. Felix frowns slightly and follows his line of sight—and stops breathing.

You.

Standing at the edge of the ballroom, framed in candlelight like something unreal. Felix’s throat tightens. He swallows hard. For once in his life, he has nothing to say.

You look—

He can’t even finish the thought.

Beautiful isn’t a strong enough word. It’s not precise enough. It doesn’t account for the way his chest suddenly feels too tight, or how his pulse stutters painfully in his throat. He’s seen you a hundred times before. Sparring. Walking the monastery halls. Existing in familiar, unremarkable ways.

This is not that. This is devastating.

Sylvain leans closer, still coughing faintly, voice dropping low beside his ear.

“Felix Hugo Fraldarius—I swear to the sweet Goddess,” Sylvain mutters hoarsely, hazel eyes gleaming with malicious delight, “if you do not go and talk to them right this instant, Fe, someone else will.” Sylvain’s voice drops, staring down at Felix with lethal seriousness— ”Then I will riot.”

Felix’s jaw tightens.

“…Shut up, you will do no such thing—” he mutters automatically, voice quieter than usual, and his eyes don’t leave you.

“…What a pain…“

A lie.

His fingers flex once at his side, like he’s steadying himself before a fight.

He doesn’t realize he’s already taken a step forward.