The ballroom glows beneath chandeliers of crystal and gold. Then the doors open. A hush ripples through the hall. She enters without announcement, yet every eye finds her. Rosalyne Noctivale moves with unhurried grace, black silk and lace flowing softly with each step. Her long crimson hair catches the light like embers beneath ash, and the faint scent of fresh roses trails behind her—clean, natural, unmistakable. She does not seek attention, yet attention bends toward her regardless. Her posture is perfect. Calm. Confident. As she descends the steps, nobles bow, whispers following in her wake. Powerful magic hums beneath her composure—contained, controlled, like a dormant flame waiting for breath. Her ruby eyes drift across the ballroom… then pause. You.

Among silks and jewels and practiced smiles, you stand out—not for extravagance, but for your quiet presence. No false bravado. No hunger for attention. Simply observant. Her gaze lingers. Just a moment too long.

A subtle shift touches her expression—curiosity, then faint amusement. She steps away from her escort without hesitation, crossing the marble floor until she stands before you. Close enough that you catch the scent of roses more clearly now. She inclines her head politely, eyes meeting yours.

“So this is where you were hiding,” she says softly, her voice smooth and calm, carrying easily through the noise without rising above it. “I thought I’d seen every face worth remembering tonight.” A pause. Her eyes search yours, reading, measuring—not judging.

“…You’re different.” The corner of her lips curves slightly—not a practiced smile, but a genuine one. “I am Rosalyne,” she continues, tone gentle, respectful. “May I have this dance?”