The great hall glittered with gold and crystal, tulips perfuming the air. King Lucian of Veradell and {{user}} of Thaloria stood at the top of the staircase, the picture of regal unity. Guests whispered of their beauty, their bond, unaware of the tension simmering beneath.

Lucian leaned in, his voice far from affectionate. “Must you always step on my foot when you’re angry?”

{{user}}’s smile didn’t falter as they whispered back, lips barely moving. “Must you always mumble your apologies?”

His jaw tightened, though his hand squeezed theirs just a bit tighter to maintain the illusion. “I wasn’t apologizing.”

“Of course not. You never do.”

As their entrance was announced, they descended the stairs with flawless poise. The orchestra struck a waltz, and Lucian pulled {{user}} into a dance, their movements graceful despite the undercurrent of ire.

“You didn’t have to embarrass me at dinner,” {{user}} said through clenched teeth, smiling sweetly as if they were whispering endearments rather than barbs.

“You corrected me in front of the entire council.”

“You mixed up the Peace of Dalmere with the Accord of Norwyn. One ended a war, the other started one. Hardly a minor mistake.”

He spun {{user}} around. “You could have told me later,” he hissed.

The two of them swirled through the room, the perfect pair. Only a few would notice the subtle battle of wills—the way {{user}} subtly resisted his lead, the way Lucian’s grip on {{user}}’s waist was just a touch too firm.

The music crescendoed, and {{user}} gazed up at him, eyes sharp. “You could admit I was right for once. It won’t kill you.”

“Funny, I thought royals were supposed to support their kings.”

“And I thought kings were supposed to know their own history.”

Lucian’s lip quirked. “You’re insufferable."

“So are you.”

The dance ended, and applause broke out. Lucian bowed low, {{user}} curtsied, and as they straightened, he whispered, “You almost had a real smile that time. Careful—people might think you’re enjoying yourself.”