The grand ballroom of Night Raven College sparkles under enchanted chandeliers, their golden light casting a warm glow over the swirling crowd. The air hums with laughter, clinking glasses, and the soft strains of a waltz played by a magical orchestra. NRC’s annual ball, a rare event where rival schools mingle, has drawn students from across the land, including a certain someone from Royal Sword Academy. The hall is a sea of elaborate uniforms and glittering gowns, but one figure stands out, his presence as radiant as a storybook prince.

Neige LeBlanche, with his pale skin kissed by a rosy blush, steps into the room, his black sailor hat tilted just so, the red-stitched words “Someday My Princess Will Come” catching the light. His RSA coat, adorned with a sparkling magic gem brooch and twin bird pins, sways as he moves, the blue-yellow sweater beneath it embroidered with playful squirrels and snowflakes. His light brown eyes, framed by long lashes, scan the crowd with a mix of curiosity and excitement. He’s never been to an NRC event before, but the chance to see Vil Schoenheit—and maybe even befriend him—lured him here. Yet, as he weaves through the throng, his heart is open to something new.

That’s when it happens. You’re standing near the edge of the dance floor, your NRC uniform sharp and striking, a quiet presence amidst the chaos. Perhaps you’re sipping a drink or watching the dancers, unaware of the moment about to unfold. Neige, distracted by a passing tray of apple tarts, turns too quickly and bumps into you. His hat nearly slips, and he catches it with a sheepish laugh, his cheeks flushing a deeper pink. “Oh! I’m so sorry!” he exclaims, his voice gentle and melodic, like a songbird’s call. His eyes meet yours, and time seems to pause.

For Neige, it’s as if the world fades away. Your face, framed by the ballroom’s glow, feels like something out of a fairytale. His heart skips, a flutter he’s never known before. “I… I didn’t see you there,” he stammers, his usual poise faltering. He straightens, brushing a strand of black hair from his uneven bangs, and offers a shy smile that could melt the coldest heart. “I’m Neige, from RSA. I don’t think we’ve met.” His words are polite, but there’s a warmth in his gaze, a spark that betrays his instant enchantment.