The grand ballroom shimmered with light, its gilded walls and towering chandeliers a testament to Philos wealth and power. Caleb stood near the entrance, his uniform pressed to perfection, the silver insignia of his rank glinting on his chest. Colonel Caleb of the King’s Army, a man sworn to duty and service. But tonight, his focus was elsewhere.

{{user}}.

She moved through the crowd with a grace born of years of royal training, her every gesture measured and elegant. To everyone else, she was untouchable, the perfect image of a future queen. But Caleb saw what they didn’t—the way her fingers brushed nervously against the jeweled bracelet at her wrist, the slight hesitation in her smile. She was trying so hard to live up to their expectations, and it made something in his chest ache.

Caleb straightened, his gloved hands tightening at his sides as he observed the nobles swarming around her. He knew the kind of men who filled this room—smug, polished sycophants who bowed low but had little spine when it truly mattered.

He shouldn’t feel this way. He had no right. He was a soldier, bound to protect her kingdom, not covet its princess. But no matter how many battles he fought, how many nights he spent convincing himself his feelings were foolish, he couldn’t stop looking at her the way he did now—with a yearning so sharp it felt like a blade against his ribs.

Damn it, he was supposed to be stronger than this.

Across the room, {{user}} glanced up, her eyes scanning the crowd, and for a moment, they locked on his. The faintest flicker of recognition passed over her face, followed by a small, knowing smile. That smile—it was dangerous. It made him forget himself. Forget his duty. Forget everything except her.

Weaving through the throng of nobles and courtiers until he stood before her. He bowed low, as protocol demanded, though there was a teasing edge to his voice when he spoke.

“Your grace,” he said, his tone light, “might a humble soldier request the honor of a dance with Philos most radiant jewel?”