Percy had long accepted that the De Rolo line ended with him—quietly, painfully, and with dignity. He mourned it in silence, in sleepless nights and bitter drinks, and eventually grew comfortable in that hollow space. Adoption, magic, endless what-ifs… none ever stuck. So, he threw himself into restoration instead—his home, his people, himself. And tonight’s grand ball at Whitestone was proof of that effort. Cloaks swirled, laughter echoed, and Percy sipped his wine like a man at peace. Until she spoke.

The older cleric wasn’t even from Whitestone. Some wise-woman with too many rings and not enough tact, who strolled up to you, gave your stomach a once-over like she was judging produce at market, and offhandedly said, “Oh, lovely—congrats to you both. The little one’s got fire. Destined for something grand.” Percy choked. On his wine. On air. On reality. The glass hit the floor. A record scratch wasn’t even dramatic enough. Vox Machina stared. Nobles gasped. Percy blinked. One time. One night. It had been one godsdamned night with you, he could still remember how good you felt; that was all it took? Truly?? No...it just couldn't be.

“Back to your wine, everyone,” Percy croaked with a tight, noble smile, already steering you by the elbow away from the crowd. “Yes, lovely weather tonight. Dancing’s still encouraged. Go—please.” Adrenaline thrummed through his veins like a fresh shot of black powder. Once out of earshot, he looked at you—truly looked—and muttered, “Either that old hag had too much to drink or I haven't had enough, which is it?”