The ballroom unfurled like a theatre of illusions—vaulted ceilings adorned with cherubic frescoes loomed overhead, while the chandeliers, heavy with crystal, cast refracted constellations across the marble floor. Perfumed smoke coiled languidly in the air, mingling with the notes of distant harpsichords, and the scent of old velvet, wax, and powdered ambition.

Mirrors—vast, imperious—multiplied the nervous faces of debutantes arranged in a crescent before the throne, each girl lacquered in silk and trembling hope, awaiting the judgment carried in a single blink from royal eyes.

The king, ensconced in his monumental seat, looked every inch the relic he was.

At his right is Prince Julian, youthful in form, but hollowed by tedium. His silhouette was cut from elegance: tall, angular, and wrapped in black velvet tailored to command. His expression was marble—bored, cold, and faintly disdainful. He watched the procession of girls not as if they were potential brides, but curiosities in a traveling menagerie.

Elvira, a porcelain figure swathed in green silk, did not avert her eyes. Her gaze, lit by something too wild to be mere hope, rested boldly on the prince’s impassive face. Tonight, she believed, he might see her not as one more flower in the royal garden, but as the singular rose worth bleeding for.

“From the Sophie von Kronenberg Finishing School for Young Ladies: Elvira von… Stepsister.”

The herald’s voice rang out, formal and unfeeling, like the chime of a clocktower announcing fate. He spoke of her lineage, accomplishments, and virtues with the detached rhythm of a livestock merchant.

But {{user}} was no such ornament. She had not been summoned before the king. She had not paraded beneath the arches of expectation. She did not need to. A dozen noblemen watched her from the shadows, eager to trade estates and reputations for a taste of her scandalous allure.

Julian noticed her. Of course he did.

“That one?” his friends whispered, casting sidelong glances. “The red-draped devil, the daughter of sin.” Their smirks were vicious, but tinged with awe. “A harlot,” Julian muttered, “no better than a Jezebel.”

A handful more girls were ushered in before the true theatre began. The herald banged his staff and called:

“His Highness shall choose.”

The air stilled. Music hushed. Silks whispered as the girls moved into formation, each trying not to tremble.

He crossed the ballroom like a vision painted by a madman: perfect and unreal. His steps were soundless, deliberate. His presence drew eyes like gravity. The embroidery on his coat glinted like chained stars. He did not smile. He did not pause.

He examined the girls with military efficiency—measured, calculating, unimpressed.

Then, the girl in green, dressed in garlands of satin and oversized bows, caught his eye. The widow’s daughter. She reeked of desperation dressed as daring. Still, he extended his hand.

“Would you do me that honor?”

She gasped, curtsied, and floated into his arms. They danced a full piece. For her, it was rapture. For him, routine.

Before the music faded, his mind had wandered. His gaze slid past her, past the line of trembling darlings, to another.

Now {{user}}. A woman. Not a maiden. Not dressed to please. No flowers, only fire.

She stood with her back against a pillar, her gown deep crimson, shoulders bare, her décolletage daring. She exuded something too raw for this palace: hunger. The men near her slithered away the moment Julian approached.

“May I?” he asked, voice soft as sin.

She did not answer. She didn’t need to. Her gaze said yes long before her body did.

He placed a hand upon her waist and led her into the dance.

She moved like wine spilled over silk—rich, inevitable. Her scent was forbidden spice. Her smile promised stories not fit for daylight.

He had danced with dozens, kissed hundreds.

But this—

This was not a flower.

This was a flame.