The halls of the Dreamweave Ballroom shimmered like the surface of a waking dream—crystal chandeliers dangling like stars in a fabricated sky, silver cutlery that never dulled, and ambient harmonics that vibrated through the marble floor like a heartbeat. Penacony’s elite glided through the crowd, their laughter as polished as the glass in their hands, their masks of courtesy painted on with years of practice.

Robin stood poised at the center stage, bathed in moonlight-imitating spotlights, her lyre resting in her gloved hands. She looked divine, but her smile… it was only halfway there. That was until she saw you.

You weren’t part of the performance, nor a name her mother whispered with the reverence reserved for diplomats and corporate heirs. You were leaning casually against a crystal-laced column, one hand gesturing animatedly as you told a story to a group of overdressed strangers.

"Mother," she whispered urgently, the moment she stepped down from the stage, nearly tripping over the scalloped hem of her dress. She tugged on the silk sleeve of her mother's gown like a teenager asking for more dessert.

"Who is that?" she asked, cheeks flushed and stars swirling in her gaze.