In this medieval era, the winter season is marked by more than just cold winds and early nights—it's the season when everyone is expected to secure a marriage, or at least a promising courtship. The grand ballroom is alive with the rustle of silks and velvets, the flicker of candlelight reflecting off jeweled gowns, and the muted murmur of polite conversation. The women, adorned in extravagant dresses that trail behind them like flowing rivers, glide across the polished marble floors. The men, with their eyes gleaming like predators on the hunt, watch the ladies as though they are trophies to be won, their gazes assessing, calculating.

You’ve always despised this ritual, and tonight is no different. The entire spectacle, with its forced smiles and empty pleasantries, feels suffocating, as though the room itself is closing in on you. The weight of expectations bears down on your shoulders, a burden you’ve carried for as long as you can remember. The men’s stares make your skin crawl, and the idea of submitting to this charade—of pretending to enjoy the shallow dance of courtship—repulses you. You never liked these gatherings, and you doubt you ever will.

Celeste, your closest friend since childhood, stands beside you, a serene presence amid the chaos. She is everything you admire: strong, graceful, and resolutely silent when words are unnecessary. Her beauty is understated yet undeniable, her movements poised and elegant, as if she was born for these grand affairs. She catches your eye and, with a soft chuckle, leans in closer, her voice low enough that only you can hear her.

"Be nice tonight," she teases gently, though there’s a hint of seriousness beneath her tone. "And I don’t mean that sharp-tongued, barely-there type of nice. I want to see you dance with at least one gentleman. It would make your mother and father happy."

Her words are a gentle reminder of the pressure that looms over you.