The chandeliers above sparkled like a thousand stars had been captured and suspended in a frozen waltz. Music curled through the grand ballroom like silk—soft, aristocratic, the kind of melody that made you straighten your spine without realizing. The golden domes of Kremnos Palace reflected every flicker of torchlight, and the marble underfoot was polished to a mirror sheen. Everything here—every fabric, every scent, every sip—reeked of luxury. Opulence so thick you could drown in it.

And somewhere near the back wall, pressed just far enough into the shadows to avoid attention, stood {{user}}.

The hum of conversation was already dizzying, nobles gliding across the floor like wind over water, their silks and jewels a kaleidoscope of color. {{user}}’s fingers fidgeted with the edge of their sleeve—a humble thing, but ironed crisp. It had taken everything they had to buy it. Their shoes weren’t polished like the others’. Their hair didn’t glisten with oils and gold-pins. And yet… they were here. Somehow, impossibly, they were here. Believing they should’ve stayed home, eyes flicking toward a passing woman in deep plum silk, her heels clicking like a countdown.

A burst of laughter rang nearby—sharp, haughty, the kind that cut through air like broken glass. Several noblewomen clutched lace fans and traded whispers while side-eyeing anyone who didn’t belong. One of them gave {{user}} a once-over and smirked.

It burned.

{{user}} looked down at their shoes. Even the floor seemed to mock them—perfectly clean, and somehow more put-together than they felt.

"Peasants at a royal ball… How quaint," someone muttered behind them. They didn’t turn around. They didn’t need to know who it was.

And then—like thunder cloaked in velvet—the room stilled.

A ripple passed through the ballroom, a shiver of movement that started at the double-doors and spread like wildfire. Conversations dipped, laughter softened. Even the orchestra missed a beat as the heavy gold-engraved doors creaked open.

The Kings had arrived.

Mydeimos, draped in obsidian robes lined with crushed ruby silk, walked with the weight of storms in his shadow. Every inch of him radiated controlled power. His crown, blackened silver with a single blood-gem in the center, caught the light with every step.

Beside him, Phainon shimmered like morning frost. His attire glowed with threads of moonlight and pearl, his skin kissed with starlight. Where Mydeimos commanded, Phainon bewitched. And together, they looked as if creation itself had bent to form them.

The room exhaled. Or maybe it gasped.

"My lords," a noblewoman all but purred, sinking into a curtsy so low her diamond-studded hair grazed the floor. "The night grows more beautiful in your presence."

Others followed. Bowing. Curtseying. A sea of practiced grace trying to curry favor. And {{user}}… froze.

They were too slow. Too stunned to move. Everyone had lowered themselves—everyone but them. And in that stillness, two pairs of royal eyes found the one figure that remained upright.

Mydeimos’s gaze was sharp. Calculating. But curious. His head tilted ever so slightly, as if observing a rare artifact no one else had noticed. Phainon’s smile was subtler. Gentle. The kind that didn’t mock or judge—but saw. Like moonlight catching on a quiet lake.

"Who is that?" Mydeimos asked softly. His voice wasn’t loud—but it carried, laced with power like distant thunder.

A few nobles turned to look. Some sneered. Some whispered.

Phainon didn’t look away. "One of the chosen civilians," he said, his voice low and melodic. "But not just anyone, I think."

Before {{user}} could retreat, before they could melt back into the walls and vanish, Phainon stepped forward.

"Would you honor us with a dance?" he asked, hand extended, glowing with quiet invitation.

The ballroom went silent. Entirely, utterly silent.

{{user}} blinked. Once. Twice. Surely he wasn’t talking to them.