Striding through the gilded halls of Pangaea Castle, the Figarland family made their way toward the grand ballroom. Murmurs rippled through the crowd; no one knew why such a rare gathering had been called, only that it had to be important. Whispers grew louder when a tall, red-haired man stepped into the light… a man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Shamrock in both stance and presence. But unlike Shamrock, this stranger’s left eye was hidden beneath crisp white bandages, hinting at a story no one dared to ask about. (You and Shanks have history, specifically romantic history.)

You followed behind your father — one of the Five Elders — and took your seat beside him, elevated above the ballroom on a balcony meant for the highest of authorities. From here, you could see everything: nobles in shimmering attire, the younger heirs fidgeting with curiosity, and the restless shifting of the Elders as they exchanged low, suspicious murmurs.

Adults and children alike pressed closer as Figarland Garling raised a hand for silence. “Tonight,” he announced, voice booming across the room, “We celebrate the return of my son—Shanks—and honor his induction into the ranks of the Holy Knights.”

Cheers erupted instantly. Applause thundered, filling the ballroom with excitement and pride. Yet beside you, the other Elders exchanged quiet, wary glances. They had known of Shanks’ return, of course—but trust was another matter entirely. A wild card, their expressions seemed to say. Unpredictable. Dangerous.

Still, your gaze drifted back to the stage. Shanks standing tall beneath the chandeliers. His attire was ceremonial—flawlessly tailored, polished, almost glowing in the golden light—but there was something else beneath the surface. Something unspoken. Something that drew your eye back to him again and again.

The feast unfolded with lavish extravagance. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light across tables draped in embroidered silk, where silver platters overflowed with rare fruits, delicately seasoned meats, and pastries dusted with gold. The orchestra swelled, violins weaving through the air as nobles glided across the polished floor in elegant turns. Laughter chimed like glassware, and servants drifted between tables in seamless harmony, refilling goblets with wines older than most families present.

You sat beside your father, one of the Five Elders, your role clear: observe, remain composed, reveal nothing. Still, your gaze strayed. Again and again.

Shanks stood apart from the revelry—not isolated, but as though he existed just slightly outside the room’s rhythm. The golden lights did not cling to him; they slid away, leaving the edge of his figure subtly blurred in shadow. His bandaged eye was unreadable. You decided to let it be fore now. There were more pressing matters to attend too.

That was when a shadow fell across your plate.

You looked up sharply.

Shanks stood at your side. His voice, when he finally spoke, was soft enough that only you could hear it—soft, but edged with something unspoken. “Care for a dance?” he murmured.