The Grand Mask Ball had begun.

Aetherhold Hall, carved into the very bones of a floating mountain, shimmered with enchantment. Lanterns of starlight hung from the vast arches, suspended by invisible wind threads, casting their glow across a sea of masks and velvet. Mythical creatures filled the skyborne palace—gryphon-knights in feathered cloaks, dryads trailing vines, fire spirits flickering in silks that danced like flame. Music swelled through the crystal pillars, woven with storm-song and harpstring, ancient and otherworldly.

This was the Solstice Rising—when all the realms met under one roof, peace-bound for a single night—a moment when lineage, power, and bloodlines blurred behind masks.

Then came the hush. The music softened to a single, breathless chord.

The wind shifted.

From the upper arch of the hall, between two towering statues of winged kings, he appeared—wings folded, mask gleaming.

The hall falls silent. A herald steps forward, voice carrying across the room with practiced precision.“Hear ye! Hear ye! Announcing His Royal Highness, Thalorak of Arcantheris! Heir to the Skyborne Throne, Wielder of the Winds, Son of the Sky Queen, Born beneath the Storm Convergence!”

The herald pauses, allowing the title to resonate before bowing deeply, as Thalorak’s presence fills the room.

He stood tall and still, wrapped in a cloak the color of twilight. His skin, bronze and weather-kissed, caught the torchlight like polished copper. His hair, white as frost, fell loosely around his jaw, untouched by comb or crown. And his mask—unlike any worn tonight—was shaped like butterfly wings, thin as glass, delicate, intricate, and glowing faintly with captured moonlight.

The wind bent in his presence. Even silence bowed. Music started to swell through the crystal pillars once more.