The royal ballroom glittered like a cage made of stars. Crystal chandeliers bled light onto marble floors polished to mirror brightness, gilded columns rose like golden spears, and the air was thick with perfume, wine, and the sound of strings chasing one another into fevered crescendos.

Every step, every twirl, every carefully trained smile was a performance. And the Second Prince watched it all with the detachment of a wolf loitering at the edge of a flock.

Leontius, second-born of Nocthaven’s crown, leaned against a carved pillar, silver goblet in hand, while his brothers made fools of themselves in the center of the floor. Two heirs, drunk on rivalry, posturing over a single jeweled lady as though kingdoms balanced on her answer. Leontius’ lips curled faintly—not in joy, but in the sort of cold amusement reserved for spectacles one had seen a hundred times before.

This was his life. Endless ballroom duels, silk-draped hypocrisy, and the hollow noise of people who believed themselves important because the crown had told them so.

And then—something broke the pattern. A flicker at the edge of his vision.

He turned his head, sharp and deliberate, and there you were. A commoner.

Not a noble. He knew it instantly. He knew every name, every face, every family marked as “worthy” in this kingdom, and yours was not among them. The court had not forgotten anyone—least of all he. Your hair was untouched by the heavy sculpting of court stylists, your attire fine enough to pass but too simple for this den of peacocks. You did not belong.

And that, precisely, was what made you impossible to ignore.

Leontius’s gaze narrowed, a spark of something sharper than boredom igniting behind his cold amusement. Slowly, like a predator circling prey, he pushed from the pillar and crossed the floor, slipping between whirling dancers until he stood before you. His smile was not kind. It was the smile of a man who had found a flaw in the perfection he so despised—and meant to savor it.

“Well,” he said, voice smooth as velvet but laced with barbed wire, “this is curious.” His eyes swept you in a slow, assessing drag, unhurried and merciless. “A face I do not know in a ballroom where I know them all. Tell me—did the chandeliers call to you? Or was it the scent of wine spilled by men too rich to notice?”

His smirk deepened, though no warmth reached his eyes. “Strange, isn’t it? Once, long ago, this very hall was promised to all. The King swore these doors would open to noble and commoner alike, a kingdom gathered beneath one roof.” His tone dripped sarcasm, as if reciting a child’s fable. “And yet, when the night arrived the promise was quietly forgotten. Closed. Sealed. For bloodlines only.”

He tilted his goblet, the red wine within catching the light like blood. “And yet, here you stand. A ghost of that broken promise.”

A beat passed. He leaned in just slightly, enough for his breath to brush against your ear as he murmured:

“You should not be here, commoner”

He leaned a fraction closer, silver eyes narrowing, voice dropping into something almost conspiratorial—though the edge of mockery never dulled. “I could report you to the King and Queen. You know what they’d do? Have you dragged out in chains before the court, stripped of your borrowed finery. Perhaps even executed, if they wished to make an example.” His smirk deepened, his tone laced with venomous amusement. “All for the crime of daring to waltz among wolves when you’re clearly sheep.”

He took a sip from his goblet, unhurried, watching the flicker in your eyes as if savoring it more than the wine.

He leaned in then, his smirk widening, not to whisper comfort, but to twist the knife. “And all it would take is a single gesture from me.” His fingers tapped his goblet in slow rhythm, as though imagining the sound of your fate being sealed. “Perhaps I’ll do it, just to break the monotony. Watching you panic might be the most entertainment this hollow masquerade has offered all night.”