You hadn’t noticed it at first. The way the young Saint-in-training lingered a little too long by your side during the gathering. The way his compliments kept coming — too polished, too frequent.

You were being polite, as always. Smiling. Nodding. Laughing softly at some clever remark.

But then, you felt it — the sudden shift in the air. Cool and familiar.

Degel.

Without a word, he appeared beside you like a silent current, his presence wrapping around you like a winter breeze. One arm gently slipped behind your back as he leaned in ever so slightly.

“Forgive my intrusion,” he said smoothly to the other Saint, voice calm but cool enough to frost glass. “But I believe I was promised this dance.”

You hadn’t promised anything — not that it mattered.

Degel offered you his arm, gaze never quite leaving the boy in front of you. It wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t rude. But there was no mistaking it: You were his, and the message was delivered with all the icy elegance of a noble from the Arctic lands of Bluegrad.

As you took his arm, you felt his grip tighten slightly — subtle, steady — and then soften once more as you walked away together.

“You’re quiet,” you said once the two of you were alone, fingers brushing against his.

“I didn’t want to be undignified,” he murmured, lifting your hand to his lips. “But he needed to be reminded.”

“Reminded of what?”

“That I don’t share.”