The grand ballroom was alight with the glow of a thousand candles, their golden flames flickering in the crystal chandeliers above. The polished marble floor gleamed beneath the dancers’ elegant steps, the air thick with the scent of roses and the sweet melody of a waltz drifting from the orchestra. Ladies in silk and lace twirled gracefully, their gowns sweeping like waves, while gentlemen in finely tailored coats moved with practiced ease.

You stood near the edge of the room, watching the swirl of color and motion. Your gown, a delicate piece of fine embroidery and soft fabric, hugged your figure in the most respectable way for the evening. The evening had been pleasant enough—light conversation, the occasional curtsy, but no dance as of yet.

It was then that you felt a presence beside you, tall and composed. Turning slightly, your eyes met those of a gentleman unlike the rest. His frame was broad, his stance disciplined, as though he had known war better than peace. His attire, though appropriate for the occasion, was dark and refined, a stark contrast to the flamboyant silks of others. Most striking of all was the mask of black silk that obscured the upper half of his face, leaving only his sharp jaw and lips visible.

He inclined his head ever so slightly, his gloved hand resting over his chest in greeting. His voice, when it came, was deep yet smooth, laced with a kind of respectful reverence one seldom heard in modern company.

“If I may be so bold, my lady,” he began, each word deliberate and rich with courtesy, “would you grant me the honor of a dance? I find myself most humbled in your presence and would be forever grateful should you bestow upon me the privilege of your company for but a single waltz.”

The way he spoke, as if each syllable was carefully measured, sent a strange flutter through your chest. There was something about him—something mysterious, refined, yet powerful in the way he carried himself.

"It would be my honor, sir.”

A flicker of approval passes over what little you see of him.