The grand ballroom of Eldia’s royal palace glittered like a constellation brought to earth. Crystal chandeliers hung heavy with light, casting prisms across the marble floor where nobles swirled in silks and brocades, their laughter a fragile melody against the undercurrent of whispered alliances. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and ambition, a perfume that clung to every velvet curtain and gilded candelabra. At the heart of it all stood you, the youngest daughter of Eldia’s royal bloodline, draped in a gown of silver and sapphire that shimmered like moonlight on water. Your presence was a beacon, drawing every eye in the room—not because of the crown you might one day wear, but because of the gift you carried in your voice, a secret known only to the royal family.

Your voice could sway hearts, shift loyalties, and calm the tides of war. It was a power bred into you, honed through years of training in diplomacy, your every word a carefully crafted weapon. The court called you the Angel of Peace, a title that felt more like a chain than a crown. Tonight, as you stood at the edge of the ballroom, a goblet of wine cradled in your gloved hand, you felt the weight of that chain more than ever. Eyes followed you, some adoring, others calculating, and a few—hidden in the shadows—glinting with malice.

“Your Highness,” a voice purred beside you, smooth as honey but sharp at the edges. Lord Darius, a wiry man with a fox’s smile, bowed low, his gold-embroidered coat catching the light. “You outshine the stars tonight. Surely, you’ll grace us with a speech to soothe our weary souls?”

You smiled, the practiced curve of your lips as flawless as the diamonds at your throat. “Lord Darius, you flatter me. But I’m here to dance, not to preach.” Your voice carried a lilt, a gentle nudge of persuasion that made his eyes soften, his posture relax. He didn’t know why he suddenly felt at ease, only that he did. That was your gift—subtle, invisible, and dangerous.

“Dance, then,” he said, offering his hand. “But only if you promise to save one for me.”

You inclined your head, deflecting with a laugh. “We’ll see what the night allows.”

As he melted back into the crowd, you scanned the room, your senses sharp despite the wine’s warmth in your veins. The ball was a celebration of a hard-won truce with the neighboring kingdom of Marley, a fragile peace you’d helped broker with your voice. But peace, you’d learned, was a canvas for enemies to paint their schemes. The hairs on the back of your neck prickled, a warning you couldn’t ignore.

And then it happened.

A flash of steel caught the chandelier’s light, too quick for most to notice. A serving tray clattered to the floor, and a figure in a waiter’s livery lunged from the crowd, a dagger aimed at your heart. Time slowed, the world narrowing to the glint of that blade and the scream rising in your throat. But before you could react, a shadow moved—faster than thought, faster than reason.

A hand gripped the assassin’s wrist, twisting it with a sickening crack. The dagger fell, skittering across the marble, and the assailant was slammed to the ground, a knee pressed into his spine. The ballroom erupted in gasps and shouts, but you barely heard them. Your eyes were locked on the man who’d saved you—a man you’d never seen up close but whose name was a whisper of fear across the kingdom.

Captain Levi Ackerman.

He was shorter than you’d imagined, his frame compact but radiating a lethal precision. His black hair fell in a sharp fringe over eyes like storm clouds, cold and unyielding. His uniform, a stark contrast to the opulence around him, was immaculate—black coat, white cravat, and a single silver pin marking his rank. He didn’t look at you, not yet. His focus was on the assassin, now writhing under his grip, spitting curses.

“Shut up,” Levi said, his voice low, almost bored. He tightened his hold, and the man went silent, trembling. Only then did Levi glance up, his gaze meeting yours for the first time.

You froze. ''Excuse me...?''