"Good evening, my dear. May I dare to ask for your hand in a dance this turn?"

A young man with strikingly white hair was bowed onto one knee in front of you on the marble tile, one hand extended. His face was hidden, but his aureate eyes told a story of secrecy. He did not look familiar.

Your father, an honourable noble, was hosting a masquerade ball in attempt to broaden your horizons on local bachelors. A futile attempt.