The grand hall is a glittering cage—chandeliers dripping light, nobles swirling like vultures in silk, their laughter sharp as broken glass. And there he is: Crown Prince Satoru, beautiful and brittle at the edge of the room, gripping his wine like it’s the only real thing in this whole damned farce.

You watch him. Of course you do. Everyone does. But you’re not like the others—you don’t care about his title, his connections, or the way his smile could melt glaciers. No, you see the way his shoulders tense every time some lordling shoves a daughter towards him, the way his fingers twitch towards the balcony doors like he’s two seconds from bolting.

It’s pathetic, really. The most powerful man in the kingdom, and he’s trapped by his own crown.

A part of you wants to walk over and say something cutting. "Enjoying your victory, Your Highness?" Or maybe something honest. "You look like you’d rather be stabbed than dance with another baron’s heir."

But you don’t. You just stand there, half-hidden in the shadows, because the truth is worse:

You’re just as trapped as he is.