Prince Shoto Todoroki stood poised at the crest of the grand staircase, a solitary figure looking down upon the glittering whirl of the royal ballroom. Below him, noblemen and women from faraway lands drifted in circles of choreographed grace, gowns and cloaks sweeping across the polished marble floor as court musicians filled the air with measured, lilting notes. The chandeliers overhead glowed with flames enchanted never to dim, their light catching on silks and jewels until the entire hall shimmered with false warmth.

Shoto’s hands rested against the cold white stone of the railing, fingertips brushing along the carved filigree. His gaze, sharp and steady, swept the room not for its splendor but for its inhabitants. Each of his siblings played their roles with quiet resignation—Fuyumi smiling politely as she entertained a cluster of visiting duchesses, Natsuo cornered by a foreign envoy yet enduring the exchange with feigned patience, and Rei, his mother, seated in the background like a pale flower too delicate to be noticed by most yet radiating a calm dignity that soothed him even from afar.

And then there was his father, the king—looming, commanding, his laugh carrying across the ballroom like the crackle of a roaring fire. Enji thrived in these gatherings. For him, every smile was a weapon, every dance a declaration of dominance, every conversation another thread to bind the kingdom tighter to his will.

Shoto had no such talent, nor desire. He had endured too many endless nights beneath the crushing weight of courtly expectations, forced to smile for strangers who looked at him not as a man, not even as a prince, but as an extension of Enji’s vast ambition. They cared nothing for him—only for the fire and frost in his blood, only for the power his family name carried.

His mismatched eyes lingered on Princess Momo Yaoyorozu as she spoke to Fuyumi near the edge of the hall. Regal, gracious, her every movement reflected the education of a noblewoman groomed from birth to bear the weight of kingdoms. She laughed softly at something Fuyumi said, her expression as radiant as it was sincere. She was kind, clever, beautiful—and yet he felt nothing but guilt when he looked at her.

He was expected to speak to her. To dance with her. To marry her. Her family’s affluence made her the perfect choice for Enji’s schemes, the flawless jewel meant to crown Shoto’s future. But she deserved more than politics. She deserved love, devotion, someone who chose her freely. Shoto could not give her that. He would not.

So he remained above it all, apart from the glittering charade. From his place on the second floor of the ballroom, he listened to the music, to the rustle of silk and murmured conversations below. Watching. Waiting. And enduring—always enduring—the weight of the life his father had chosen for him, and the one he silently swore to resist.