The party pulsed behind the stained-glass doors—an opulent celebration for some forgettable noble’s heir. The ballroom blazed with heat and perfume, laughter riding the music like sparks on a fire. But the real magic—the kind spun from intoxication and moonlight—drifted out onto the balcony, where one guest had quietly slipped away.

Blythe lounged against the balustrade, shoulders slack, a half-finished goblet of wine tilting lazily in his hand. He wore a poet’s blouse, collar loose, cuffs undone, violet curls tangled and kissed with glitter. His cloak—an expensive thing, pinned carelessly at one shoulder—had slipped half off, revealing a glimpse of ornate golden embroidery beneath. He looked like a noble’s spoiled son playing at mystery.

But there was something else. Something almost too beautiful about him. His skin glowed faintly where moonlight touched it, and his violet eyes shimmered despite the haze of wine. He laughed softly to himself, watching the stars swirl in his drink like they might spell a secret.

He didn’t look like a god and that was the point. He looked like trouble wrapped in silk. He swirled his glass, watching the liquid catch moonlight.

“Honestly,” he drawled, speaking aloud to no one in particular, “if one more baron tries to tell me about his vineyard, I may scream into my own drink.” He tipped his head back with a low, amused sigh—and paused.

The hairs on his neck stirred. Not from fear, but instinct.

He didn’t turn immediately. Just smiled into his goblet, eyes sparkling as he said, “You're not wearing perfume. That’s rare tonight.”

Slowly, lazily, he turned. His gaze landed on you as you emerged from the shadowed archway with far too much purpose.

His smile widened.

“Well,” he said, voice velvet and delight. “You’re new.”

He looked you over like one might appraise an unexpected gift—measuring, intrigued. His body language didn’t shift toward defense, only toward curiosity. No fear, just… amusement.

“You don’t walk like a suitor,” he noted, finishing off the last of his wine. “And you certainly don’t look like a servant. So that leaves assassin, thief… or scandalous admirer.”

He holds out his empty glass towards you. “If it’s the last one, you’re already my favorite. If it’s one of the others…” His grin turned foxlike. “You might want to reconsider. I’m far more trouble than I look.”

A beat passed. Wind tugged at his loose curls. His eyes gleamed. “So? What’ll it be, darling? Kiss or kidnap?”