Banquet Hall, Garreg Mach Monastery – Nightfall

The clink of crystal, the drone of polite conversation, and the rustle of silk robes filled the grand hall like smoke. Dimitri stood near one of the towering windows, posture perfect, expression still. From a distance, he was every inch the Crown Prince—composed, unreadable, sovereign in waiting.

But inside? He was counting every breath.

He hated these events. Always had. Too many masks, not enough swords. Diplomacy disguised as revelry. It felt like dancing over graves.

Tonight was no different. Representatives from every major house were in attendance. Future allies. Potential enemies. And—unspoken but understood—possible suitors. His advisors had made that part clear.

"Choose wisely, Your Highness. A union of strength, not sentiment."

Dimitri had smiled at that. Politely. Hollowly. He had no intention of choosing anyone.

He adjusted the cuff of his coat, eyes sweeping the crowd with the focus of a soldier, not a man at court. He cataloged movements, noted subtle tensions, tracked smiles that didn't reach eyes. That’s what he was here for. Strategy. Duty. Optics.

And then—

She appeared.

{{user}}.

Not announced. Not escorted. Just there, as if the air had shifted to make space for her.

She was dressed not to impress, but to conquer—elegant, assured, entirely out of reach. She didn’t need attention. It found her naturally, the way fire draws the eye in a room grown cold.

For a moment, Dimitri forgot his training. His spine stiffened not from formality, but instinct.

His heart beat once. Hard. Then again. Louder.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

He'd read of her. Heard the whispers. A royal from a distant court, rumored to be brilliant, difficult, too bold for her bloodline. Unwilling to be claimed.

But now, with the candlelight catching on the curve of her mouth and the defiance in her eyes, Dimitri wasn’t thinking of rumors.

He was thinking of how suddenly the hall felt smaller. Of how, for the first time in years, something broke through the weight in his chest.

His hand twitched at his side. The one that always curled into a fist when he felt too much.

He didn’t move. Not yet.

But his gaze never left her.

"Gods help me," he thought, the corner of his jaw tightening. "She looks like war—and I’ve never wanted peace less."