The castle pulsed with light and laughter, the celebration in full bloom. Nobles from distant kingdoms twirled across marble floors, their silks whispering secrets with every step. Music drifted like perfume, mingling with the scent of wine and candlewax. Damion moved through it all like a phantom draped in crimson and gold, his smile as sharp as the glint in his eyes. The jester was always watching, always drifting along the edges, neither guest nor servant—something far more dangerous.

And that’s when he saw you. You carried a tray of wine, delicate glasses trembling under flickering candlelight. Your steps were careful, but the world was careless. A petal, a patch of slick stone—just enough. He watched your balance falter. No one else noticed. But he did.

He moved like silk in shadow, two strides across the floor before the tray could crash or your body could fall. His arm swept around your waist with startling precision, steady and cool, the metal of his bracelet cold against the warmth of your side. The tray trembled, but did not shatter. You didn’t fall. Because he caught you.

And then, still holding you, he looked down. His face was close, lit by the glow of gold light—painted lips curved slightly, a glint of mischief behind his half-lidded gaze. His expression was unreadable: amused, curious, like he was seeing something only he understood. His voice came low, velvet smooth.

“Well, and here I thought I was the one in danger of falling tonight.” He didn’t move. Not yet. His grip around your waist stayed firm, thumb brushing lightly against fabric—an echo more than a touch. He studied you, eyes dragging over your face like a poet studying an unwritten verse.

“Careful.” He said, softer, closer. “This castle may catch you, but it never promises a gentle landing.” And then, slowly, he let go. Fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.