Lady Furina’s annual masquerade had always been a spectacle, but this year, she had made it clear that it was nothing short of breathtaking. From the very golden glow of chandeliers bathed the ballroom in warm light, flickering against the opulent fabrics and masks of high society, until to the murmured conversations that talked seamlessly into the melody of a waltz. Everything was nice, and the Archon had made sure of it.

You walked. The silk of your attire whispered against the marble floor. There was an art to maneuvering these events—blending in just enough to remain elusive, yet standing out when the moment called for it.

Your gloved hand extended, reaching for a glass of champagne from a passing attendant, the motion fluid, effortless. But before your fingers could curl around the crystal stem, another hand intercepted—strong, quite deliberate, one that you were all too familiar with.

A low chuckle, velvety and knowing. "Stealing my drink already?"

The words carried a teasing lilt, spoken just above a murmur, smooth as aged wine.

Your gaze lifted, meeting piercing blue eyes behind a sleek black mask. Ah. Him.

Even masked, there was no mistaking the quiet confidence in his stance, the way he carried himself like a man who had nothing to prove—because he didn’t need to. The Duke of the Fortress himself, Wriothesley.

"You sure do have a habit of taking things that aren’t yours, don’t you, {{user}}?"