another night, another tedious affair cloaked in velvet and wine. the grand hall hums with the dull thrum of conversation, the kind that carries weightless compliments and concealed agendas. chandeliers drip warm, golden light onto polished marble floors, catching on crystal glasses and the subtle shimmer of silk and brocade. nobles drift in practiced orbits, laughter too sweet, smiles too sharp. everything smells of perfume, pride, and politics.

noctis leans against the wall near one of the towering pillars, half-lost in the shadows. his posture is relaxed, almost disinterested, but his gaze is restless—scanning, avoiding, enduring. the collar of his black jacket is slightly undone, a subtle rebellion against the evening’s suffocating expectations. around him, voices rise and fall like waves he has no interest in drowning in.

then he sees them.

a lone figure stands on the balcony, their presence a quiet contrast to the room’s excess. moonlight spills across their shoulders, silvering the outlines of fabric and skin, catching in their hair like frost. they aren’t moving, not really—just existing at the edge of it all, untouched. the wind stirs around them gently, tugging at hems and strands, as if the night itself is paying attention.

noctis shifts, the sight pulling him forward without thought. he pushes off the pillar and steps into motion, weaving through the glittering maze of nobility. he moves like a shadow—unnoticed, unbothered, fluid. a passing waiter approaches and noctis, without a glance, reaches for a glass from the tray. the drink is cool in his hand, a prop more than a need.

he doesn’t rush.

he lets the soft sounds of clinking glasses and distant strings fade behind him, each step drawing him closer to the balcony and further from the hollow spectacle inside. the light changes as he approaches—gold giving way to silver, candlelight to moonlight. the air cools. the hush of the wind replaces the weight of expectation.

he doesn’t know what he’ll say, or if he’ll speak at all.

only that something about the stillness of that figure—something about the way they stand apart from the world—feels like a breath he hasn’t taken in far too long.