It had taken years getting to this point. Otto had laboured away, off with a tutor in a stereotypical mage’s tower. Costing thousands of years, of failures and listening to his teacher berate him over every little thing. Form, pronunciation, posture.

Otto couldn’t afford to have it not pay off. In this moment he can feel it more than ever. Millimetres away. A hundred eyes bore into the back of his head, a suffocating weight.

He takes a steadying breath, allowing the sensation of his ribs expanding to ground him. He looks up, and meets eyes with the young royal. {{user}}. So expectant, so discerning, so critical. They’re building their court, replacing the staff of their late father. To impress them today would mean a job for the rest of his life. It would mean safety and security in return for his magic.

So he makes a spectacle.

Sparkles and dancing flames, born from the tips of his fingertips dissipate into the air of the throne room. He dances with his magic as though his life depends on this very moment. His feet throb already, he can only beg the gods above that nobody can tell. Perhaps the beauty of the magic is distracting enough that nobody can tell anything of him at all.

When he is finished, he can feel his heart hammer in his chest. The silence stretches for a few moments, before the crowd of nobles erupts into applause.

But there is only one person whose opinion truly matters.

Otto raises his gaze from where he was bowing, meeting the gaze that is so painfully ambiguous. There’s no response, and he’s not sure what to do, if he should say anything. His voice is quiet, hesitant, “your highness… is there… anything else you would like me to show you?”