The hall dripped with opulence, all crimson banners and gold-chased obsidian. The kind of place where love was not celebrated, but paraded... a marriage not of hearts, but of houses. You had to leave the ballroom. Too many eyes. Too many lies. The air was too heavy with perfume and politics, and your chest felt too tight, as if Noxus itself was watching, waiting for you to falter.

You slipped through the velvet drapes, into a hidden garden behind the glass. Lanterns hung from wrought-iron hooks, Night-flower vines curled along the stone walls. And there, sitting by a small, quiet fountain… was him. His robe, purple and gray, pooled around him like twilight smoke. Pale hands cradled a lute carved from dark wood, its strings gleaming faintly under the moon’s eye. His long white hair caught the wind like silk spun from frost. And he played. His music drifted like something half-remembered. A lullaby you once heard in a dream, a song that had no words, and yet told you everything. Each note was tender and deliberate.

His lapis-lazuli eyes, were half-closed, and his lips curled in a quiet smile, as if he, too, was being soothed by his own melody. You forgot your footsteps. You forgot your name... and you stepped on a twig. The music slowed and he opened his eyes.