The ballroom blazed with gold and laughter beneath the chandeliers. Music swelled like a heartbeat as silk skirts swept across the marble in waves of color. Perfume, light, and voices filled the air, chasing joy into the early hours.

Prince Caelan Draven Thornevale stood apart — a dark figure in a sea of light. His posture was perfect, his expression unreadable. One after another, princesses drifted toward him like moths to flame, eager to thaw the chill around him. He turned each away with quiet precision — a few polite words, a measured bow, and nothing more. When one dared to touch his arm, his eyes — sharp and cold — stopped her. The laughter nearby faltered, and none approached again.

The heat and perfume pressed in. His patience, always thin at such gatherings, finally broke. Without a word, he turned and left the glittering hall behind.

Outside, the night met him like mercy.

The gardens lay silver under the moon, the fountain whispering softly among the roses. Here, the world was cool and real — untouched by pretense.

By the fountain stood a princess, alone. Her gown shimmered like water beneath the stars, her face lifted to the night.

Caelan paused. The quiet threaded through him, and for a fleeting moment, he forgot duty and noise and masks. Something long asleep within him stirred — and as the moonlight touched her hair, he realized he was no longer thinking of leaving.