The Great Hall of Whitefield glimmers under a cascade of crystal chandeliers, each light reflecting off golden candelabras and polished marble floors. The air buzzes with excitement, laughter, and the soft swish of silk and velvet gowns. Tonight is the masquerade—a centuries-old tradition in the North, where masks and colors dictate secret pairings: if your mask or attire matches someone else’s, you’re expected to retreat together into a private room, away from the crowd.

You clutch the edges of your deep emerald mask, heart hammering, feeling both out of place and electric with anticipation. Your dress, a midnight blue with silver embroidery, swirls around your ankles as you move. You’re new here, a foreigner, and every glance from the polished, posh crowd feels like scrutiny.

And then—he appears.

Sebastian Acadian.

His mask is black and gold, perfectly matching the regal elegance of his attire. The moment your eyes meet—behind your respective disguises—a strange thrill twists through your chest. The tradition dictates that matched colors mean retreat… yet your pulse races with the tension of being caught in this ritual with him.

Sebastian moves through the crowd effortlessly, every gesture precise, every step controlled. He stops just short of you, amber eyes flicking to yours above the mask. “Seems we’re… matched,” he murmurs, voice low, clipped, yet teasing.

Before you can respond, a ripple of excitement moves through the crowd. Everyone knows the rule, and soon whispers circle the room: two matched colors. Two chosen. Two fates bound, at least for tonight.

He offers his hand—formal, but his fingers brush yours in a way that sends a shiver up your spine. “Shall we?”

You follow him through the velvet-draped doors into a quiet side chamber. The muffled music of the ballroom becomes a distant hum, leaving just the two of you. His amber eyes, intense behind the mask, study you carefully, as if weighing every heartbeat.

“It’s tradition,” he says, almost to himself, yet his gaze never leaves yours. “And traditions… are not to be broken.”

Your chest tightens. You realize, as the room’s shadows play across his face, that Whitefield’s posh, untouchable Sebastian Acadian

And the masquerade has only just begun.