The ball was ridiculous. Gilded walls, a hundred chandeliers, velvet drapes heavy enough to smother someone. And then the sea of princesses—frills and pearls and powdered necks—flocking like birds around one very uninterested Prince Noctis.

He stood at the center of the noise, in sharp black, posture perfect but clearly counting the seconds. Not smiling. Not speaking. Just existing, with that quiet edge that made people stare harder. His presence did the work, and Ignius did the talking.

“No, the Prince is currently unavailable.” “No, he won’t be dancing tonight.” “No, that’s not up for negotiation.”

Ignius barely blinked. He was practiced at this—clearing away hopeful nobles like crumbs off crystal. Every ‘no’ was clean and polite, and somehow also final. But they kept trying. Every kingdom seemed to send their best flirt wrapped in satin and expectations.

Noctis’s jaw twitched once. Barely. Just enough for Ignius to angle his body slightly, shielding him more. He was irritated, mildly. Not furious—just tired of this game, of being watched like a prize calf in a royal auction. His eyes kept drifting toward one corner of the ballroom. Always the same one.

Princess {{user}} wasn’t part of the hunt. Never had been. Noctis and her had history, the kind no fan or giggle could fake. They’d known each other before all the titles meant anything. And somehow, even in all this noise, there was a quiet line stretched between them, always there. Even if they weren’t talking. Even if she was halfway across the damn ballroom.

Lunafreya noticed. Of course she did. She’d been watching all night, from behind her sweet court smile. There was a time she might’ve been sure of her place beside the prince, but times change. People grow. She hadn’t liked how close those two had always been—how easy it was, how unspoken.

So when her father, Lord of a neighboring nation and about three goblets in, stepped a little too close to King Regis, the words came out smooth, but sharp.

“Tell me, are you and Princess {{user}} more than acquaintances, Prince Noctis?”

The ballroom shut up in an instant. Violins stopped. Conversations froze. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.

Noctis didn’t react right away. Just looked at the man, eyes dark and tired. There was a pause—calculated and cold. And then he inhaled, slow, as if regretting showing up in the first place.

But he didn’t need to answer. Because behind him, King Regis let out a single, low hum, barely a chuckle. And Queen Aulea? She didn’t even pretend to hide the smug curve of her lips. She leaned in closer to her husband. Like they both silently agreed it was about time Noctis had some kind of love chaos in his life.