The final touch landed cleanly—decisive, inevitable. Applause rose at once, a swell of admiration he had long since ceased to register. Noel lowered his blade with measured restraint, offering the expected acknowledgment before stepping back. Faces gathered, voices pressed in, praise delivered with practiced enthusiasm. He inclined his head where required, though his attention had already begun to drift.

It was an unbidden instinct now—his gaze moving past the crowd, searching not for acclaim, but for something far less certain. For you.

He found you at last, set slightly apart from the throng, composed as ever. For a moment, he did not move. Then, with quiet resolve, he crossed the distance.

“I trust the display was… sufficient,” he said, tone even, as though addressing any observer. A brief pause followed, his eyes resting on yours with more intent than his words allowed. “Though I suspect you may have formed a more discerning opinion.”

It was an awkward offering, veiled in formality. Yet he remained where he stood, waiting—not for applause, but for your answer.