The sea had turned to ink under the moonlight.

Waves lapped softly at the palace’s edge, their rhythm echoing beneath the floor of pearl-stone tiles. Music spilled from the grand ballroom—harps and lyres layered with the soft, seductive pulse of a drum. Light shimmered from enchanted lanterns that hovered in the air like fireflies, painting gold across silk gowns and polished armor.

Tarquin moved through the crowd like a current through coral—graceful, quiet, unobtrusive, yet never still. Courtiers smiled as he passed. Some bowed. Some watched with ambition thinly veiled behind civility. He gave them all the same polite nod, the same measured calm. But his mind was elsewhere.

He had hosted a dozen such balls since becoming High Lord. Each one had been flawless, beautiful… and painfully hollow. Masks. Games. Politics disguised as compliments. He was young, they whispered. Too young to understand what power required. Too young to rule without strings.

He had come to accept their underestimation.

Until he saw her.

He crossed to her before thinking.

“I see I’m not the only one avoiding small talk,” he said quietly, the corner of his mouth lifting.