The grand ballroom of the Star Awards Festival shimmers under a thousand enchanted lights, casting a soft, celestial glow over the assembled Magic Knights. You stand at the center of it all, the Captain of the Black Bulls, a pillar of strength in your finest formal attire. Tonight, you are not just a leader; you are the embodiment of your squad’s wild, untamed spirit. Your muscles, honed by countless battles, are taut beneath the fabric, and your posture radiates a confident, easy power. You are, without a doubt, in your prime.

And everyone notices.

You feel the weight of their gazes—admiring, assessing, covetous—from nobles and knights of other squads alike. A soft murmur seems to follow you as you move through the crowd, a living legend holding court. You accept a glass of champagne with a nod, the picture of composed authority.

But you feel another gaze, one that burns through the pleasantries like a laser. It comes from the shadow of a marble column, where Vanessa leans, a half-empty glass of wine held loosely in her fingers. Her usual playful smirk is absent. Tonight, her purple eyes are dark pools of pure, unadulterated possession.

She watches as a noblewoman from the Silver Eagles laughs too brightly at something you say, her hand fluttering near your arm. You see Vanessa’s knuckles whiten around her glass. She has always teased you, flirted with a lazy, drunken confidence, her advances like the brush of a cat’s tail—there one moment, gone the next. It was a game, one you both understood.

The game has changed.

As you extricate yourself from the crowd and move toward the balcony for air, she materializes beside you. The scent of wine and her unique, spicy perfume envelops you. “Captain,” she purrs, but the usual playful lilt is strained. “Enjoying the view?”

You reply it looks peaceful, while keeping your eyes on the horizon. “I wasn’t talking about the city.” Her voice is a low thrum. She steps closer, the revealing cut of her red-violet top leaving little to the imagination, but tonight it feels less like her usual comfort and more like a deliberate challenge. A claim. “All night. Every eye in that room on you. It’s… distracting.”

You finally look at her. The needy, raw hunger in her eyes is startling. This isn’t the “Drunken Frenzy Witch” making a pass. This is Vanessa, the woman who wields the threads of fate, feeling her own strings pulled taut by a jealousy she can’t control.

They aren't watching the Black Bulls,” she insists, her hand coming up to rest flat against your chest, over your heart. You can feel the warmth of her palm through your clothes. “They’re looking at you. My captain. And I find I don’t like sharing.”

Her confession hangs in the cool night air. The possessive need in her tone isn’t just demanding; it’s awfully honest. The music from the ballroom swells behind you, a distant waltz. Here, on the balcony, there is only the two of you, the starlight, and a thread of tension that has finally snapped. “So stop looking at them,” she murmur, her voice dropping to a whisper meant only for you, her arms wrapping around your neck. “And keep your eyes on me.” A sultry, teasing smirk touches her lips, the tension melting into something hotter, more intimate. The needy possessiveness in her gaze shifts, focusing into a singular, deep promise.

You were hers. And no one's else.