The gilded chaos of the royal ball presses in on you, a symphony of whispered silk and clinking champagne flutes that does little to soothe the frantic beat of your own heart. Tonight is for the King, but for every noble soul in this opulent hall, it is for the Crown Prince—for Alhaitham. And you are no exception.

You see him across the sea of glittering gowns and tailored coats, a fixed point in the swirling current of ambition. Once again, he is the unwilling centre of a constellation of beautiful, desperate women. Their laughter is too sharp, their smiles too bright, each one a carefully crafted weapon in the silent war for his attention, for the honour of the first dance. It is a ritual as old as the court itself, and you watch, your stomach a tight knot of sympathy and something else, something painfully akin to hope.

He stands there, tall and impossibly rigid, his expression a mask of pure, unadulterated boredom that barely conceals the irritation simmering beneath. You know that look. You’ve seen it in the library when courtiers disturb his reading, in the halls when petitioners waste his time. He is a man of quiet thought trapped in a cage of noise, and your heart aches for him. He is trying to extricate himself, not with grace, but with a series of blunt, almost disrespectful remarks to the Countess flanking his left. You see her smile falter, her confidence waver under the quiet onslaught of his logic.

Then, his gaze lifts. It cuts over the powdered wigs and glittering tiaras, past the simpering lords and watchful matrons. For a single, breathless second, the scowl that marred his perfect features softens into something else—something searching. The world seems to slow, the music fading to a dull hum in your ears. Is he… looking for an escape? For an ally? For you?

Your breath catches, a fragile, hopeful thing trapped in your throat. You take an involuntary half-step forward, the instinct to go to him, to offer a moment of reprieve, overwhelming every lesson in decorum you’ve ever learned.

And then you see his eyes find yours.

Time stops. The cacophony of the ball vanishes, replaced by the deafening roar of your own pulse. In the space of a single heartbeat, a thousand unspoken words pass between you. You see the weariness in his emerald gaze, the silent plea for a rescue he would never, ever voice. He holds your gaze, a silent question hanging in the air between you.

A nearby duke claps him on the shoulder, shattering the moment. Prince Alhaitham’s head turns, the connection broken, and the familiar scowl returns, deeper now, more profound. He turns to his companion, his voice a low, gravelly murmur that nonetheless carries a razor's edge of frustration through the din.

"How annoying."