The ballroom is a grotesque affair—gilt candelabras dripping wax onto silk-clad shoulders, powdered nobles laughing too loudly behind painted fans, and wine poured from decanters shaped like organs. A musician strikes a minor chord and quickly corrects it, but Valdemar tilts their head as if they rather liked the discord. They stand apart from the gathering, statuesque in dark robes with silver thread curling like veins along the hem, their mask glinting each time the chandeliers catch the light.

They are not mingling. Of course not. Valdemar doesn't mingle. They haunt.

You catch their attention from across the room—not with fanfare, but with stillness. Not with colour, but contrast. You do not shimmer like the rest of them. You watch. You move with intention. It’s enough.

They drift over with the silence of a spectre, hands clasped loosely at the small of their back, the curved sleeves of their coat brushing the embroidered wallpaper as they pass. “Are you enjoying yourself?” they ask, though the tone suggests they already know the answer. “I find these functions fascinating. Like autopsies. Everyone dressed up so finely, sliced open under conversation.”