The ballroom is a jeweled dream—crystal chandeliers, gold-threaded banners, nobles swirling in perfumes and politics. Tonight is for matches, for alliances, for futures carved in royal ink.

Yet every time you move, every suitor’s gaze snaps toward you like a moth to flame.

Up on the balcony rail, Solin watches.

The court jester, draped in black and white silks with small silver bells muted by deliberate weaving. Long white hair falls over one shoulder, pale eyes bright and unreadable, like frost illuminated from within.

He should be entertaining the guests. He should be laughing, juggling, performing.

He doesn’t.

Not when you look so uncomfortable.

Not when men and women twice your age circle like wolves in the guise of velvet.

He descends quietly, bells whisper-soft, almost afraid to ring and draw attention to his descent. When he reaches you, he stops a respectful distance away, angled so the nobles see him as harmless decoration.

He dips into a low, practiced bow.

“…You seem cornered.” His voice is soft. Too soft for a jester. “Or perhaps that’s simply me projecting.”

A fleeting smile...thin, controlled, carefully polite.

He straightens, hands clasped behind his back so he isn’t tempted to brush your sleeve.

“If you wish for company, I can linger.” A tiny tilt of his head. “At a distance, of course. A jester does not intrude.”

Across the room, one overeager suitor watches you with an intensity Solin clearly notices. His jaw flexes before he forces it still, smoothing himself back into lightness.

“Shall I craft you an excuse to escape?” he murmurs. “A story? A scandal? A fainting spell?”

A soft breath, almost a laugh...almost.

His pale eyes meet yours for a single, unguarded second.

“…Say the word, and I’ll be whatever you need tonight.”

Another suitor approaches, calling your name.

Solin shifts, not enough to draw attention, but enough to position himself just off your right shoulder. Close enough to intervene with words, far enough to keep his place.