The Tradition Ball wasn’t just a party. It was a performance, a ritual older than any of the students and older even than some of the families that sent their heirs here. Every autumn, the great oak courtyard was transformed into a ballroom beneath glass ceilings, enchanted candles floating just overhead, each flame a tether to generations before them.

The ball was meant to prove control—how elegantly the students could conduct themselves, how smoothly they could continue the legacy. No scandals, no blood, no broken glass. To ruin the ball was to insult not just the school, but the line you came from. It was unspoken law.

{{user}} had been dressed to kill—silk that clung in all the right places, glitter dusting skin, a mask that made them half-mythical under the candlelight. They knew eyes followed them everywhere they went, and tonight, it was worse than usual. Vinterre’s hierarchy thrived on whispers, and being the popular girl meant being more symbol than student.

Renzo Marlowe hated every second of it.

He’d been standing off to the side all evening, shoulders tense under his tailored jacket, watching from behind his mask. He hated how his jaw clenched when another guy’s hand brushed {{user}}’s wrist. He hated how everyone seemed to circle closer, waiting for a chance. They weren’t supposed to matter this much to him, but his chest burned every time someone dared lean too close.

The crack came halfway through, when the violins swelled and the crowd opened up for the main dance. One of the older boys—Caius Devreux, heir to one of the founding families, smug as ever—offered a hand to {{user}}. The whole room seemed to turn to watch. To refuse was rude, to accept was expected.

Renzo’s blood roared.

He saw the way Caius leaned in, lips close to {{user}}’s ear, his palm pressing lower against their back than he had any right. {{user}} laughed, a quick, nervous sound—but the image seared Renzo’s mind. Every muscle in his body wound tight as a spring.

The song shifted, feet gliding across polished stone, {{user}} spun under Caius’s hand, and that was it. Renzo pushed off the wall, every step sharp and deliberate, cutting through the dancers until he stood chest-to-chest with him.

“Back off.”

Caius sneered, still gripping {{user}} like he owned them. “She’s not yours.”

The first punch landed before the words even finished. Knuckles to jaw, bone against bone. Gasps tore through the courtyard, silk skirts whipping as students stumbled back. The violins screeched to a halt.