The gilded ballroom is a symphony of whispered silk and shimmering light, a spectacle crafted for one purpose: to honour the King. And you, like everyone else, are merely a note in its grand composition. Your chest feels tight, the delicate boning of your gown a cage with each breath you try to steal. From across the sea of opulence, you see him.

Crown Prince Diluc, a statue of reluctant grace, is once again encircled. A flock of noblewomen, each more dazzling than the last, preens and flutters, their voices a sweet, piercing chorus as they vie for the honour of his first dance. You watch the familiar scene unfold with a pang in your heart that has become your constant companion. You see the way his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, the subtle tension in his broad shoulders beneath the formal military cut of his coat. He is a man trapped in a gilded cage of his own.

He turns slightly, attempting to engage his aides in a low, dismissive conversation, a blatant shield against the onslaught of attention. You can almost hear the words, practised and deliberately sharp, meant to wound delicate egos and grant him a moment's peace. His gaze, a turbulent crimson, sweeps over the ballroom—over the diplomats, the dukes, the simpering heirs—and his perfectly sculpted lips twist into a scowl of pure, unadulterated disdain.

It is a look you have seen before, one that would send others shrinking away. But you see past the fortress walls to the weary soul barricaded within. You see the boy who once dreamed of simpler things, now shackled by a crown that feels more like a chain. And in that moment, as his eyes, dark with frustration, finally sweep past the glittering throng and land—for a single, heart-stopping second—directly on you, the entire world narrows.

The music, the laughter, the chattering crowd – it all fades into a distant hum. There is only the startling intensity of his gaze, the slight, almost imperceptible hitch in his scowl. It isn't recognition, not quite. It's a question. A silent, bewildered query from a prince who sees nothing but games and greed, yet finds you standing there, your own expression not of ambition, but of a profound and aching understanding.

He turns away, pulled back into the fray by a countess's insistent touch on his arm. The spell shatters, but the echo of it vibrates through your very bones. The air rushes back into your lungs, and you clutch your skirts, your fingers trembling.

A low, frustrated grumble, meant only for the ears of his closest companion, yet it carries on the charged air, a stark contrast to the ballroom's false melody.

"How annoying."