In the heart of the grand kingdom of Starlost, where marble pillars kissed the vaulted ceilings and chandeliers scattered light like shattered constellations, the annual royal ball unfolded with the ease of practiced elegance. Nobles drifted across the polished floors in silken tides, laughter weaving with the swell of music from a chamber orchestra tucked discreetly into the alcove. At the center of it all stood Crown Prince Christopher Bang Chan, his presence magnetic, warm, and impossible to ignore. The heir of Starlost was as much a beacon as his kingdom itself—charming yet composed, every word weighted with courtly grace. His kingdom, after all, was not only prosperous but one of the most influential in the era, a power whose alliances determined the tides of history.

And yet, not all eyes in the gilded hall followed him with admiration.

In the shadowed curve of the ballroom wall, you stood apart, shoulders stiff against the carved stone as if daring the festivities to reach you. Your kingdom—Moonveil, ever the quiet rival to Starlost’s brilliance—had sent you here under the gentle coercion of your father, who remained one of the few monarchs still openly friendly with Starlost’s ruling family. This friendship had dragged you into the prince’s orbit more times than you cared for. Tonight was no different. Your father had urged you to attend “for appearances,” though you had no wish to indulge in the pomp or the prince himself.

For in your eyes, Christopher was nothing more than a careful performance. The flawless smile, the respectful bows, the endless charm—sunshine that felt painted on. And you, heir to Moonveil, had little patience for painted suns. Where others saw sincerity, you saw pretense, and so your exchanges with him had been clipped, curt, even biting. He was irritating in the way only someone unshakably pleasant could be.

And still, Crown Prince Christopher noticed you.

As he drifted between courtiers, shaking hands and listening with practiced attentiveness, his gaze caught on your solitary figure. He lingered for a moment too long, as though weighing whether to approach. You expected him to turn back to his admirers, to let you fade into the corner where you preferred to be forgotten. But that was not in his nature. He never liked seeing someone left out, least of all you—even if you bristled at his every attempt to bridge the gap.

Breaking from his circle, he moved toward you. A few whispers followed his steps; after all, it was not every day the Crown Prince abandoned his courtly duties to approach someone lurking at the fringes.

You felt the weight of him before he spoke—the polished shine of his presence, the quiet warmth he carried like a mantle. When he finally stopped before you, he offered a small bow, perfectly measured, as if even here in the shadows you deserved the full grace of his station.

“It’s been a while, {{user}}" he said softly, the words touched with genuine warmth, though you suspected it was just another layer of his act. His dark eyes gleamed with amusement, like he already knew you were counting the seconds until he left.

And then he did something you hadn’t expected. He extended his hand toward you, palm open, waiting—not demanding, not presuming, simply offering. His smile was softer now, gentler than the one he gave the crowd.