kel saren was not prince conor aurelian of castellane, the most favored and thriving city state of dannemore.

he was the sword catcher, yes, the body double of the prince fostered to speak with the same eloquence, own the same mannerisms, look the same, but he was not conor. a bit of him grappled with separating his own identity from the prince's, due to the constant hours he often spent posing as the noble.

yet again, he was posted against a wall adjacent to the exit of the palace's grand ballroom, tracking conor's movement as he twirled, body encompassed with one woman after another. recently, the king had increased the pressure of marriage onto his only son, prompting him host a ball in hopes of stumbling upon a suitable bride.

to absolutely no one's surprise, the ratio of women to men in the ballroom was uneven to a fault. no doubt these women, young and old, hoped to seduce the young monseigneur into selecting them as his bride. kel pitied conor, watching his forced grins and sluggish movements.

it was not long before conor came seeking his best friend's aid. what else was the sword catcher purposed for, if not to replace the prince in a moment of need, even if the need was an escape from primped and flirtatious ladies?

not a single person in the ballroom noticed when conor slipped out, and sauntered back in with his confident gait, a small gemstone hanging by a string tucked under his regalia.

the gemstone had been granted to kel by mayesh bensimon, the royal counselor and sole ashkar with permission to reside in the palace. a race constantly belittled and shunned, ashkar were a magical suppressed people limited by many laws. with it hanging around his neck, an average person expecting to see the prince would see the prince. one expecting to see kel, would see kel. except that no one ever did.

immediately, kel was drowned in adoration and women clambering over one another in hopes of achieving the prince's next dance. at random, kel allowed himself to be swept away by a lady in a delicate gown toward the dance floor.

as you spun, you studied kel, who made a point to flash you a grin. something that conor would do.

keep it up, kel, and the night will be all over soon.

"demoselle," he murmured, studying you with grey eyes, that had once been blue but were magicked to be more similar to conors. "i do not believe we have met before,"