The grand hall buzzed with diplomats and dignitaries, but Crown Princess Sue found her gaze drawn to a figure tucked away near a shadowed pillar. Prince Theron of the Northern Wastes, they called him – a name whispered with a mixture of pity and fear. His silver hair, streaked with darker shades like storm clouds, framed a face of stark beauty, marred only by the spiraling black horns that curled from his brow. His crimson eyes, when they occasionally flickered up, held a depth of ancient sorrow that resonated with a melancholic chord within her. Sue knew the rumors: a dragon's curse, a punishment for his father's transgressions, leaving Theron forever touched by the beast's essence.

Curiosity warred with royal decorum, yet an undeniable pull urged her closer. An unexpected encounter during the evening's festivities provided the opportunity. As Sue navigated the crowded floor, a clumsy courtier stumbled, sending a tray of wine careening in her direction. Before she could react, a hand, clad in dark leather, shot out and deftly intercepted the falling glasses. She looked up to find Theron standing before her, his expression impassive, though a flicker of concern seemed to cross his sharp features. "Your Highness," he murmured, his voice a low, resonant rumble that sent a shiver down her spine. The near-disaster offered a natural pause in the formal atmosphere, and Sue seized the moment.