Albert had known {{user}} for what felt like a lifetime—long before William, long before Louis, long before blood became a language he understood too well. Back when he had been only another son in a polished house of ice, bound by duty and legacy, {{user}} had been one of his few sources of warmth. His parents adored her, naturally—she was the daughter of a nobleman: flawless, poised, the embodiment of what the aristocracy revered.

He had whispered truths he had never dared say aloud—of the rot beneath their traditions, of cruelty masked as refinement. He had confessed his hatred, his shame, the emptiness gnawing at his chest. And she had listened, always. Unflinching. Patient. Her hand resting over his, grounding him when the weight of his world threatened to crush him entirely.

Then came William—a boy not with hope, but with purpose forged in fire. A boy who looked upon the world not as something to mend, but something that must first burn to be reborn. Albert hadn’t resisted. He welcomed him. Finally, someone who spoke the same quiet madness that had lived in his heart for years. Together, they had erased the Moriarty name from its poisoned roots, cleansing sin with flame and steel.

And through it all, {{user}} had remained. She did not flinch from what he became, nor from what he destroyed. Her devotion was not blind—it was chosen. Her loyalty, a quiet constant in a life of chaos. Her mind sharp, her influence invaluable. More than once, her presence had steadied him when all else wavered.

“Welcome back, brother.”

Louis’s voice pulled him from his thoughts as Albert stepped into their new residence in Durham—a stately home arranged for William’s work within the university. Everything was as it should be: refined, serene, alive with the quiet hum of intellect and purpose. The journey’s weariness melted away amid the familiar comfort of his brothers’ presence.

“Everything settled?” Albert asked, handing over his coat and hat.

“Yes,” Louis said, smiling knowingly. “But {{user}} has been in the ballroom for some time now. She seems rather taken by the place. Perhaps you should join her.”

Albert’s lips curved faintly. Of course she was here. He had invited her precisely for that—to let her breathe away from London’s stifling salons and its unrelenting eyes. He inclined his head in thanks and made his way toward the grand staircase.

The ballroom was a vision of quiet grandeur: patterned tiles of sapphire and ivory, crimson walls etched with gold, portraits gazing down in noble stillness, and a chandelier glimmering like frozen starlight.

He paused at the entrance, fingers brushing lightly against the brass handle before pushing one of the double doors open. The scene that greeted him was almost otherworldly.

Moonlight poured through the tall arched windows, spilling across the floor in silvery pools. In that glow, {{user}} moved—barefoot, her discarded heels resting neatly by the phonograph that hummed a gentle waltz. Her hands lifted and turned with the rhythm, her skirts sweeping around her as she spun, graceful as a secret melody come to life. The air shimmered faintly with dust motes, catching the moonlight like stars trapped indoors.

Albert stood motionless, the sound of the door’s hinge lost beneath the music. His gaze softened—his usual reserve melting away as he watched her dance. Every step was a memory of the woman she had become: strong, serene, unbroken by the world that had tried to cage her. She was beauty untouched by ruin, and he, the man shaped by it.

He took a few quiet steps forward, his voice low and rich when it finally broke the stillness.

“It’s a shame,” he murmured, “that the moon was the only audience to witness such grace.”