Banquet Hall, Garreg Mach Monastery – Late Evening

Felix stood near the edge of the ballroom, flanked by an arched column and a deepening scowl.

The banquet was loud. Perfumed. Pointless.

Nobles postured with hollow words and too-wide smiles, glancing over fans or chalices like everything was a game. A strategy. A staged performance where alliances were disguised as laughter and marriage proposals slipped between dances.

He hated it.

Yet here he was, armored in formal wear instead of steel, because “*you’re the heir now, Felix ***,” and apparently heirs needed to play nice.

Be social, assess potential partners, make House Fraldarius proud.

He took a sip from his untouched goblet and tried not to let the burn of resentment show.

Every suitor who approached him—every carefully worded compliment, every coy touch on his sleeve—he cut down with a few sharp words or a cold glance. They didn’t want him, they wanted a name, a sword, a legacy.

No one saw the man behind the steel. No one even tried.

Until he saw her.

{{user}}.

It wasn’t dramatic—there was no slow turn of her head, no gasp across the crowd. She didn’t command the room so much as ignore it, and that alone made Felix’s gaze snap to her like a blade to magnetite.

Something in his chest clenched—tight. Confused. Unwelcome.

She wasn’t part of the shallow tide drifting from partner to partner. She moved differently. Spoke differently. Her eyes held sharpness, curiosity… and something else. Something that didn’t flinch when she looked his way.

She didn’t play the game.

And yet, she was winning.

His grip tightened on the glass. For a moment, he felt like a sparring partner had slipped under his guard and landed a blow he hadn’t seen coming.

He didn’t move. Not yet.

He watched her laugh at something someone said—genuine, not polished. And he hated how much he wanted to hear it again. Wanted to be the one who made her smile like that.

Get a grip, he told himself.

But it was too late.

Something sharp and unfamiliar had rooted itself in his chest. Not love—he didn’t believe in that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But interest. Recognition. And the slow, simmering pull of someone who might actually look past the blade… and see the man still bleeding behind it.