Every fall, the palace held its most gilded tradition: a royal ball where noble houses paraded their heirs like gems, and the newly
come-of-age took their first steps into the ruthless dance of high society.
The ballroom shimmered beneath golden chandeliers, their light refracted into a hundred dazzling stars by crystal and polished marble.
The air was rich with perfume and the citrus-sweet scent of chilled juice—grape, apple, and peach—served in slender glass flutes on silver trays. Strings of waltz floated through the air, the kind of music that made even the stiffest nobles sway.
Silks swept the floors. Laughter spun like ribbon through the crowd.
Yet all eyes awaited the arrival of the crown prince—still unwed—and his striking knight, the subject of more than a few redirected
affections.
Whispers fluttered behind jeweled fans, as hopefuls measured one another with glances sharp as blades, each aiming for the same glittering prize—the title of crown princess, future empress.
The whispers fell silent at the clear chime of the herald's voice:
"His Royal Highness, Crown Prince August Voltair"
As the doors opened, the ballroom hushed. Every gaze turned towards the grand entrance.
The prince entered draped in deep violet silk, with long black hair flowing loose down his back like a raven's feathers. His violet
eyes, sharp and unreadable, swept across the room without settling. He moved with the effortless poise of one born to rule—his steps soundless, his gaze cool.
There was something untouchable about him. Not aloof, but distant—as if he belonged to a world just beyond theirs. The air seemed to still in his wake.
Gasps whispered through the crowd like wind through silk. Nobles bowed low, curtsies deepened, but few dared to meet his eyes. Regal, controlled, and unknowable—he was a vision carved in obsidian and amethyst,
cloaked not just in finery, but in the weight of the crown to come.
At his side, a step behind, followed his knight.
Sir Caelan Grey moved with disciplined grace. His dirty blond hair, cropped short, framed a face both stern and quietly captivating. A thin scar cut through his right brow; another traced the edge of his lips, and
a final mark lingered along the left side of his jaw–faint, but unmistakable.
His burnished brown-red eyes flicked briefly across the room—evaluating, noting faces—but never for long. He was a handsome man: broad-shouldered, straight-backed, his black uniform sharp at the cuffs. The crest of the royal guard gleamed over his heart.
His presence, though silent, added weight to the crown prince's already commanding entrance.
Eyes lingered. Not just on royalty, but on the knight who walked like a shadow beside it. Whispers resumed–softer now, edged with
curiosity and something keener. Interest. Fascination.
"They resemble a tale from the old epics, do they not?" a lady murmured behind her lace fan, eyes on the prince and his knight.
"Light and shadow, side by side."
"Indeed," said another. "Sir Caelan could charm the stars from the sky if he so desired."
Others whispered too, quieter still, their words sharpened by curiosity. Some spoke of his gaze—fearsome, they said. Though more than one voice found it entrancing.
A laugh followed, delicate and sly. "He's the sort who steals hearts without even glancing their way."
Speculations twined with fantasies. "It's said he takes lovers in the dark of night," one voice said, the edge of envy unmistakable.
"And yet," came the delicate reply, "no woman has ever claimed to be the one."
The murmurs soon turned toward the prince.
"And His Highness?" another asked, voice lowered. "Is it true he's to select a bride soon?"
A third voice chimed In, measured and amused. "Lady Nyrella is said to be a candidate."
"Perhaps," came the sly reply, "but rumor says her attentions lie elsewhere entirely."
The murmurs softened, yet their echoes lingered—eyes still drawn to the knight with quiet yearning and unspoken questions. Curiosity, once cloaked in whispers, began to unfurl into action. But while attention gathered around Sir Caelan, the crown prince remained apart, his own presence stirring a
different kind of silence.
Few dared approach the crown prince. Not because he was unkind—on the contrary, August Voltair was unfailingly courteous—but because there was a chill to him, something imperceptible yet undeniable. His every movement was precise, every smile measured. Polite, composed, and always at a remove.
Even those bold enough to offer him a dance met only with a gentle refusal, delivered with such grace it could hardly be called a rejection. No one pressed. No one lingered.
And so, the rumors began. Some claimed it was strategy—that the prince kept his distance to remain above courtly games. Others whispered of a curse, that any who dared touch him would suffer misfortune. A foolish tale, perhaps, but no less potent in a ballroom where superstition clung to silk and
perfume like a second skin.
Sir Caelan, on the other hand, drew attention of a different sort.
Over the years, many noblewomen had asked him for a dance—drawn by his presence like moths to a cold, distant flame. He never refused, and he never lingered. His hand was always steady, his steps precise, his parting nods polite. No rumor clung to him. No scandal ever found purchase.
Tonight was no different.
No sooner had the crown prince taken his seat than the current of the room shifted. Like petals turning toward the sun, one lady after
another rose with practiced grace, their silks whispering across marble as they made their way toward the knight. They left behind noble partners and whispered promises, each seeking a turn on the floor with Sir Caelan Grey.
And so, the other young men—some barely of age, others seasoned in the art of courtship—found themselves dancing with lesser company, or not at all, as the shadow beside the prince became the center of attention.
Murmurs soured. Bows grew stiffer. Smiles turned brittle.
"Look at him," one nobleman drawled, just loud enough to carry. "No title, no name worth remembering, yet they swoon as if he were royalty."
A scoff. "Tch. A mongrel In uniform is still a mutt."
Laughter followed—not loud, but sharp. Deliberate.
Another voice, cooler and more venomous, slipped through a ring of crystal goblets. "Perhaps he's collecting handkerchiefs to sew himself a pedigree."
Caelan didn't miss a word. As he spun his partner, his gaze slid momentarily toward the last speaker—the one still smirking over his own wit.
And he smiled.
Not kindly. Not cruelly. But with a deliberate, slow tilt of his lips that cut cleaner than any blade. A silent mockery. A challenge
unspoken.
Then he dipped the lady in his arms with effortless grace, a half-turn sharper than necessary, the motion crisp and controlled. As if to say: This is my answer. Watch me.
The nobleman's smirk faltered.
Caelan didn't glance back.
He didn't need to.
The crowd watched, momentarily breathless—unaware that the only gaze Caelan truly answered to had not left him once.
From his seat, Crown Prince August watched in silence, his expression unreadable.
Caelan moved through the crowd with effortless grace, each step sharp with discipline—until it wasn't. A spin just a touch too fluid. A bow held a heartbeat longer than necessary. The faintest smirk aimed at a
particularly bitter noble whose comment had been a shade too loud.
He was putting on a show. For the room, yes—but mostly for August. As he always did.
August didn't react. Not outwardly. His eyes lingered for a moment longer, then slid away, his fingers tightening slightly around the stem of his glass.
"Hopeless show-off," he thought, and the ghost of a smile flickered across his lips, letting the moment stretch—just long enough for something to slip past his attention.