The ballroom sparkled like a magically-polished snow globe set to "maximum enchantment." Light glimmered from a thousand enchanted chandeliers, bouncing across the mirrored floors and making even the most rigid nobles look vaguely ethereal. And right in the middle of it all stood Arila Vellion, the eye of a very sparkly storm.
Her entrance had been a full-blown event. People were still whispering about the cocktail-length dress, the scandalous reveal of both knees and shoulders, and the air of magical mystery she carried like a cloak. Her parents stood at her side like a pair of proud final bosses—elegant, composed, and clearly delighted to have dropped a fashionable bomb into the royal ballroom.
But Arila?
Arila was seconds away from snapping.
She offered a smile to the latest passing duke who looked like he wanted to ask if her dress was legal, then leaned toward Lira with all the grace of a woman plotting an exit.
"If I don't locate the snack table in the next ninety seconds, I will start eating my own soul."
Lira, ever the dutiful shadow, whispered, "Right wing, under the crystal phoenix."
Arila didn't wait. She bowed politely to the nearest cluster of nobles, offered a vague excuse about being drawn to the aesthetics of hors d'oeuvres, and made her graceful escape. Lira followed with that noblewoman's walk that screamed, "this is entirely appropriate and not a mission of desperation."
The moment Arila spotted the long buffet table glittering with pastries and miniature magical confections, her entire being relaxed like a soldier finding shelter after battle.
"By the gods, yes," she murmured, eyeing a tray of lemon tarts with the reverence of a pilgrim. "The true royalty has arrived."
She delicately picked one up, examined it like a tiny edible artifact, and took a bite.
"Flaky. Passive-aggressive. Notes of unresolved trauma. I respect that."
Ninko, who had remained invisible but never far, plucked a mini éclair from a nearby silver platter with one tail and vanished again.
Arila didn't blink.
"Don't get sugar drunk," she warned under her breath. "You know you start licking nobles when you do."
Lira hovered nearby, trying to look dignified as her lady carefully curated a dessert plate like it was a battle loadout.
"You can't hide at the snack table all evening," she whispered.
"I'm not hiding," Arila said. "I'm observing. Strategic recon. This is the fondant high ground."
Lira sighed.
"And what do you observe, commander?"
Arila popped a cherry macaron into her mouth and scanned the room. Nobles. Sparkle. Fake smiles. Minor noble daughters trying not to trip on floor-length gowns. Two older ladies judging her hemline with the silent intensity of courtroom jurors.
She waved at them sweetly. One flinched.
"I observe terror," Arila said cheerfully. "And envy. But mostly terror."
Across the ballroom, stationed like particularly handsome gargoyles near an enormous enchanted ice sculpture of a peacock, the four most eligible noble bachelors of the kingdom were not-so-subtly observing back.
Julian Vexhart leaned against a column like it owed him rent, smiling in that charmingly dangerous way that made mothers panic and daughters swoon. He nudged Lucien.
"She's eating that éclair like it insulted her. I'm in love."
"You're always in love," Vincent said flatly.
"Yes," Julian said, dreamily. "But this time it's with a girl who critiques pastries like they're national policy. She's a muse."
Lucien glanced over, quietly amused. He had the faintest hint of a smile on his face, which for him was basically a public declaration of joy.
"She's certainly... unique."
"She's unpredictable," Darian muttered, arms crossed. "She didn't follow a single etiquette cue during introductions."
Julian looked to Lucien with mock seriousness.
"If a cute girl enters a royal ballroom in scandalous silk, makes cake jokes, and carries an aura of chaotic mystery—is it legal to propose on the spot?"
Lucien deadpanned, "Please don't get arrested at my birthday ball."
Meanwhile, Arila was about to bite into a second lemon tart when fate struck. She sensed it first—a shift in the air, the prickling awareness of being targeted.
She turned.
Julian, Vincent, Lucien, and Darian were approaching.
"Incoming," Arila muttered. "The full rom-com roster. I didn't bring enough charisma for this."
Julian arrived first, all smiles and swoopy hair.
"There you are, my mysterious meringue."
"I'm pretending I didn't hear that."
Vincent surveyed her dessert plate.
"You seem too calm for someone under this much scrutiny."
Arila looked up at him, deadpan.
"I internalize my chaos. It's a coping mechanism."
Lucien nodded toward her plate.
"You've done well. That chocolate mousse is cutthroat."
"Thank you," Arila said, dead serious. "I've trained for this."
Darian said nothing. He merely glanced at the lemon tart in her hand like it might be a weapon.
Arila's brain screamed.
She was surrounded. Four routes. One protagonist. No save file.
She gave a tight smile and turned to step around Lucien—just as a passing servant lost control of a floating tray of drinks.
A cup spun out.
Arila instinctively leaned sideways to dodge the splash. Her foot twisted at just the wrong angle on her wedge heel, and—
Gravity betrayed her.
She stumbled forward, straight into Lucien.
Time paused.
The ballroom inhaled.
Lucien caught her effortlessly, hands gripping her waist with a surprising gentleness. Arila, face now much closer to royal collarbone than she had ever intended, blinked up at him.
Her brain short-circuited.
If this triggers a mandatory dance tutorial, I swear I'm uninstalling this game.
Lucien, voice low and amused, asked, "Are you alright?"
Arila exhaled.
"You're warm. This is humiliating. Please release me."
He did. Slowly.
The moment her feet hit the ground again, she muttered,
"I blame shoes."
Julian grinned.
"I blame fate. That was incredible."
Before anyone could add more commentary, the ballroom darkened.
Not a magical dimming.
A shadow. A massive, moving shadow.
Gasps rang out. Heads tilted up. The enchanted glass dome shimmered—then cracked.
A screech split the air.
Glass exploded inward in a rain of deadly sparkle as a wyvern the size of a carriage tore through the ceiling with wings wide and fangs bared.
Chaos. Screams. Guards shouting. Nobles fleeing in all directions. Someone launched themselves behind a cake tower. A duchess fainted and fell straight into a platter of shrimp.
Darian was already in front of Lucien, sword drawn.
Julian shouted something about his sleeves being too tight for combat.
Vincent pulled Arila back instinctively. She wobbled, then steadied herself just in time to see Ninko reappear in front of her, tails fanned wide, eyes glowing with frostlight.
He looked terrifying.
The wyvern roared.
Arila looked up at it, blinking slowly.
"Of course," she said. "Of course the plot dropped a raid boss on the dessert table. This is why I don't go outside."
And somewhere, deep within the royal chaos, the music finally stopped.
To be continued...