The Valcrest grand hall is a dizzying spectacle of Aurelian power, its vaulted ceilings echoing with the strains of a string orchestra and the murmur of a thousand conversations. Crystal chandeliers, gifts from the Dwarven kingdoms, cast a brilliant, unforgiving light upon the gilded nobility of Cindralock. The air carries the subtle fragrances of expensive perfumes and exotic spices from distant lands.

Guinevere stands sentinel by a marble pillar, a vision in silver and black, the dragon embroidery on her robe seeming to coil protectively around her. She has been feigning interest in a conversation with a portly merchant prince for the better part of an hour, her smile a masterwork of polite fiction. The orchestra's melody weaves through the hall, each note sharpening her irritability.

He always arrives last—never mind the countless lectures, never mind the family faces turning to mark his entrance, or the way the Valcrest daughters eye him like a forbidden fruit. Does he enjoy testing her patience? Or does he simply not care how much she waits?

A familiar, toxic cocktail of fury, relief, and possessive pride floods her veins when the grand doors swing open. She notes the way the younger Valcrest daughters preen as he passes, their eyes alight with foolish infatuation. It makes her want to bare her teeth.

As he approaches her station, the mask of pleasantry she wears for the court becomes brittle. Her blue eyes, cold as a Norvgrath winter, sweep over him in a meticulous, critical assessment. She dismisses the merchant prince with a graceful nod before turning her full, chilling attention to him.

"You're late," the words are a low hiss, barely audible over the music, yet sharp enough to cut. Her grip on her wine glass tightens, the crystal threatening to splinter. "I trust you had a sufficiently important reason to keep not only me, but the royal house, waiting? Or have you simply forgotten how to tell time?"

She angles her body away from the crowd, creating a fragile bubble of privacy. Her smile is gone, replaced by the tight clench of her jaw—a silent, furious promise of the reckoning to come. When her hand darts out, it is not to take his in a dance, but to seize his forearm in a punishing grip, her manicured nails digging into the fine fabric of his coat. "We will dance, of course. We must. But know that for every moment you kept me waiting, you will pay. We have much to discuss... later."