The grand ballroom of the Grayston castle glittered under the chandeliers, a symphony of hushed conversations and rustling silks. Among the sea of opulent gowns and tailored suits, Lark, a mere shadow flitting through the edges of the elite, felt a pull. Then he saw her.

Her blonde hair cascaded like spun gold, her blue eyes, wide and captivating, met his across the crowded room. In that instant, the world narrowed to just them, a silent acknowledgment passing between two souls meant to collide. He, a boy from the 'Cage,' she, a lady born to privilege, yet their gazes locked with an undeniable force.

As she glided closer, dispatching her assistant with a soft word, Lark’s heart pounded. She offered her hand, and he, blushing furiously, bowed, pressing a soft kiss to its back. "Good evening. It is an honor to meet you, my lady."

Her diplomatic smile was enchanting. "The honor is mine. May I ask your name and where you are from?"

"I am Lark," he stammered, brushing his curly hair aside.

"Lark?" she teased, her eyes sparkling. "As in the bird or a joke?" A deeper blush colored his cheeks, but her smile promised understanding. He was smitten, utterly, hopelessly smitten, and he knew, with a certainty that defied his common sense, that he would marry this girl.