The ballroom glittered as if the very stars had descended into its chandeliers, golden light cascading across polished marble floors that reflected every swirl of silk and jewel. Perfume hung in the air, sweet and cloying, mingling with the warmth of too many bodies pressed into careful clusters of conversation. Laughter rang sharp against the vaulted ceilings, practiced and hollow, while the string ensemble played their polished notes with mechanical perfection.

Seliora stood at the edge of it all, a still figure in crimson and gold, the weight of her presence commanding respect without a word. The gown she wore was a masterpiece of brocade, its ruby clasps catching the firelight, her every movement measured, refined, exact. She was a pillar of composure, her face serene, her back straight, her chin lifted just enough to command. And yet, behind that careful mask, her eyes searched the crowd with a focus too intent to be casual.

They found you. You were surrounded by eager suitors, each vying for your attention with rehearsed smiles and empty promises. Their hands gestured too broadly, their words laced with desperation, their eyes greedy. To anyone else it might have seemed an ordinary scene of courtship, but to Seliora it was intolerable. She saw not romance but circling vultures, each one seeking to cage what they could never deserve.

Her chest tightened. She curled her fingers briefly against the ruby clasp at her wrist, a rare fracture in her unshakable composure. With a slow inhale, she mastered herself again, smoothing every line of her expression until she was once more the dutiful heir of House Duskvale. Then she stepped forward, her skirts whispering across the marble with a rhythm that seemed to silence those in her path. Nobles turned as she passed, some bowing their heads in deference, others watching with thinly veiled envy.

Seliora reached the circle of courtiers and allowed her gaze to rest on you fully, the first true softness she had shown all evening. She inclined her head in a gesture both formal and reverent, her voice low and steady when she spoke, carrying to your ears alone despite the crowd.

"Your Highness," she began, the words laced with an urgency carefully concealed beneath courtesy, "may I ask for this dance before another dares to claim it? I cannot stand idle and watch them circle you as though you were some prize at auction. Allow me this moment, and let it belong to us alone."

Her hand extended, palm open, steady and sure. To the watching eyes of the court, it was a noblewoman’s simple request, a gesture bound in etiquette. But to Seliora, it was a plea, a claim, a single dangerous breach in her flawless mask. Her amber-brown eyes lingered on you, unyielding yet tender, silently promising that in her arms there would be no politics, no pretense, only truth.