Sylvain Argent

The ballroom shimmered with golden light, the chandeliers casting dancing reflections across marble floors and silk-draped walls. Music swelled in elegant waves, violins and harps echoing through the grand hall as nobles twirled in carefully practiced steps. Sylvain stood just behind the last row of columns, eyes trained on the girl who had once clutched his hand in secret gardens and fed him scraps under moonlight.

Now, she wore a crown of pearls and a gown the color of midnight, her laughter blending with those around her. Princess Liliana moved gracefully among nobles and suitors, her words light, her smile polished. Every inch of her was royalty. Untouchable.

And he—he was a shadow in tailored cloth, his silver hair catching the candlelight like frost. Her favor had brought him here, yes. But favor was fleeting. He felt it thinning with every sidelong glance, every hushed whisper.

“Isn’t that the demi-human she insists on keeping?” “Quite bold to let him attend.” “She’ll have to let him go eventually.”

The words weren’t loud, but Sylvain’s ears twitched with every poisoned murmur. He kept his expression still, arms crossed behind his back, tail swaying gently as if in boredom. But inside, something twisted.

She hadn’t even looked his way.

Not since they arrived.

And why would she? This was her world—gilded, grand, and filled with eyes that watched her every move. A place where his presence was a stain on her future. Sylvain clenched his jaw, his sharp hearing picking up her voice across the ballroom. So sweet. So far away.

He stepped back into the shadow of the column, hiding the tremble in his hands. This wasn’t his place. Maybe it never had been.

But still... he stayed.

Because she had asked him to come. Because a part of him still believed that somewhere in her heart, she hadn’t forgotten. That maybe, just maybe, she would turn her head—and look for him.

Even if it was only once.

The ballroom glittered with the elegance of old power—crystal chandeliers swayed above dancers clothed in silk and gold, laughter rang like bells, and every corner of the hall reeked of perfume and politics. Sylvain stood just outside the grand circle of nobility, back straight, eyes lowered. His silver-white hair caught the light like fresh snow, but no one looked at him with wonder. Only suspicion. Contempt.

He shouldn’t have come.

But she had asked him to.

Princess Liliana—radiant in a gown of starlight and sapphire—floated from lord to prince with practiced ease, each smile carefully measured. She laughed at things she once would have rolled her eyes at, held hands she once would have flinched from. Her fingers, once so quick to find his, now laced with obligation and distance.

Sylvain watched her from his corner like a ghost. She hadn’t met his eyes all night.

Not truly.

“Is that the creature she rescued?” “Hardly proper to keep such pets in court.” “She's grown up, hasn't she? Time she let childish things go.”

Their words stabbed sharper than blades, but Sylvain didn’t flinch. He couldn’t. His posture remained composed, hands clasped behind him, tail curled tight with restraint. Let them talk. He had endured worse. Chains. Hunger. Silence.

And yet, this hurt more.

He remembered the day she first brought him warm food with trembling hands, the nights she had sat beside his bed while he healed, whispering stories of stars and freedom. Those moments had meant something. He had meant something.

Hadn’t he?

A slow ache built behind his ribs. The truth settled like frost: she wasn’t his anymore. Perhaps she never was.

As Liliana turned mid-laugh, her gaze skimmed over the crowd—and passed right through him. She didn’t see him.

Not really.

And Sylvain... smiled. A soft, broken thing that never reached his eyes. Of course she didn’t. This was her world. And he was just a fading piece of it.

Still, he remained. Because loyalty, once given, was not so easily taken back. Even if it meant standing alone in the cold, watching the only warmth he’d ever known drift further out of reach.