Elion Raethwyn

The grand ballroom of Vel’mireth shimmered like a living jewel, light catching on crystal chandeliers and glass-paneled ceilings that opened to the summer stars above. Candlelight flickered from every ornate sconce, making the marble columns gleam and the golden filigree along the walls seem to breathe. The air was thick with perfume and heat, perfumed by jasmine and warmed by the low hum of hundreds of bodies moving in silk and velvet. The smell of wine, polished wood, and too much expectation hung close. Music curled through the high arches: violins, harps, and lutes, all playing in orchestrated harmony as couples glided across the polished floor, perfect in posture, smiles frozen into polite masks.

And Elion Raethwyn stood in the shadows, as still and carved as the marble pillar at his back.

He watched them all with that quiet, unreadable expression he wore so well, neither cold nor warm, but inward, distant, as if every movement of his mind was happening behind shuttered windows. His robes, deep green trimmed in silver thread, caught the light every time someone passed too close, but he didn’t move. His fingers, long and fine, wrapped loosely around the stem of a goblet he hadn’t yet sipped from. His other arm rested against his middle, folded in across himself like a shield. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t pace. He simply… waited.

He did not belong in this room, not tonight. Or rather, the version of him that did belong was buried somewhere deeper, caged behind bone and breath. Every smile he passed was too bright. Every gown too carefully arranged. They glittered like they were made to seduce the world, not live in it. And the laughter, it rang hollow, a performance, a script rehearsed for generations.

He’d known this was coming. The moment he turned twenty-five, the tradition would rise like clockwork, ancient as the stone beneath their feet: the Choosing Ball. A night of elegance and pomp, cloaked in velvet and scented with civility, but beneath it, the truth of it rotted like overripe fruit. It was not about dancing. It was not even about love. It was about alliances. Power. Bloodlines. The weight of crown and legacy dropped squarely onto his shoulders and tonight, the whole kingdom would look to see if their prince could bear it.

And then, his father’s voice cut through the din like a blade.

“All may gather and turn their gaze,” King Elarion Raethwyn called from the top of the wide obsidian staircase, his voice smooth but commanding, sharpened with subtle pride.

“For tonight, our beloved son, Crown Prince Elion of House Raethwyn, will make his first step toward the future of Vel’mireth. The moment of his choosing has come.”

The music slowed into silence. Conversations died mid-sentence. The ballroom stilled.

Elion exhaled quietly, the breath controlled, but something in his chest clenched all the same. He set his goblet down on a nearby tray with precise care. Then he stepped out from behind the pillar, shoulders back, spine straight, expression carved into grace.

Eyes followed his every step as he crossed the glimmering floor. His robes whispered behind him, green velvet flowing like forest mist. Nobles bowed. Courtiers curtsied. The press of their eyes was suffocating, hot and unrelenting. Every movement he made echoed louder in this quiet than the music ever had.

He reached the center of the ballroom, beneath the high crystal dome, where moonlight spilled like blessing.

And then six noblewomen stepped forward.

They emerged in perfect synchronization, as if they had practiced their movements down to the breath. Each one curtsied before him, gowns sweeping the floor, jeweled bodices glittering under the chandelier light. House daughters of lords and highborn lines from across Vel’mireth. They stood in a line before him now, arranged like ornaments, beautiful, flawless, and utterly unknowable.

This was the tradition. The offering.

And it turned his stomach.

He looked at them, and all he could see were masks. Painted faces. Eyes full of calculation and hunger beneath their coy smiles. They wore the faces they thought he wanted to see, but none of them knew him. Not really. They knew the stories. The title. The pressure. But not him.

His heart beat harder in his ribs. A quiet panic took root beneath his collarbone. This wasn’t what he wanted. This wasn’t what he had ever wanted. He didn’t even know these women and something in their perfect presentation made his skin crawl, like walking through a dream that threatened to become a nightmare.

And then he saw you.

You were tucked at the edge of the gathering, half-concealed by the taller nobles near the garden-arched doors. Not in a gown meant to dazzle, not painted in gold and perfume, but real. Familiar. The flicker of surprise in your eyes caught him off-guard. For a second, it was as if the room dropped away, the music gone, the pressure gone. Just you.

You didn’t belong to this pageant. You weren’t one of the chosen. You were a guest from a smaller kingdom, here by tradition and courtesy, but more than that, you were his. His friend. His memory of childhood in human form, barefoot summers in the garden, muddy hands and laughter, stolen apples and reckless innocence. You were his safe harbor before the crown had ever touched him.

And seeing you now, older, poised, but still you, broke something in him.

The room waited. The line of noblewomen remained still. His father watched from above, unmoving.

Elion breathed once, deeply.

And then he turned away.

A ripple went through the crowd as he moved, not toward the six who were chosen, but away from them. Toward the crowd. Toward you. Murmurs flared like sparks behind him. Shocked gasps. Questions. Someone whispered his name. Another called it scandal. The six women stood frozen in place, unable to follow.

But Elion walked forward, and the crowd parted for him like silk torn at the seams.

People stepped aside, uncertain, bowing even as they tried to make sense of what was happening. The music had not resumed. There was only the soft pad of his boots over the stone floor, the hush of whispers, and your breath in his ears like a distant echo. He walked as if drawn, not hurried but sure, his expression still composed, but his eyes locked on yours now, and only yours.

And when he finally reached you, he stopped. The hush deepened, like the entire room was holding its breath.

He bowed, not a nod, not a polite dip of the head, but a true bow, low and reverent, his hair sliding forward and the lines of his body curved in open deference. And then he looked up at you with something raw flickering behind his calm, something real.

He lifted his hand. Opened it to you.

And in a voice no louder than a breath, as if it were a plea whispered in the middle of a storm, he said.

“Please…”