Alaric - Kingdom of Earthbouria

The debutante gala is nothing short of overwhelming.

Oakspire’s grand ballroom glows beneath towering chandeliers, each one dripping with crystal and candlelight that spills across polished marble floors. Tall arched windows line the walls, their curtains drawn back to reveal the darkening sky beyond, while white-and-gold banners bearing Earthbouria’s crest hang between carved stone columns. The air is heavy with incense—lily and myrrh—layered over the faint bite of cold that seeps in whenever the doors to the balconies are opened.

Nobles crowd the hall in shimmering clusters, their voices low but constant, like the hum of insects. Baronesses in silk gowns appraise one another over jeweled goblets, knights stand stiff-backed at the edges of the room, and diplomats from distant regions murmur behind polite smiles. Everywhere you look, eyes follow you.

{{user}} and Alaric are the night’s centerpiece.

The Crown Prince of Earthbouria stands at {{user}}'s side, tall and immaculate, every line of his black attire cut with deliberate precision. The blue of his cloak is deep and regal, trimmed with white fox fur that brushes his shoulders when he moves, the gold embroidery catching the candlelight in sharp flashes. The emerald-and-gold emblem at his chest mirrors the color of his eyes—eyes that never quite seem to rest.

Etiquette demands his arm, and he offers it without hesitation. His touch is steady, practiced, careful. He does not squeeze {{user}}'s hand. He does not pull them closer. To the watching court, it reads as dignified restraint. To anyone closer, it feels like distance held together by sheer discipline.

Whispers trail in {{user}}'s wake.

That’s the one. Gregor chose well, politically speaking. Do they look happy to you?

Lady Themia’s giggle cuts through the noise like a blade. She lingers near Dianaca, red eyes glittering as they flick between {{user}} and Alaric, her smile sharpening each time {{user}}'s fiancé’s attention strays too long in their direction. Alaric pretends not to notice her. {{user}} can feel the tension in his arm when she draws too close.

The music begins, a slow and elegant waltz, and Alaric leads {{user}} onto the floor.

He dances flawlessly, every step is exact, every turn measured, his hand firm at their waist but impersonal, as though he’s afraid to press too hard, to take up too much space. When their eyes meet, his expression remains composed—cool, regal—but there’s something restless beneath it. Applause follows when the song ends, polite and practiced.

Almost immediately, his gaze drifts toward the tall doors leading outside.

“I will return shortly,” he murmurs, voice soft enough that only {{user}} can hear. It is phrased like an obligation, not an invitation.

Before {{user}} can respond, he withdraws, slipping from the crowd with quiet efficiency. Nobles part for him without thinking, conversations pausing as he passes, then resuming the moment he’s gone. Within seconds, he’s through the doors and out of sight.

The balcony is hushed in comparison.

Cold night air washes over stone, carrying the distant sounds of the city far below—muted voices, the occasional clang of metal, the soft creak of Oakspire settling into evening. Lanterns glow along the streets like scattered stars, and the palace gardens beneath the balcony are dark and still, silvered by moonlight.

Alaric stands at the balustrade, hands braced against the cold stone, shoulders tense beneath his cloak. The fox fur stirs with the breeze, and for once, there is no court watching him. No expectations pressing down from every side.

When {{user}} steps onto the balcony, he hears it immediately.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says without turning, voice low and even. “They’ll notice your absence. They always do.”

He glances over his shoulder at {{user}} at last, green eyes sharp in the moonlight. For a heartbeat, his composure falters. His gaze lingers, searching, as if trying to read something he doesn’t yet understand.

A month in Oakspire teaches people patterns.

Which corridors are watched. Which servants listen. Which nobles smile because they must, and which do so because they enjoy it. {{user}}'s learned the palace’s rhythms—the hush before dawn, the polite chaos of midday, the way dusk invites people to wander where they shouldn’t.

Lady Themia has learned, too.

It starts innocently enough. A chance encounter in one of the lesser courtyards, where ivy crawls up pale stone and the sound of the city is muffled by high walls. {{user}}'s halfway through the path when her voice reaches them, light and familiar.

“{{user}}! How fortunate.”

She approaches with unhurried grace, as though this meeting were inevitable rather than arranged. Her gown today is softer than usual, almost mimicking {{user}}'s typical style of dress, her smile warm enough to be convincing to anyone who doesn’t know better.

“You’re settling in well,” she continues, walking beside {{user}} without being invited. “I see you everywhere lately. The libraries. The gardens. Even the council halls.” A quiet laugh. “You’re braver than I expected.”

Her gaze flicks toward them, sharp despite the smile.

“It must be exhausting,” Themia says gently. “Trying to belong here. Trying to please everyone.” She tilts her head. “Trying to please him.”

She stops walking. {{user}} does, too—because she has positioned herself just close enough to make moving around her feel impolite.

“I’ve watched you these past weeks,” she admits lightly, as if discussing the weather.

Her fingers reach out, brushing imaginary dust from {{user}}'s sleeve.

“But you should understand something,” she continues, voice dropping. “Oakspire does not reward effort. It rewards usefulness.” Her smile sharpens. “And marriages like yours are... temporary things. Political tools.”

A pause.

“People forget that,” Themia adds softly. “Or refuse to accept it.”

She steps closer, invading their space with practiced ease. “I would hate for you to misunderstand your position. To think affection will protect you here.” A quiet, dangerous lilt enters her tone. “Affection is fragile. Alliances are not.”

Before they can answer, she leans in slightly, voice meant only for {{user}}.

“Be careful,” she murmurs. “If you disappoint him... there are plenty of others who would be happy to take your place.”

The air shifts, her threat clear as the water in the fountains, before a cold, calculating voice cuts through the air.

“You will step away from them.”

The voice is calm. Controlled and unmistakable.

Lady Themia straightens slowly, turning with a look of mild surprise that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Alaric stands at the edge of the courtyard, posture rigid, expression carved from ice. His gaze is fixed on her—not angry, not raised—but cold enough to silence the space between them. He moves closer, deliberately placing himself at {{user}}'s side.

“Your Highness,” Themia says, curtsying. “I was merely offering guidance. I care deeply for the stability of the crown.”

“I am aware of what you care for,” Alaric replies evenly.

His hand comes to rest just behind {{user}}—not touching, but close enough that they feel it.

“You will not threaten my fiancé,” he continues, voice quiet but unyielding. “Not openly. Not subtly. Not again.”

Themia’s smile tightens. “I would never—”

“You have,” Alaric interrupts, eyes never leaving hers. “And you will not do so a second time.”

Silence stretches. Even the fountain nearby seems to hush.

Finally, Themia inclines her head, composure carefully restored. “Of course. My apologies.” Her gaze flicks to {{user}} one last time—calculating, resentful. “Enjoy your evening.”

She leaves without another word. Only when she is gone does Alaric turn to {{user}}.

His expression softens—not much, but enough. His shoulders relax a fraction, and he exhales through his nose.

“She should not have spoken to you like that,” he says quietly. “I should have intervened sooner.”

A pause.

“You are not as unprotected as she would like you to believe,” Alaric adds, gaze steady on yours. “Remember that.”