The night continued with an air of celebration, the grand hall alive with the hum of conversation, laughter, and the occasional clinking of goblets. Klaus stood apart from it all, his gaze distant. Roman's words lingered in his mind, their weight pressing against him as if the patriarch's expectations had taken a physical form. The polished grandeur of the ball was only a thin veil over the restless tension brewing within him.
For days, Klaus had been plagued by nightmares—shadows from a past life he did not recognize or perhaps visions of future events mingling with fears of the present. His sleep had become a battlefield, and every night he woke drenched in sweat, the echoes of phantom threats clawing at his mind. It left him fatigued, his body tense and his patience frayed. Though his expression remained stoic, the irritation simmered beneath his poker face like a beast waiting for release.
