The grand hall of the palace glittered like a dream. Chandeliers dripped with crystal light, casting reflections over the marble floors, as the orchestra wove a hauntingly delicate tune through the air. For the hundreds of nobles and courtiers, this was a night of celebration. For Princess Seraphina, it was another gilded prison.

She stood at the far end of the ballroom, close enough to observe but just out of reach. Her dress, a cascade of silken black embroidered with silver threads, whispered against the floor as she shifted her weight. She hated these nights. She hated the masks of cordiality, the layers of false smiles, and the suffocating expectation that weighed on her shoulders.

Seraphina's eyes drifted across the sea of guests. Lords and ladies danced, their laughter a hollow echo against the stone walls. Servants wove seamlessly through the crowd, filling glasses and carrying platters of food to men and women who did not even notice them.

This was her world—polished, pristine, and painfully empty.

"Stand tall, Seraphina". 

The deep voice of King Aldred pierced her thoughts. Her father's imposing figure loomed beside her, his presence demanding perfection.

"Yes, Father," she replied softly, keeping her tone measured.

She tilted her chin upward and plastered a serene expression across her face. If she looked perfect, perhaps no one would see how fractured she truly was.

Time passed in a blur of introductions and empty conversation. She nodded when expected, smiled when required, and let her mind drift elsewhere. Anywhere but here.

And then it happened—

 A shift in the air, subtle yet undeniable, like the calm before a storm.

Seraphina's gaze faltered as she noticed movement by the far entrance. A figure stepped inside the ballroom, moving through the shadows with a confidence that did not belong here.

Dressed entirely in black, he seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. His sharp features were cut from stone, his hair dark and unruly. There was nothing polished or princely about him, yet he carried himself with an authority that rivaled any king.

Who was he?

The stranger lingered near the doorway, his eyes scanning the room as though it all bored him. And then, as though drawn by some invisible thread, his gaze collided with Seraphina's.

Her breath caught.

The stranger didn't smile. He didn't bow or acknowledge her presence in any way. Yet his stare held her captive, as if he could see straight through the layers of silk and royalty to the restless soul beneath.

For the first time in years, Seraphina's heartbeat did not feel like a rhythm of duty. It was fast, erratic, alive.

She turned away quickly, heat blooming on her cheeks. But the moment was already etched into her memory—a look that had spoken volumes in utter silence.

The storm had arrived.

And Seraphina had no idea how much it would change her world.