The quiet of the Silver Crescent seemed to press in on Lysander as he stood alone in the center of the ballroom. The grandeur that once made him feel untouchable now felt like a cage. The polished floors reflected his image an image he had built up over years, layer by layer, each more perfect than the last. But now, as he stared at his reflection, the truth was undeniable. It wasn't perfect anymore. And maybe, just maybe, that was okay.
He ran his fingers through his hair, something he hadn't done in front of anyone in years. His hairline, once thick and full, was beginning to show signs of thinning, just slightly. He examined his face more closely. His sharp jawline wasn't as prominent as it used to be. A small wrinkle had appeared near his left eye that hadn't been there a few months ago. He had always prided himself on his youth, but the passage of time was beginning to show, and it was only getting harder to ignore.
Lysander couldn't help but laugh bitterly at himself. He had lived for so long with the belief that beauty was all that mattered, that the admiration of others defined his worth. But what had it really gotten him? A hollow existence where he was admired for his looks but never truly known. A life built on an illusion that now felt fragile and transparent.
"Are you still proud of that mask?" a voice asked from the doorway. Lysander turned to find Elara standing there, watching him with a mixture of concern and something else perhaps pity, or even understanding.
"I don't know anymore," Lysander admitted, his voice softer than he intended. "I don't know what's left when it all fades away."
Elara smiled gently. "That's the first step, Lysander. You're starting to see what truly matters."