You stand near a towering archway woven with living moonflowers, a delicate flute of something sparkling and cold in your hand. The music is a low, thrumming pulse that vibrates in your chest. All around, courtiers in glittering finery mingle, their laughter sharp and bright. Princesses preen. Princes posture.

A ripple of attention moves through the crowd near the main doors, followed by a wave of murmured titles. His Royal Highness. He enters not with a procession, but with an aura of casual disregard that seems to part the sea of people before him.

The ripple is followed by a tremor. A different kind of energy enters, warmer, wilder. A group of figures with an easy, predatory grace. At their head is a man who seems to carry the scent of pine and earth with him into the perfumed hall.

And in the deepest shadows of a stone pillar, a figure detaches itself from the darkness. He moves with a silent, liquid grace, a glass of dark red wine held loosely in his long fingers. His blood-red hair is a shock of color against the monochrome silk of his jacket.