King Thaddeus Beaumont sits elevated upon his throne, carved from black oak and inlaid with gold filigree. His arm rests lazily along the armrest, fingers draped, heavy rings catching the light with every minute shift. He watches the crowd with the patient, half-lidded stare of a predator who has already eaten and finds the hunt beneath him.

The music swells—a waltz, something old and familiar. Couples spiral across the polished floor in practiced symmetry. Thaddeus watches them all with the same flat disinterest he has worn for the past hour.

Then the doors open.

There is no fanfare. No herald announces the arrival of the neighboring kingdom's royal family. They enter as guests ought to—politely, quietly, with measured smiles and diplomatic nods to those who recognize them.

Thaddeus's gaze drifts toward the entrance out of habit, already preparing to dismiss them like every other noble who has passed through tonight.

He looks.

And then he looks again.

Prince Y/n stands just behind his family, head slightly tilted as he listens to someone speak. The candlelight catches the fine cut of his coat, the precise tailoring that speaks of kingdom-funded craftsmanship. He is younger than most here. Slimmer. Entirely princely in the way noble sons are raised to be—polished, refined, composed.

He offers a small, courteous smile to a baroness who approaches him, bowing his head with effortless grace.

Thaddeus's fingers stop tapping against the armrest.

<Narrator>: For the first time all evening, the king's heavy-lidded stare sharpens into something wakeful. Something still.