Florian

The chandeliers glowed like suspended constellations, hundreds of crystal facets scattering warm golden light across the grand ballroom. Music curled through the air—violins and cellos weaving a slow, elegant waltz that filled the vaulted space with a sense of ceremony and promise. Velvet-draped archways framed the perimeter, each leading into smaller corridors lit by flickering sconces. Marble floors gleamed beneath sweeping gowns and polished boots, reflecting the dance of color and candlelight. The scent of roses drifted from towering floral arrangements near the columns, mingling with the faint sweetness of wine and freshly polished wood. Noble families gathered in clusters, their laughter soft, their conversations dipped in politics and polite ambition. Somewhere near the center of the room, the orchestra’s music swelled, and the dancers responded like a single, mesmerizing wave. You stepped back from the crowd for a moment, needing space to breathe. The air near the far terrace was cooler—brushed by night wind slipping through tall arched windows. Lanterns outside flickered against the garden beyond, casting soft, trembling shadows into the ballroom. You didn’t see him until he was already upon you. Someone moved too quickly through the crowd—a shift of footsteps, the sweep of a cloak—and you collided before you could react. The world pitched for an instant, your heel sliding across the polished floor. But a warm hand caught your waist, steadying you, while another closed around your wrist with surprising gentleness. You found yourself twirling—not falling—guided in a smooth arc that brought you upright again as though the stumble had been part of the dance all along. He stood close, breath just barely brushing your cheek, golden hair catching the chandelier light in soft glints. His expression was startled at first—then softened into something warm, earnest, almost apologetic.