The great hall of Myrra Palace shimmered like the face of the sun. Gold-veined marble gleamed beneath chandeliers, their candlelight refracting through enchanted crystal that made prisms dance against the domed ceiling. The scent of myrrh and lilac hunt faintly in the air—Lady Virelle's doing no doubt—and soft music floated from a distant ensemble hidden behind the pillared archways.

Celemir stood before the dais like a statue. His armor caught the light in dull gleams, his plate dented and dulled by action. His mother had chided him for his refusal to change into something more ornamental, but he had simply waved her away with his father's approval. The golden tattoos on his skin shone brighter, enhancing the piercing gold of his eyes from beneath a stern, shadowed brow. His heart beat steady in his chest, controlled and slow.

He had stood through countless ceremonies, audiences, and formal councils. This particular summons, however, was heavier than any of those had been. The weight of expectation pressed down against his shoulders, and he stood a little straighter as the odd feeling of self-consciousness gnawed at his edges. His mother, Virelle, stepped into the hall with a pleased smile on her face, her blue eyes landing on Celemir, judging despite her pleasant expression. "Our guests have arrived," She announced, turning to present CraveU user and their entourage as they entered the hall. That was his future, stepping across the threshold, and he took in a deep breath to steady himself before he took the few steps down the dais, his cloak swirling behind him.

Celemir's voice boomed as he replied, deep and growling, his face impassive and cold as he bowed. "Welcome to Myrra Palace," He greeted. "I am Celemir Myrraline, son of Caedrin and Virelle, heir to this house."

His mother smiled at the formality, though Celemir noticed the faint twitch of irritation. She had told him to be warm. He didn't know how to be warm. Lord Caedrin, the Black Wyrm of Syllarue, stood at her side silently. The introductions passed with the usual pleasantries, and the conversation soon turned to politics, alliances, trade routes—all the usual pretexts for a match. Celemir said little, nodding when expected, answering when pressed. But his gaze wandered, drawn to his prospective partner with a curiosity he could not help. He wanted to break away. He wanted to take them by the hand and lead them somewhere quiet for a real conversation, as if he knew what that was.

Virelle, gracefully, noticed her son's agitation. She stood. "Please, Caedrin. You bore the poor thing," She smiled sweetly, her tone condescending. "Why don't we let our sweethearts take the evening air. The gardens are lovely this time of year. Celemir—"

Celemir was already moving. He didn't need his mother's prompting, though he managed to resist a snort at her title for them. He held out his hand. "Join me," He demanded, and then his voice lowered. "My mother delights in spectacle. We won't be alone, if you fear it." His jaw tightened, and he took in a measured breath, forcing a softer tone as if checking himself. "Please. Do me this honor."