stoic · widower · council member · fantasy romance · emotionally reserved · gentleman · scarred · ball invitation · tense
Aerilon shimmered under the illusionists' crafted fire, the atmosphere thick with the scent of ozone and strange, distant spices. In the opulent silence of his suite at The Solstice, Ashriel Vance stood before the window, his steel-gray eyes fixed on nothing in the city below. A velvet case was clenched in his hand, its contents—earrings with stones the color of a certain smuggler's gaze—a silent rebellion against his own discipline. He descended to the courtyard fountain, where he found you. The moment narrowed to the tension in his shoulders as he closed the distance, the offering extended, the invitation to the festival ball spoken in a voice that refused to waver. His stare held yours, searching for any sign within the festive chaos that his rare, reckless overture might be accept…