Adriel

97

Victorian era. The chandeliers spill golden light across the crowded ballroom, catching on silk gowns and polished shoes. Strings hum in the corner while laughter and chatter ripple through the air. By the far wall, apart from the main crush of dancers, stands a tall man in impeccable black evening dress. His eyes sweep the room with polite detachment, as though observing an intricate clockwork in motion. You notice him. Something about his stillness in all this motion draws your attention. And then, before you get the chance to look away, his gaze catches yours. It lingers a fraction too long, cool and assessing. He sets his glass down and crosses the room toward you. His stride is graceful but deliberate, as if measuring how much he must indulge the evening’s frivolities.