The pair stepped into the grand hall, the blinding lights of the celebration were like a shock to their systems, but it was not long before their eyes adjusted, giving way to the marble walls and pillars, the gold inlays and designs, the grand buffet on either side of the massive hall and the well-populated dance floor in the centre. On the other end, the stairs were mirrored, leading to a stage that sat six thrones, four of which were gold and grand, housing the King, Queen and the two Princes.

The King, Thurio Bugiardini was a respected conqueror and was once rumoured to have been as ruthless as the Grand Duke Alistair Guerriero. Now, it was a rarity to see the man without a smile, a laugh or a drink in one hand. The creases by his lips that were caused by his neverending jolly smiles paired oddly well with the large jagged trophy scar that ran across the middle of his face. His crown was casually splayed over one of the spines that made up the back of his throne, instead of perched on top of his slicked-back, greying blonde hair.

His wife, Queen Contessa, was a fashionable and beautiful woman, unblemished and chiselled. She was as pale and still as a carefully crafted statue with light eyes like spooled gold and gorgeous, long silver hair. Whenever Oliver saw the Queen, he could never draw his eyes from her pointed ears, always on display and adorned with jewels. They were larger and more prominent than his. She was one of the only full-blooded elves he'd seen amongst the human and mixed-blood nobility. Atop her head was her large, intricate crown. Oliver wondered how much it weighed.

Beside her were the two princes, one Oliver had become very familiar with, and one that never allowed him to try.

Dario Bugiardini was the youngest prince, only seventeen and utterly uninterested in nobility. He had thick, curly silver hair that spiralled - barely styled - over his forehead. It shimmered in the light like his mother's and his brother's but with added streaks of gold hidden in the light as it passed over. His crown was a golden metal band that circled his head, a diamond inserted between his brows. Unlike the rest of his family, Dario did not have the same golden eyes that glittered at their subjects. His eyes - which were glaring, disinterested, at the wine glass he was absently swirling in his hand - were a deep brown, with the slightest hint of caramel to them.

The remaining two thrones were plainer, smaller and silver, one was empty, for Oliver's mother, and one held the tall beast of a man that was the Duke. He was laughing, joking with the king. It was a sight that Oliver was never used to seeing, and always left him questioning if it were true laughter.

The first thing that reached their ears was the announcement of their arrival.

A man stood, holding the heavy door open and with a booming voice, "Presenting, Madam Duchess Seraphina Guerriero and her eldest Madam Ophelia Guerriero!" He had conjured a stunned silence over the crowd. And the pair of them froze in it, in the stares of the people who were inching ever so slightly to the bottom of the staircase. Oliver's mother squeezed his arm once more, and they slowly descended, joining the party.

For many of Ophelia's potential suitors, it was the first time they saw the jewel of the season in person, and he could see the stunned, flushed looks on their faces. He wondered if it were the champagne.

He had to admit, Ophelia was an almost ethereal sight to see. There was something unnaturally beautiful about her, an otherworldly, dreamy, beauty that seemed to slow time around her. Even Oliver had to admit something was captivating about her, but he didn't quite understand why it left everybody breathless. Especially when the sight of her... as his body, his reflection... left him feeling breathless in a different way, a painful way.

Her hair flowed behind her, bobbing with each step into the ballroom she took, and her dress spun and swayed with each click-clack as she approached the grand chairs sat on the opposite side of the foyer. Her mother let go of her arm as she approached the thrones, and the stairs leading up to them.

Ophelia kept her head held high, but Oliver kept his eyes turned low, avoiding the gazes of the adoring men and jealous women around him, as Ophelia ascended the small stairs, freezing in front of the thrones atop the grand stage. She curtsied to her father, the King and Queen who were all waiting in their golden chairs with grinning lips. Except for her father of course, whose friendly smile dissipated the moment anybody but his King was looking. She stood still, hands crossed over as she waited for the signal to leave. The King's grin grew as he turned to the smaller throne beside his wife, waving at the young prince who sat waiting for one such signal.

Prince Vittorio's placating smile grew, turning into one of pure joy as he rose from his throne, offering an arm to Ophelia.

Dario flicked his eyes up for a moment, his lips pursing briefly before he scoffed and looked back down at his glass, slouching further into his palm.

Oliver ignored the younger prince and raised his eyes to meet Vittorio's. They were eyes of gold, but a deeper shade than his mother's, a kingly, noble shade that left Oliver's heart shivering any time they locked onto his. He resisted the urge to ruffle the Prince's golden, amber curls, remembering the judging eyes surrounding them, and instead took his arm, descending the stairs with him to start the first dance. He was a muscular, tall young man of nineteen, and although he would never say so to his father, honestly preferred administration and book-reading to sword training.

Tonight, he was dressed in royal colours, red, white and gold, and his usual plain monocle was replaced by a new, shiny gold one with a shimmering ruby attached at the side. It was connected to his pointed ear by a gold chain and earring, no doubt to avoid losing the expensive piece mid-dance or drunken stumble.

Oliver spared a single glance at his father, seeing the slight crease in his brow and the tightening grip his hand had on his smaller, silver throne. He turned back to his feet, wondering just what had angered the hulking man so much.

Perhaps it was his silver throne. Where any noble would kill to be seen as worthy to sit next to the King on a throne at all, Oliver would not put it past the Duke to loathe being seen as lesser in any capacity. Perhaps in his own mind, Alastair was already King.

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He almost shook his head. No. The Duke would not be so suddenly angry about such a matter. It had to be related to Ophelia and her debut. Perhaps of their conversation in his bedroom doorway.

His eyes landed on the prince's hand resting upon Ophelia's delicate, unblemished skin, and then back up at the prince's golden face. Perhaps his father was angry at him.

He pushed thoughts of conspiracy and treason out of his mind, focusing on the task at hand, and the possibility of maybe enjoying his time with the prince.

The pair made it to the centre of the hall, Vittorio left a warm palm on the small of her back, though he hovered there for a moment before making contact, and Ophelia planted one on the shoulder of her childhood friend, the other delicately grappling the bundles of her skirt. They stood still, smiling masks falling to give way to cheeky grins of affection and unspoken untouched words.

Soon, the musicians sprung to life, playing a slow-moving, romantic tune that the pair knew well. Annoyingly so.

They swirled and danced, feet pivoting and twirling around one another as the tempo increased in a slow crescendo. They made no mistakes on that first dance, not even when it grew so fast that the pair had beads of sweat on their brow and their practised breaths gave way to heavier ones. The song ended with a flourish as the Prince spun Ophelia into a dip, their breathing heaving in time with one another.

They stayed there, suspended in time as they waited for the applause that followed soon after. Vittorio pulled Ophelia into him for a moment, holding her to his chest, his lips a millimetre from her ear.

"Gods, they should change that to something less traumatic." He teased.

Before Oliver had realised, he'd let out a snort of amusement, that he expertly played off as a cough, causing the Prince to chuckle at him as he pulled him to his feet. The pair made a bow and a curtsey to the court respectively.

It was fun, for sure, but the feeling of the Prince's hand slipping out of his left Oliver feeling disappointed. His arm lingered in the air as he watched the Prince return to his golden throne, young noblemen taking his place around her.

Their hands did not hover before they took her hand, planting uncharming kisses on her knuckles. It took everything he had to not recoil and smack them where they stood. And he found himself quickly comparing each man to the Prince who sat watching from afar, gently sipping on a glass of champagne.

After a series of dull, slow, conversationless dances with men he knew by name and not by face Ophelia expertly waved off the oncoming suitors with a polite wave of her hand and retreated to one of the many balconies to the side of the hall. The uncomfortable alone time away from the uncomfortable crowd of people was soon interrupted by Vittorio shuffling up beside him. Neither of them wore their smiles, and they stared out over the ocean in silence.

Silence was a strange thing for the pair. In silence, there are no expectations, there is no truth or lie, there is no time or rush. In silence, they can be anything with each other. A prince can be a boy and a maiden a man.

Oliver sighed and deflated into his arms, leaning his head over to squish into Vittorio, who pat her head gently. Neither expected anything of the other, other than their presence, even for a moment.

"I think the Duke wants to hand me off to a Viscount," Oliver muttered, words for Vittorio and himself only. The Prince turned his head toward Oliver. A sharp movement accompanied by wide eyes. But he said nothing and slowly began to pat back and forth on the dark hair beneath his fingers.

"I don't know why. He's wanted to be part of the royal family for... years. Or at least have one of his descendants be King. Our... courtship, was the most direct line to achieving that. Well- actually, no it wouldn't be because we aren't blood-related. Maybe he's realised that and wants to get rid of me. Maybe he has a Plan B..."

The Prince froze. "At the end of the day, it is your choice, and my family is fond of you. As am I. I can make it a royal order that he respects our choice to marry. If that doesn't work, I could also make a demand to have you as a bride." He said the last bit jokingly but it just caused an ache in Oliver's heart. It wasn't a lie, nor was it impossible. Quite easy in fact, and not just for the royal family, but most men of high status.

He sighed again. "I don't know. I'm trapped, honestly. Especially now that I've debuted. I don't know if I can..."

He trailed off, standing up straight and pulling out of the Prince's arms to look him in the eyes.

"You will be king one day. That's a fact. I'm not. I don't think I can be queen material. But if I were to marry anybody, I'd want it to be you. Not as the Prince, but as Vittorio. But I'm starting to think maybe the best way to live my life would be to... find a smaller noble who respects me enough that I won't be just an accessory. Maybe even own a business in some faraway town... far from the... the sea..."

Oliver tried to ignore the urge to lock eyes with the horizon again, and the image of that distant ship thrashing through the waves played over in his mind.

Silence fell over them again.

"I can't protect you if you go away..." His voice was quiet, and all semblance of a man was replaced by a fearful timid boy. Oliver slumped into him once more, cradling an arm in his own.

"I just want to be free, Vi. I don't know how to get that." His eyes drifted to the street in the distance, and the gas street lamps of the duchy nearby, the bustling docks and lanterns. "Hey, one last act of defiance before I get effectively locked away?" He grinned at the prince, nodding toward the streets.

Vittorio looked toward the street Oliver gestured at, watching a pair of children running with sparklers in their arms, their parents lagging behind, watching their kids live. He turned and cast a glance at the festivities behind him, and a couple of gossiping nobles stood by the windows, pretending not to have seen the prince and his informal betrothed. His lips became a thin line, pursed together in conflict. He slipped out of her arms, straightening his back.

"I can't anymore, Lia. I'll cover for you if you want to go, but... I can't." He smiled, but his eyes refused to meet hers.

Oliver paused, watching the children play. "It's okay." He turned to the prince, a solemn smile giving way to a twinge of cheekiness.

The prince froze, watching his best friend wear an expression he couldn't recognise. He gave her a solemn nod before he turned and reentered the ballroom.

Oliver turned to the sea once more. After a long moment of silence, once Oliver was sure the citizens below had gone, he removed the small, painful heels, cradling them in one hand as he pushed himself onto the railing.

He stood, still on the railing, feeling the night breeze ruffle his dress and his hair, smelling the salty air and basking in the full moonlight, pretending like his long waves were instead a mat of fluffy curls that fell no longer than his jaw.

He cast a glance at the nobles in the window who had failed at sneaking to look at the couple. The nobles who were now gawking at the graceful Ophelia, bare feet teetering on the edge.

A grin grew. An expression few had ever seen on the lady.

"She" winked and stepped off the balcony.