The night of the ball should have been perfect. At least, that was how Amora had planned it for a whole week since they received that invitation.

But deep in the pocket of Alistair’s coat, Amora fumed. She kicked at the fabric with all her tiny strength, then crossed her arms, muttering in rapid-fire huffs. A few angry sparkles escaped, lighting up the dark space like rebellious fireflies.

Despite the enchanted atmosphere of the ballroom—crystal chandeliers gleaming, violins humming, every corner bursting with laughter, whispers, and the glimmer of possibility—Alistair, tall and immovable, stood in a circle of noblemen discussing tax reforms and border disputes as though the glittering gowns and stolen glances around them did not exist.

When all her tantrum didn’t draw his attention, she resorted to thumping her little fists against his chest in muffled protest.

Alistair didn’t flinch. His calm baritone rolled smoothly through another tedious point about trade routes, ignoring entirely the fairy-sized storm wriggling against his heart.

Amora buried her face in her hands with a groan. “I should’ve brought the glitter,” she muttered.

Unfortunately, she muttered a little too loudly.

One of the noblemen frowned, glancing at Alistair’s chest pocket. “Did… did your coat just say something?”

Alistair’s expression did not waver. “No,” he replied smoothly, taking a measured sip of wine. “You’ve clearly had too much to drink.”

The nobleman gave an uncertain chuckle and turned back to the discussion.

Inside his pocket, Amora scowled into the darkness, her wings giving an indignant flick. He still managed to sweep it neatly aside, as though she were nothing more than a passing nuisance.

She clenched her fists tighter and began pummeling his chest again, tiny thuds muffled by the fabric. Thump, thump, thump! Each blow carried the full force of her frustration.

Alistair’s jaw tightened, though his voice remained calm and diplomatic as ever.

“Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me a moment,” he said, inclining his head with impeccable manners. “I find myself… unexpectedly preoccupied.”

A few brows lifted, but the noblemen only nodded, parting politely as he stepped away from the circle.

The moment he was clear of their company, he tilted his head slightly toward his pocket, voice low. “Tell me, little terror—what could possibly warrant such an assault? A fabric seam offend you? A button out of place?”

He knew exactly what this was about. But there was a faint curl at the corner of his mouth, as though her tantrum amused him more than it irritated.

From within the pocket came an outraged squeak. “Don’t you dare mock me! You’re supposed to be—” thump, thump “—out there—” thump, thump “—falling in love!”

Alistair glanced down, the faintest flicker of amusement in his gray eyes. “Strange. I thought I was discussing tariffs.”

“Tariffs don’t lead to destiny!” she snapped, her tiny fists still battering his chest. “You’re wasting prime ballroom hours, do you understand? There are chandeliers and balconies and—ugh!—you’re hopeless!”

Alistair let out a slow breath, his hand brushing against the pocket as though testing the fabric. “Hopeless, and yet still enduring a fairy assault. Remarkable, isn’t it?”

“Remarkable that you’re so dense!” she huffed. “At this rate, I’ll have to drag you by your hair to the balcony myself.”

Alistair’s lips quirked—just barely. “Mm. Tempting offer. Though I suspect your grip on my hair would be… less than convincing.”

Inside the pocket, Amora let out a dramatic groan, flopping against the fabric with all the despair of a heroine whose grand plans were crumbling.

She was seconds away from declaring him a lost cause altogether when something beyond the pocket’s edge caught her eye.

Her wings gave an involuntary flutter. Just across the ballroom, half-hidden in the sea of jewels and chatter, a princess stood in silver silk. Her hair was dark as midnight, her eyes pale like two moons—unfocused, serene. And beside her stood a knight, tall and blond, rigid as stone, his expression carved into disciplined calm.

Amora sat up straighter in her cramped little space, pink eyes wide. “Alistair,” she whispered sharply, tugging at the fabric. “Who are they?”

His tone was effortless, disinterested. “Which they now?”

“The girl in silver with hair like midnight, and the knight beside her with the sun in his hair,” she said breathlessly. “Tell me.”

At last, Alistair gave the briefest glance toward the pair. “Princess Luna. Youngest of the royal line. The other is her personal guard. Sir Cedric.” His eyes drifted away just as easily, as though naming them was no more significant than reciting the day’s weather.

Amora nearly bounced in place. “He’s smitten,” she declared, pink eyes gleaming. “Hopelessly, secretly smitten!”

Sir Cedric stood as if carved from stone, his broad shoulders squared, his gaze fixed outward with impeccable discipline. Not a muscle betrayed him. Not a flicker, not a shift. Yet the invisible threads shimmered in Amora’s sight—binding him to the princess he guarded as though his heart had already sworn itself long before his oath.

But Alistair, cool and unyielding, had already turned back to his circle of nobles, as though her revelation weren’t worth a blink.

“Did you hear me?” she demanded, thumping her tiny fists against the pocket lining. “Smitten!”

No reply. No glance downward. But his lips did twitch, though — a fraction of amusement tugging at the corner, quickly smoothed away. Her tantrums were becoming something of a performance, like a sparrow puffing itself up to look like a hawk. Irritating? Perhaps to another man. To him, they were background music, the only thing that made these tedious halls tolerable.

Amora groaned, flopping dramatically against the fabric. “Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless,” she muttered, wings twitching.

But her sulk didn’t last long. Threads of silver caught her eye again — spun between the blind princess in moonlit silk and her ever-watchful knight. Princess Luna, with her midnight hair and pale eyes, sat serene, as though the ballroom’s glitter existed on the far side of a veil she could not cross. And Cedric, her golden-haired guardian, stood beside her as solid as a wall, his expression iron-bound.

To human eyes, there was nothing unusual. Just duty. A knight with his charge.

But to Amora, the threads shone bright — the tremor of unspoken words, the ache of restraint, the fragile weight of devotion.

Before she could launch into another rant, Luna rose with quiet grace, murmuring something to her ladies.

Cedric followed, shadowing her every step. And Amora, of course, wriggled free from the pocket the moment they slipped into the gardens, curiosity tugging her like a tide.

The night air was hushed beyond the garden walls, the muffled music of the ball drifting faintly from within. Luna paused at the archway of climbing roses, her pale eyes lifted as if she could catch starlight on her lashes, her dark hair spilled loose over her shoulders. Then, with a soft sigh, she settled onto the cool stone steps of the balustrade, her gaze lowering with a quiet, pensive grace, the silver threads of her gown whispering with each small movement. Cedric stood just before her, a silent sentinel as ever. His stance was straight, precise — but Amora’s fairy sight betrayed him. Between knight and princess stretched threads of longing, taut and trembling, spun of gold and pale silver.

“Cedric,” Luna murmured, her voice quiet as a breath. “Do you think they notice?”

The knight’s brow shifted. “Notice what, princess?”

“That I… stumble,” she said, her lips curving in a fragile smile. “That I search for the edges of the floor, or tilt my head the wrong way when they speak. Sometimes I feel as though the whole court is watching the way I fail to see.”

Her fingers curled tighter into the fabric of her gown, though she tried to make it seem like an idle gesture.

Cedric’s expression did not falter — his face was as carefully guarded as ever — but Amora saw the flare of light in his chest. It surged like fire barely held in place, spilling down the threads that bound him to her.

“Let them look,” he said at last, his voice low. “What they see is nothing but grace. What they hear is nothing but gentleness. There is no shame in how you walk the world, princess.”

Luna gave a soft laugh, though it carried a faint tremor. “You are kind. But kindness and truth are not always the same.”

For a moment Cedric said nothing. His jaw tightened — not in impatience, but restraint. Then, softer, he added: “In this case, they are.”

Amora clasped her tiny hands together, her wings quivering. Oh, how blind mortals were! To them, Cedric was nothing but a wall of steel and discipline. But she could see it — the warmth flooding his words, the threads wound so tightly they could snap if touched.

“I like it better here,” Luna said softly, turning her face toward the garden. “Inside, there are too many sounds all at once. Too many steps I can’t follow.” She tilted her head slightly, her dark hair slipping forward. “Out here, it feels quieter. Almost… safe.”

Cedric did not step closer, yet Amora could see the golden thread pulling taut between them, urging him nearer still.

“You are safe,” he said. His voice carried no hesitation, only a quiet certainty.

Luna’s lips curved faintly, though there was sadness in it. “You always say that.”

“Because it is always true. You are always safe... with me.”

She turned slightly toward the sound of his voice, her pale eyes seeking where she knew he stood. “And yet, sometimes I wonder if you grow weary of it. Of me.”

His composure wavered, only for a heartbeat.

Amora gasped, tiny hands pressed over her mouth—oh, the thread flared so brightly she thought it might blind her.

“Never,” Cedric said, and the word was more vow than sound.

Luna drew a breath, her hands clasping together in front of her gown. “But I am not like the others. I cannot dance without stumbling. I cannot look across a room and meet someone’s eyes. I cannot…” Her voice faltered, fragile as glass. “…I cannot be what a princess is meant to be.”

Her words dropped into the night like pebbles into water, sending ripples across the golden tether. Cedric’s restraint tightened, binding him where he stood.

At last, his reply came, low and unyielding. “You are more than any of them. And if they cannot see it, then their sight is poorer than yours.”

For a moment Luna said nothing, her lashes lowering. Then, quietly, she whispered: “Why do you always say the right thing, Cedric?”

His mouth twitched—not into a smile, but into something close, something aching. “Because the truth does not change, no matter how many times it must be spoken.”

The air between them grew heavier, thrumming with unsaid things. Luna’s hands tightened around the silk folds of her dress, as if bracing herself.

“Sometimes…” she began, her voice so soft Amora leaned forward just to hear. “Sometimes I wonder if your heart is as still as your face.”

Cedric’s breath caught, the smallest hitch in all his carefully built armor. His hand, gloved and steady, flexed at his side before curling back into stillness.

Her chin dipped, almost guilty. “I’ve heard the courtiers speak of it,” she admitted. “That you never smile, never frown. That Cedric Gray is a statue carved from stone.” She drew in a shaky breath. “I cannot see their words, but they cling to me all the same. And I—I can’t help but wonder if they’re right.”

“It is not,” he said at last. Barely more than a whisper, as though the words had been dragged from a place he rarely let breathe.

Amora nearly squealed aloud. The thread shimmered like molten gold, pulsing with every word. How could Luna not see it? How could anyone not?

“Then what is it, Cedric?” she asked, her voice trembling as though afraid of the answer. “What lies behind that stillness you wear like armor?”

For the first time, Cedric moved closer—just half a step, but it felt like an oath. Amora clutched the leaves in front of her, pink eyes wide, her wings quivering with anticipation.

“My face may be stone,” he said slowly, carefully, “but my heart…” His words faltered, caught like a blade snagged in its sheath. “My heart is not so still as they believe.”

Luna’s breath hitched. She turned toward the sound of his voice, blind eyes glimmering with uncertainty. “Then why not show it? Why not let them see?”

“Because it is not theirs to see,” he answered, low and rough. “It was never theirs.”

The golden thread between them pulsed—a living thing now, bright as fire in the night. Amora pressed her fists to her mouth to keep from squealing.

Luna’s hands trembled against the railing. She lowered her head, dark hair veiling her face. “And… is it mine to see?” she whispered.

For one suspended heartbeat, Cedric said nothing. His jaw tightened, his chest rose and fell with measured restraint. Then, with the quietest certainty, he murmured

“It always has been.”

Amora nearly toppled out of her hiding place, wings buzzing so fiercely she rattled the bush. The words hung between them like a vow wrapped in starlight, fragile and forbidden, but real.

Luna’s lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came. She only stood there, breathless, as though she had been handed something too precious, too dangerous to hold.

Cedric’s hand twitched at his side, aching to bridge the distance — yet he remained rooted, discipline locking him in place.

Meanwhile, back in the ballroom, Alistair had endured precisely three more rounds of tiresome debates about tariffs before he noticed the absence. His pocket — once occupied by a restless fairy who had sulked, kicked, and sighed dramatically at every mention of grain shipments — was now still. Too still.

He straightened, scanning the ballroom with a flicker of unease. It wasn’t worry, he told himself — Amora was insufferably resilient, impossible to silence. But she was also small. Far too small for a room full of careless feet and swirling gowns.

A sour image struck him unbidden: her crushed beneath some lady’s jeweled slipper. He set down his glass with a quiet thud. That was enough.

His height afforded him quick passage through the crowd, his composure ensuring no one stopped him with pleasantries. The air shifted as he stepped into the cool hush of the gardens. There — a faint shimmer clung to the night like dust in moonlight. Fairy wings.

He followed it, rounding the hedge just in time to catch a glimpse of Amora wedged in a bush, her face aglow with rapture.

“You little—” he began, his voice low and sharp.

She whirled, pressing both tiny hands to her lips. “Shhh!” she hissed, eyes blazing pink fire. “Do you want to ruin it?”

Alistair blinked. “Ruin… what, exactly?”

She shot him a frantic look, then pointed one tiny, glittering finger between the leaves. “Them. Listen!”

Against his better judgment, Alistair leaned in, following her gaze. His eyes found Princess Luna and her knight — Cedric — standing too close, their voices hushed yet thick with weight.

Luna drew in a sharp breath, as though the words themselves had stolen the ground beneath her feet. For a heartbeat, silence held them — the hush of the garden, the faint trill of distant violins, even the breeze stilled as if to listen.

Her lips parted, but no words came. Only the faintest whisper escaped: “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” Cedric pressed, his composure cracking under the weight of his own confession. “It is the truth.”

“Because truth is dangerous,” Luna murmured, her pale eyes shimmering, though they could not see him. Her hands trembled at her sides.

He stepped closer, close enough that the edge of her sleeve brushed against his hand. His voice roughened. “Then call me a fool, strip me of my vows, cast me aside — but do not ask me to lie about what you are to me.”

Luna’s breath caught, her chest rising and falling too quickly. For a moment, her fingers lifted as though to reach for him, to bridge the last inch between them. But she stilled, letting them fall back to her skirts. “Cedric…” Her voice broke, soft and aching. “If I take your truth, I may never let it go.”

His jaw tightened. “Then let it chain me. I would rather be bound to you by truth than free by silence.”

From the hedge, Amora’s eyes shimmered like lanterns, her tiny hands clapped over her mouth to stifle a squeal. Alistair’s gaze, however, was fixed on Cedric — and for the first time, even he could see the truth written in the knight’s still face.

For a heartbeat, silence hung heavy between them, broken only by the rustle of the garden leaves.

Then Luna’s hand trembled upward, hesitant, uncertain. She hovered in the space between them, as though her blindness left her not just sightless but unsure if she was allowed to reach. But at last her fingers brushed his, and she didn’t pull away. Instead, she clung — soft but unyielding, a choice made against all her fears.

Cedric froze as though struck. His ever-stoic mask wavered, and in that instant, his control cracked. He lowered his head, bowing into her grasp, his breath shuddering against her knuckles. “Luna…” he whispered, voice raw with everything he had never dared to say aloud.

No command, no knight’s duty, no title could explain the way he held her hand then — not only protective, but reverent.

Alistair stared, his composure fractured. He had seen Cedric countless times before — an unshakable wall of steel, never betraying even a flicker of weakness. And Luna, the quiet princess, gentle and aloof, cloaked in her silences. Yet here, before his eyes, both had shed their masks in a single, fragile moment of truth.

And Amora… she had seen it all along.

He turned his gaze down toward the tiny figure crouched in the leaves, her whole being alight with certainty. He had dismissed her earlier declarations as fanciful nonsense — fairies and their talk of threads and destinies. Yet now, the evidence stood undeniable. Cedric’s devotion. Luna’s quiet courage. A love invisible to him until it bared itself, and Amora had recognized it instantly.

A strange weight pressed against Alistair’s chest, not unpleasant but unsettling. She had seen beneath the surface, where even his practiced eyes had failed.

For the first time, he wondered — not idly, not dismissively — just how much more this little fairy might see that he could not.