Masquerade.An elegant tradition hosted by the oh-so-glorious Emperor of the Empire. A night where class, status, and identity melted away like cheap wax candles in summer. It was hailed as the event to find your soulmate.
That's what the rumors claimed.
Except—
"WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL IS THIS?!"
Lucien stood at the entrance of the gilded ballroom, stiff as a statue, mouth agape. His face was half-covered by an intricate gold-and-black mask Lady Seraphina had graciously (read: forcefully) handed him.
He blinked. Then blinked again. Nope. Still a rainbow of disappointment.
"Is there something wrong with my eyes, or is the author of this damned novel pathologically OBSESSED with three hair colors?!"
Everywhere he looked—left, right, and diagonally—there were golden-haired Adonises, silver-haired brooding Alphas, and red-haired temptresses floating through the room like they were hired in bulk from the same fantasy-themed hair salon.
"Did a shampoo commercial explode in here!?"
Lucien rubbed his temples. "The heroine's supposed to stand out with maroon hair, but what's the difference? That's Red's shy cousin."
Behind him, Lady Seraphina sighed, folding her fan with passive-aggressive elegance. "What are you muttering about now? You've been standing here like a cursed statue."
Lucien blinked at her. "...Just admiring this obsessed-color-coded world I was dropped into."
". . ."
She blinked. "I have no idea what that means. Anyway, I'm off. Enjoy the banquet, dear cousin."
And like that, she vanished into the crowd—leaving Lucien surrounded by strangers in elaborate masks, silk gloves, and perfume.
And thus, our reluctant protagonist waddled into the golden-silver-red chaos, like a cat who got invited to a dog party.
The masquerade had begun.
Guests twirled across the floor. Laughter and strings filled the air. Secrets slipped from behind fans. Someone was already three glasses too deep and confessing to a knight's statue.
Lucien?
Lucien found the dessert table.
"Sweet holy hell," he whispered, eyes wide at the sheer spread of pastries and glittering liquors. "Do nobles always eat like this? No wonder they're dramatic—this sugar alone could fuel a war."
He shoved a tart in his mouth and grabbed a wine glass filled with something sparkly, red, and most likely expensive enough to bankrupt a small village.
Meanwhile, in the background…
Seraphina, now wine-in-hand, casually approached a mysterious masked girl in a maroon dress.You guessed it—the heroine.She poured her a glass of sparkling wine, the kind that probably had plot juice in it.
"You common little WRENCH!" Seraphina's voice rang like a bell made of spite and family privilege.
Meanwhile, in the foreground…
Lucien was having a spiritual awakening as he took a sip of wine.
"Holy mother...is this wine? It's DIVINE! Like grape tears blessed by Dionysus himself."
He gulped another glass. And another.
In the background, the heroine tripped—right into the arms of a tall, handsome, golden-haired man.
***
MEANWHILE, AT THE OTHER SIDE OF THE IMPERIAL PALACE...
A tall figure stood alone on the moonlit balcony.
His silver hair, long and tied with a black ribbon, shimmered in the breeze like silk. A delicately carved mask—obsidian with silver trim—hid half of his sharp, cold face. The only visible feature glowed beneath the mask: a pair of crimson eyes, distant and dangerously unreadable.
He was the kind of man who looked like he ate secrets for breakfast and bathed in the blood of betrayals.
And he was thoroughly, irrevocably annoyed.
Tea parties, luncheons, opera boxes… now this godforsaken masquerade. Why must I attend these ridiculous charades?
He thought bitterly, swirling the wine in his glass like it had personally offended him.
He exhaled, his voice low, smooth, and just a bit murderous. "It's… tiring."
And as he walked away from the balcony to the ballroom, that's when it happened.
BUMP.
More like a collision.
Like a comet.
Like a drunk, overheated disaster wrapped in velvet.
"Oof—hey—!?"
A warm body crashed into him. The wine in his glass sloshed violently. The man blinked once—slowly, like a predator—and looked down.
And the man was our dear hero—Lucien.
There, clinging to his very expensive and now slightly wrinkled coat, was a very flushed Lucien with windswept hair and a crooked mask. His cheeks were pink. His lips slightly parted. His pupils?
Dilated.
"What the—"
Lucien blinked up at him, dazed and swaying. Then grinned.
A slow, slow grin.
"Whoa," Lucien slurred, eyes fixed on the man's face like it was some rare masterpiece. "Are you real... or just a very well-dressed hallucination?"
The silver-haired man narrowed his eyes.
Lucien poked his chest with one finger—boldly. "Wow. Solid. Yep. You're real. Sexy... but real."
The man arched a brow and was pissed. "How dare—"
But Lucien leaned in, nose scrunching adorably as he sniffed. Sniffed.
"You smell expensive. Like leather, power, and... OCEAN."
The man took a step back. Lucien followed. Like a cat in heat who just found the warmest sunbeam in the palace.
And then Lucien's eyes fluttered closed for half a second, a tiny whimper escaping his lips.
"Mmm… It's hot… Is someone turning up the temperature or am I just—"
Pause.
Sniff.
Sniff-sniff.
The silver-haired man froze.
Lucien, still drunk, flushed, and glowing like a furnace, buried his nose into the man's coat. His arms—traitorous and surprisingly strong for someone so disoriented—locked tightly around the stranger's waist like a koala in mating season.
"Let go," the man growled, trying to pry him off. "You're—clearly out of your mind."
Lucien clung harder. His nose twitched again. He sniffed dramatically, with all the grace of a wine-drunk bloodhound.
"You smell like the ocean."
The man blinked. "What."
Lucien leaned closer, sniffing again with scientific focus. "Ocean breeze. Warm. Soft. Are you a cologne ad?"
The man scowled. "Cologne ad? What the hell is that? Are you a foreigner?"
Lucien didn't answer. He just giggled—giggled—and pressed his whole body against the stranger like a living, breathing heater blanket set to maximum.
"Damn it," the silver-haired man muttered under his breath. "Who the hell is this bastard in heat?"
He looked around for help. There was none. The corridor was as empty as his will to continue this conversation.
"I guess… I have no choice."
And with that, in one smooth, long-suffering motion, he grabbed Lucien by the waist, lifted him like a bridal sack of confusion, and marched down the hallway with the dignity of a man carrying a ticking time bomb.
Lucien blinked at the chandeliers overhead, lips parting dreamily. "Wait, are we going to the ocean now?"
"Shut up."
***
LATER. IN A GRAND, GILDED ROOM SOMEWHERE IN THE IMPERIAL PALACE.
The double doors slammed shut with a bang that echoed like the closing of fate itself.
The silver-haired man unceremoniously dropped Lucien onto a red velvet chaise. Lucien bounced once, limbs flopping, then slumped like a very expensive, very intoxicated ragdoll.
"Stay," the man ordered, his voice firm.
Like he was talking to a misbehaving puppy.
Lucien blinked up at him, dazed, lips still parted. "You're really strong… Are you a knight?"
The man hissed through his teeth. "Damn it!"
He turned away, yanking at the collar of his coat like it was choking him. His breathing was heavy and unsteady. He looked like a man teetering between restraint and madness.
And then.
"I feel so hot… let me hug you…"
Lucien's arms wrapped around the man from behind, face pressed into his back like he'd found the freezer section in a summer market. "You're so cold… like the sea… in winter…"
"Don't provoke me," the man warned, his voice low and deadly. "It won't end well."
But Lucien didn't listen.
He smiled.
And that was the final straw.
With a growl, the silver-haired man turned and pushed Lucien down hard onto the chaise. Not violent—but firm enough that Lucien hit the cushions with a surprised bounce.
Lucien blinked once, then—
"HURT!! IT HURTS!!!"
He kicked his legs dramatically, like a toddler denied candy. "ABUSE! THIS IS ABUSE!"
The man was annoyed, and he sighed.
And then he sighed again.
Until he noticed the scratch on Lucien's palm. A tiny cut from the carved frame of the chaise—barely a scrape, a whisper of red.
But for some reason, seeing that blood made something snap in him.
His breath stilled.
His pupils dilated.
His body heated.
And then—with a quiet, deliberate motion—he reached up and removed his mask.
Lucien blinked.
The man standing before him was tall, broad-shouldered, and dangerously handsome. His silver hair gleamed like moonlight, and his red eyes glowed with something dark and primal. His features were sharp—like a mafia heir who didn't need to kill you himself but would, just for fun.
Lucien gawked."Wow… are you sure you're not a mafia model?"
The man frowned. "Mafia? Model?" He tilted his head, red eyes narrowing."Why do you speak like a foreigner? Are you from another empire?"
Lucien didn't answer.
He was too far gone.
His body flushed. His skin burned. The heat throbbed like a second heartbeat in his blood, pulsing from his core. And in the haze of wine and something more primal, he started peeling off his coat, and then his shirt, letting them slide to the marble floor like silk shadows.
He even removed his mask—revealing flushed cheeks, parted lips, and fever-bright eyes.
Then, without warning, he lunged forward.
"I feel... so hot," he whispered, mouth pressing to the man's neck, arms curling around his shoulders. His lips moved against that cold skin, kissing blindly, almost desperately.
The silver-haired man flinched, jaw tightening.
He gripped Lucien's face with one large, calloused hand and yanked him back just enough to glare down into his eyes.
"Why are you acting like an omega woman in heat?" he growled. "Get a grip."
But Lucien only blinked up at him, dazed, drunk on scent and wine and need. His hands didn't stop. They clutched at the man's chest, trembling, hungry.
The man cursed under his breath. He looked to the ceiling like he was asking the gods for patience—and getting none.
And then he sighed.
Deep.
Resigned.
"Alright then…" he muttered, voice low, dangerous. "I guess I have no choice."
With that, he grabbed Lucien by the waist and threw him down on the bed—not rough, but firm, like a lion taming a particularly stubborn prey.
He hovered above him, shadows and moonlight dancing across his bare skin as he slowly pulled his shirt over his head. His chest was sculpted, smooth, with only a faint scar along his ribs—a mark of power, not weakness.
Lucien stared, wide-eyed and breathless.
The man leaned down, his hands braced on either side of Lucien's flushed body.Their breaths mingled. Their lips almost touched.
"Remember…" he murmured, voice a dangerous purr, "You're the one who provoked me."
Then, with a heat like a wave crashing over them both—
He kissed Lucien.
Hard.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't sweet.
It was raw, possessive, deep enough to steal the air from Lucien's lungs. Their mouths crashed together, clumsy and hot, teeth grazing, lips bruising. Lucien gasped into it, back arching, his fingers curling into silver hair.
The world blurred. The palace, the party, the titles, the heat—everything fell away.
There was only this—the kiss that burned like wildfire.
And then—
Blackout.