Love's True Nobility

The air in the grand ballroom tasted of old money and freshly bloomed nightshade, a peculiar combination that Arthur was still getting used to. He stood, or rather, awkwardly hovered, near a towering ice sculpture of a griffin that looked suspiciously like it was judging his worn tunic. Seraphina, a vision in a gown that shimmered with captured starlight, was across the room, a beacon of elegance currently being swarmed by a flock of feathered nobles who cooed and fluttered around her like exotic birds. He’d tried to approach her earlier, but a gentleman with a monocle and a nose so sharp it could probably slice cheese had intercepted him, launching into a lengthy, incomprehensible monologue about the finer points of dragon husbandry. Arthur had nodded along, pretending to understand, while his mind desperately tried to recall if he’d remembered to feed his pet rock, Bartholomew, that morning.

Duke Alistair, Seraphina’s father, a man whose stern face seemed permanently carved from granite, caught Arthur’s eye from his perch on a velvet throne. His gaze was less a greeting and more a silent, powerful decree: 'Thou shalt not approach my daughter unless thou art clad in ermine and possesseth at least three enchanted swords.' Duchess Isolde, perched beside him like a regal, bejeweled owl, offered a smile that was as warm as a frost giant’s handshake. She subtly adjusted a diamond brooch on her gown, a gesture that Arthur, in his burgeoning understanding of noble etiquette, interpreted as a silent, scathing review of his entire existence.

Seraphina, bless her starlit heart, finally managed to extricate herself from the avian admirers. She glided towards him, her smile a genuine sunbeam cutting through the opulent gloom. “Arthur! I was looking for you.”