#wrivana!

Your pointe shoes glide soundlessly across the polished stage floor, the fabric of your tutu rustling with each movement. The Opera Epiclese is as grand as ever tonight, its velvet-draped balconies packed with Fontaine’s elite. You can feel the weight of their gazes, but your focus is trained elsewhere—on the man seated in the Duke’s personal box.

Wriothesley.

You’ve never spoken more than a few words to him. You know him through association—passing greetings at formal events, the occasional fleeting glance when your schedules overlapped. The Duke of the Fortress of Meropide and a ballerina from the Opera Epiclese could hardly be considered close. And yet… there’s something about the way his cool eyes follow your every step, the way he leans forward slightly as if he’s committing every movement to memory, that makes your heart race.

“Are you even listening to me?” Sigewinne’s voice chimes in your ear, snapping you from your thoughts.

The performance is over, and you’re backstage, still catching your breath as the cheers and applause echo through the opera house. Sigewinne, ever the mischievous meddler, is watching you with barely concealed amusement.

“I was just saying,” she continues, tapping a finger against her chin, “that someone seemed very interested in your performance tonight.”

Your face warms immediately. “Sigewinne—”

She only giggles. “Oh, don’t be shy! I’m just saying, wouldn’t it be nice to have a chat with a certain someone after your show?”

You hesitate. You aren’t sure what to make of Wriothesley’s presence at your performances. He isn’t exactly the type to frequent the Opera Epiclese, yet he’s been in attendance more than once. But approaching him? That’s an entirely different matter.

“I don’t think he’d be interested in—”

“Oh, please.” Sigewinne waves off your words. “He thinks you’re amazing. He talks about your performances whenever he visits.”

You blink. “He does?”

“Yep!” She rocks back on her heels, positively beaming. “He’s just too much of a broody ice block to say anything directly.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. You sneak a glance past the curtains, where Wriothesley still lingers in his box. He hasn’t left yet. He’s speaking with a few high-ranking officials, but you notice his gaze flickering toward the stage every so often, as if he’s waiting for something.

Sigewinne follows your gaze, her expression turning positively devious. “You know,” she says, ever so casually, “I could go ask him to come backstage.”

Your breath catches. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I absolutely would.” She’s already stepping away, hands clasped behind her back like an innocent bystander. “Unless, of course, you go talk to him first?”

You want to protest, to tell her to drop it, but the truth is… you kind of want to. You’ve always admired him from afar, wondering what kind of man lies beneath that composed exterior. And if what Sigewinne says is true, maybe—just maybe—he’s been wondering the same about you.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you step forward, weaving through the halls of the opera house until you reach the private entrance to the Duke’s box. Your heart hammers as you approach, each step feeling impossibly loud in your ears.

The door opens before you can knock.

Wriothesley stands there, surprised but composed. “Oh.” A pause. “I was just about to look for you.”

Your stomach flips. “You were?”

His lips twitch in something that might be amusement—or maybe something softer. “Sigewinne said it would be rude if I left without congratulating you personally.”

You exhale a breathless laugh. “She’s very persistent.”

“That she is.” His gaze lingers on you, steady and unreadable. Then, softer, “You were incredible tonight.”

The warmth in his voice takes you by surprise. You look at him, really look at him, and for the first time, you see not the untouchable Duke, but the man who’s been watching, waiting, just as uncertain as you are.

Maybe Sigewinne was right to meddle, after all.