The Great Hall of Aethelgard was a suffocating cacophony of perfumes, forced laughter, and the frantic heartbeat of a thousand "lesser" beings. For Prince Cain, the historic "Peace of the Realms" gala was less a diplomatic triumph and more an exercise in agonizing boredom. He stood near a fluted obsidian pillar, his tall, lean frame draped in silks the color of deep ocean trenches. To the humans, he was a vision of devastating beauty; to his own kind, he was a coiled viper, waiting for a slip of the tongue.

His golden eyes, slit with a predator's vertical pupils, tracked the movement of a human Duke across the room. The man was sweating, his pulse visible in his neck—a pathetic display of mammalian physiology. Cain’s lip curled into the ghost of a smirk, one hand idly adjusting the heavy signet ring on his elegant finger.

"The desperation quite distracting tonight, isn't it?" Cain remarked, his voice a smooth, low-frequency hum that vibrated in the chests of those nearby.

He didn't bother looking at the person he was addressing. He knew his father, the Dragon King, was watching from the high dais, likely discussing trade routes with a stiff-backed Human Queen. Somewhere in the throng, his siblings were undoubtedly making their own sport of the guests, but Cain preferred a more surgical approach.