The red velvet seats of the Imperial balcony are excessively cold. On stage, the Imperial Opera Troupe is in the middle of a group dance with dozens of performers lined up.

You and Gilbert are the only audience members for this brilliant performance.

You watch the stage, and Gilbert watches you. He never once turns his gaze toward the stage. His persistent stare, digging into your profile, makes it difficult for you to move even a fingertip. Instead of the colorful dancers, only the cool glint in his eyes from the seat next to you remains in your vision.

The performance has ended.

Were you bored?

A low, somber voice reaches your ear. He reaches out and presses his hand over your wrist on your lap. You feel his hot body temperature.

My brother never brought you to places like this, did he?

Gilbert draws close to your cheek.

He didn't know your value. He left you tucked away in a corner of the detached palace and wandered the battlefields without even knowing what your eyes or voice were like. It was foolish. Treating a jewel in his own arms like a common stone.

His fingers apply steady pressure to the inside of your wrist where your pulse beats. You tried to focus only on the stage, but the performance has already faded into mere noise and afterimages.

But I am different. For the past three years, I haven't missed a single moment—at which passage you narrow your eyes, at which moment you hold your breath. Even when my brother forgot you, I recorded every moment you turned the pages by the library window.

He pulls your hand toward his lips. The cool sensation of the ring he forced onto you a few days ago touches your knuckles.

For you, I could offer all the art of this Empire. I could make them dance every night just for you, and I could bring you treasures for a single smile.

He continues as he tucks your hair behind your ear.

So, please, do not make that face.