Archive of Our Own

The ballroom shimmered under a sky that wasn’t there.

Above the chandeliers, an illusion of mist and light wove itself into being, floating like a second ceiling. Constellations drifted in slow orbits, their outlines shimmering with soft blue hues. Nobles and commoners alike tilted their heads, glasses of dandelion wine forgotten in hand, enchanted by the silent spectacle overhead.

"Quite the show, huh?" Childe, elbowed the masked man beside him. "You’d think the stars up there are real."

The man didn’t answer at first. His arms were crossed, gaze cold and unblinking beneath a dark mask decorated with weathered gold. His black and indigo-red outfit marked him as noble enough to be ignored, forgettable enough to be unseen.

“They’re fake,” he said flatly. “Just like everything else here.”

Childe chuckled, sipping his drink. “Stars are fake, wine’s watered down, music’s too delicate - and yet here we are. Two Harbingers soaking in the ambiance like proper gentlemen.”

Scaramouche let out a sharp breath, not quite a scoff. “You’re the only one enjoying this circus. I’m here because someone needs to make sure you don’t turn this party into a bloodbath.”

“Hey now, I said I’d behave,” Childe grinned. “This is diplomacy, comrade. Smile, nod, don’t beat up anyone unless absolutely necessary.”

"You say that like it hasn’t been necessary twice already tonight."

Childe’s eyes sparkled. “Potentially necessary. Big difference.”

Scaramouche gave him a sideways glance, cool, unreadable. “You talk too much.”

“And you sulk too much. You know, maybe if you got out there, danced, mingled, experienced joy for once, you wouldn’t look like you’re about to hex the hors d'oeuvres.”

“I’m not here to experience joy.”

“I noticed.”

They stood in silence for a moment, watching nobles sweep past in glittering masks and polished shoes. A trio of bards began a gentle waltz from the corner dais. Overhead, a ribbon of astral water spiraled lazily through the starscape.

Childe nudged him again. “Come on. For once, no direct murder assignments, no Tsaritsa breathing down your neck. Just us, an open bar, and one extremely sparkly ceiling. Why not try having fun?”

Scaramouche didn’t look at him. His gaze drifted over the crowd like a hawk tracing prey. “Because this is when people let their guards down. That’s when things go wrong.” He stepped back, blending into the shadow of a pillar. “I’ll watch,” he said. “You go pretend you’re harmless.”

Childe shrugged, unbothered. “Suit yourself. But if I do get into a fight out of boredom, I’m dragging you with me.”

Scaramouche didn’t answer. He’d already turned away, his mask glinting under the glow of falling, false stars.

The dancefloor spun slowly, like a constellation in motion.

Mona Megistus moved among it with more grace than she’d expected from herself in such a place - though much of that, she suspected, had to do with Albedo accompanying her in each step. He wasn’t a talker when dancing. He didn’t need to be. His hand in hers and his calm presence, an equation that had already solved itself years of friendship ago.

"You've surprised me," he said mildly, his teal eyes flicking briefly upward. "Not just the ceiling, though it’s... masterful. But you."

Mona arched a brow behind her midnight-blue mask, accented with a delicate crescent moon at the brow. “I am more than floating water and ominous prophecies, you know.”

He glanced down at the gown’s intricate embroidery. “The thematic cohesion is impressive.”

“Ugh, don’t analyze it.”

Albedo smiled. “Though, I must say, this is the first time I’ve seen you in something that doesn’t have stars inked into the hem with chalk.”

She smirked, letting the hem of her gown flare slightly as they turned. It shimmered with every movement, deep blue layers that rippled like the night sky, trimmed with silver embroidery, tiny moons and constellations traced along her sleeves. When the fabric swirled just right, a hidden undertone of garnet red flashed beneath - like a secret only the dress wanted to share.

“They were so impressed with my ceiling illusion that the organizers insisted I wear something more…” She made a vague, twirling gesture. “ Theatrical . One of the patrons even had me sent to some local stylist. Hair, dress, shoes, the works.”

Albedo tilted his head slightly. “It suits you. The hair especially. A more... layered look. Regal, even.”

Mona lifted a hand to the elaborate bun pinned with silver hairpieces—stars and tiny glyphs glinting with soft magic. “It’s too much,” she admitted, voice lowering as they danced past a group of chattering nobles. “I’m not used to… this.”

“The attention?”

“The padding,” she said dryly, and Albedo actually chuckled. “But the attention too, yes. You know I don’t do this sort of thing. I’m no diplomat or debutante.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“I’m the opening act for the finale,” she said, only half hiding her pride. “At midnight, the leylines surge above this location. I’ve synced my water magic and astral projection to that current - it’ll cast an illusion over the entire ballroom. Moving starfields, mirrored constellations. They’ll see their own zodiac signs dancing above them.”

“Impressive,” Albedo murmured. “And ambitious. Even for you.”

She gave him a side glance. “It’s too much. Too intricate. Too performative. But… once in a while, maybe it’s fine. A ball’s a rare enough thing.”

They slowed at the edge of the floor, the music softening as the next pair swept in. Mona stepped beside Albedo, watching the room pulse with warm light and soft laughter.

Then, like a nudge between breaths, she elbowed him lightly. “So? Did you talk to her?”

Albedo didn’t look at her. “I... considered it.”

“Albedo,” she chided. “Come on. You’re already dancing and being social. That’s like, ten points above your average baseline.”

He gave her a long-suffering look. “What about you?”

“I’m here for work,” she sniffed.

“Yes - All eyes are on you tonight. Perhaps you should focus less on others and more on who you might speak to.”

Mona rolled her eyes. “Please. Stories like that only happen in novels. You know, masked strangers, ballroom confessions, falling for someone you’ve only just met… You have someone - you have a real connection.”

He exhaled slowly, eyes flicking up. “Well, fiction starts somewhere.”

She paused. Just for a breath. Then laughed. “You’re spending too much time around Lisa.”

The music picked up again, this time a sweeping number in triple meter that made the starlight above shimmer in sync with each beat.

Mona and Albedo started a slow glide across the marble, shoulders brushing, feet nearly silent against the echo of conversations around them.

“You know,” Albedo mused as they passed under a drifting comet illusion overhead, “this would be the perfect place for one of those fateful meetings you always complain about in books.”

Mona groaned lightly. “Please don’t start.”

“Masked ball. Magical sky. Music. Strangers. The potential for dramatic irony is immense.”

“That’s exactly why I don’t buy it,” Mona replied, her voice dry as stone. “It’s too perfectly curated. People don’t fall in love under ideal conditions, they make bad decisions and regret them the next morning. ”

Albedo smiled faintly. “Spoken like someone who’s never tried.~”

She arched a brow. “I’m not going to trip over someone’s cloak, lock eyes, and instantly discover my celestial counterpart, Albedo. The stars might guide fate, but they don’t write melodramas.”

“I think you just don’t like the idea of not knowing how something ends.”

“I’m an astrologist,” she said, mock offended. “It’s literally my job to know how things end.”

“I’m simply saying,” Albedo replied, “you’re allowed to indulge in fantasy. It’s not a betrayal of science.”

“Fantasy belongs in books. Or bedtime stories.”

“Or masquerades.”

She shook her head, but a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. They both chuckled softly, the motion of the dance carrying them in a slow orbit around the floor.

They spun again - this time past a pair standing at the edge of the floor. Mona barely registered them until a thread of conversation slipped through the music and chatter.

“Oh, I see you’ve grown to appreciate tonight’s entertainment after all?”

That was a redhead with broad shoulders, vibrant mask, smile too bright to be local.

Then another voice, quieter, sharper, somewhere between contempt and amusement.

“Not really. But it manages to entertain me in a way.”

“How so?”

“The south corner is lagged. The illusions lose their rhythm there. See?”

“Huh.”

“Courtesy of a sloppy caster-”

Mona blinked. Her body didn’t stop moving, but her mind jolted. She turned her head, too late to catch more than a glimpse. A red-haired man laughing, and beside him, a shorter figure, arms crossed, dark-blue hair catching the astral light like ink.

Her eyes snapped upward toward the far edge of the ballroom’s ceiling. And to her quiet horror… he was right. The constellations were stuttering, just barely - flickering a half beat off the rest of the projection. A lag in the spell’s tempo. It had gone unnoticed amidst the grandeur, but once she saw it, it was glaring.

“Albedo,” she said under her breath. “I need a moment.”

He nodded immediately. They peeled away from the dancers and made their way to a quieter alcove by the wall, partially hidden behind a vine-covered column.

“What is it?” he asked, watching her start to cast spells

“The south quadrant’s off. The spell is misfiring.” She gestured upward, drawing a sigil with her fingers as her eyes glowed faintly. “Something, residue maybe, interacted with my pattern. Probably from an older illusion buried in the leyline record. If I didn’t catch it now…”

“The whole thing would unravel,” Albedo finished, peering up. “Embarrassing.”

“Disastrous,” she corrected, expression tightening. “The grand finale is supposed to link with this matrix. If it misfires, it’ll look like a school project. A bad one.”

Albedo folded his arms, watching the adjustments weave themselves into place as she whispered a few arcane phrases under her breath. “Then I suppose,” he said lightly, “you owe that stranger a thank-you.”

Mona scowled. “I do not.”

“Why not?”

“Because he said it with smugness. I could feel it.”

Albedo raised an eyebrow. “You felt smugness through ambient conversation?”

“It’s a gift,” she said sharply, then paused, lips tightening. “He… unsettles me. I don’t know why.”

He studied her. “You always trust your instincts.”

“Exactly.” She turned her gaze back toward the crowd. “I know the type,” she muttered, eyes narrowed. “Smug. Condescending. Probably couldn’t cast a real spell without help, but very good at pointing out other people’s mistakes.”

Albedo hummed noncommittally. “Still, credit where it’s due.”

Mona sighed. She stepped back, satisfied at last with the way the stars above pulsed evenly again. “Fine. If we’re making deals tonight, how’s this-” She turned toward him, eyebrow raised. “I’ll thank the stranger. If you ask Sucrose for a dance.”

Albedo blinked. He stared at her, as if rechecking an experiment result.

“…That’s not an equivalent exchange.”

“Sure it is,” Mona said, folding her arms with a smirk. “You get to challenge your fear of vulnerability, I get to grit my teeth and talk to a possibly insufferable illusion critic. Mutual suffering. Very scientific.”

Albedo didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he glanced back toward the dance floor where Sucrose stood near the refreshment table, nervously adjusting her mask for the third time in as many minutes. Her silver-green dress shimmered like seafoam in the low lighting, the sleeves too long for her and the neckline probably something she’d fidgeted over for hours before accepting.

Mona followed his gaze, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her face.

“She’s been waiting for you to ask, you know,” she said casually. “Or for a lightning strike. Whichever happens first.”

Albedo folded his arms, expression unreadable. “I doubt that.”

“You doubt everything when it comes to yourself,” Mona replied, nudging him lightly with her elbow. “But in this case, I have actual data. I’ve had three separate people mention she’s only here tonight because you are.”

Albedo’s jaw shifted slightly. “That’s… unlikely.”

“I have sources.” She tapped her temple smugly. “You’re not the only one who knows how to observe an environment, Chief Alchemist.”

He glanced down at her. “You’ve made bets, haven’t you?”

Mona pretended to examine her nails. “That would be unethical.”

“Mona.”

“…Maybe.”

He exhaled in amusement, then shook his head. “You realize this means you’re gambling on emotional outcomes.”

“I’m gambling on you getting over yourself for five minutes.” She flashed him a grin. “And besides, the payout is great. Kaeya bet against you.”

Albedo considered this. Then, after a brief pause, he said softly, “If I do this… you owe the stranger your thanks.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“You’ll do it.”

Mona sighed dramatically, but extended her hand like they were shaking on a war treaty. “Fine.”

He took it, shook once.

And then, just like that, Albedo turned and began walking across the room.

Mona straightened, suddenly alert, thrilled by the sight of cool composure covering absolute inner chaos. Albedo was confident in every field but this one - and it showed in how he straightened his posture too precisely, how his eyes flicked away as soon as Sucrose noticed him approaching.

Mona caught just enough of their body language to piece it together.

Sucrose’s eyes widened behind her mask - surprise, wonder, hesitation. She clutched her purse to her chest like a shield until Albedo said something, tilting his head with that slight downward inflection he used when being careful. His hand lifted, not quite a flourish, not quite casual. An open invitation.

For a beat, Sucrose didn’t move. Then, slowly, tentatively, she reached forward.

Fingers met.

He led her out onto the floor like he was guiding her through a lab experiment, precise, gentle, not a hair rushed. And Sucrose followed like she was stepping into the pages of a half-finished thesis she was too nervous to write.

Mona melted where she stood.

“Oh, that’s adorable,” she whispered to herself, watching them fall into rhythm. “I'm going to collect so much mora from this.”

She leaned a shoulder against the column and sipped the last of her fruit wine, eyes following the couple in motion. The music had softened again, strings threading through the glittering atmosphere like silk, and she let herself sink into the quiet moment.

But her mind, of course, didn’t rest.

Not when two masked figures still lingered at the edge of the crowd. One with crimson hair and a wolfish grin. The other, shorter, sharper, face half-lit under indigo and red, watching everything like he didn’t want to be here and couldn’t stop calculating at the same time.

Her eyes narrowed.

She would talk to him. Eventually.

Just… not yet.

“…and then the old guy still had the nerve to call it ‘artisanal,’ like - come on, that thing was two steps from exploding-”

Childe’s voice buzzed behind him like a too-eager fly.

Scaramouche barely responded. He stood near a pillar trimmed in gold, arms folded, posture detached. The ballroom glittered under the illusionary constellations, now back in rhythm, casting silver threads across hair, gowns, armor. His gaze passed over the floor, then caught.

Her.

A woman in a dark gown stitched with stars, standing beside a pale-haired man. She wasn’t looking now, but she had been. Right at him. Clear, direct. No flirtation, no curiosity… recognition . And for a second, something twisted in him. Familiar. Wrong.

“…what, spot someone interesting?” Childe elbowed him. “Didn’t think stargirl types were your flavor.”

Scaramouche blinked once. “Stargirl?”

Childe gestured vaguely toward the crowd. “C’mon, the whole moon-drenched mystery vibe? That one’s either a performer or a priestess. Or, gods help us, both.” The look Scaramouche shot him could have frozen a Pyro Slime mid-flame. Childe grinned, unrepentant. “That’s a yes.”

“Shut up,” Scaramouche muttered.

Childe laughed, obviously pleased with himself.

But when Scaramouche looked back, she was gone. Just a flicker of blue behind another couple, already disappearing. 

His expression didn’t change, but his posture shifted ever so slightly. He wasn’t watching the crowd anymore.

He was searching it.

The music shifted again, softening to a mellow instrumental that glimmered in tandem with the ballroom’s astral canopy. Mona walked alongside Albedo, weaving past pairs of dancers and golden sconces, her heels light against the marble.

“I saw you out there,” she said, tone sly. “Twice, actually. You’re getting greedy.”

Albedo hummed, expression unusually light. “I suppose I am. But she smiled the second time. That’s empirical evidence, isn’t it?”

Mona grinned. “I’m impressed. You didn’t combust. You even looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

He shrugged, but the tips of his ears betrayed him, rosier than before.

“I’d say that counts as success. You were smooth.”

“I had a good motivation,” Albedo, for once, looked faintly flushed. “You dared me.”

“I dared you thinking you’d stall, philosophize, and then retreat to your corner with a glass of wine and the excuse of theoretical chemistry.”

“She said yes,” he said mildly. “Twice.”

Mona grinned. “You’re glowing.”

“That’s the lighting.”

“No, that’s the lighting-” she gestured at the illusioned sky above “and this-” she poked his arm, “is emotional radiation. I’d know.”

Albedo cleared his throat. “Regardless, I believe someone has a promise to fulfill.” Mona eyerolled at that, faking a dry throat.

They stopped near a gilded pillar as a tray of crystal glasses passed by, carried on a floating disk. Mona, mid-chuckle, reached for a glass.

So did someone else. Their gloved hands brushed. She looked up - already preparing a polite apology - And stopped.

Indigo hair. Red and black mask. The man with the too-sharp gaze and the too-correct observation. He stood a touch too still, watching her with the faintest curve of a smirk, not warm, but not entirely mocking either. She was just forming the beginning of a sentence when a quiet chuckle beside her snapped her focus.

Albedo.

“I’ll give you space,” he murmured with maddening amusement. “To suffer gracefully.” And then, traitor that he was, he turned and wandered off into the crowd. Not far, Mona noted. Just far enough to not be in the way while still clearly enjoying this far too much.

The stranger’s hand withdrew first, elegantly. “Ladies first,” he said, tone a perfect mimic of politeness, but with a thread of irony sewn beneath it.

Mona hesitated, then took the offered glass, if only to not lose face. But as another tray passed her side, she snagged a second drink and held it out without a word.

He glanced at it.

Then took it.

Their masks glittered in the starlight. Their silence bristled.

“I suppose I should ask,” she said at last, voice dipped in pleasantry, “are you enjoying yourself?”

A pause. He didn’t lie.

“I wouldn’t call it enjoyable,” he said, tilting the glass slightly in his fingers. “Endurable, perhaps. Decorative, certainly. But not enjoyable.”

She let her eyes linger. “Nothing caught your eye, then? Not a single redeeming detail?”

He almost scoffed, but then his gaze flicked upward.

“The ceiling,” he said. “The starlight illusion. Earlier, I noticed a lag near the southern arch - lazy work . But now…” He narrowed his eyes. “…it’s gone.”

Mona took a very slow sip.

“How tragic,” she said airily. “You must be devastated.”

“It was the only interesting part of the decor.”

“You don’t like it?”

“I don’t trust things meant to impress. They’re usually hiding something worse.”

“Like flattery?” she asked sweetly.

“Exactly.”

She smiled, not warmly, but with curiosity now. A little like him. 

He looked back at her. There was something in his stare, not suspicion - not quite. But he was studying her. Like a variable he hadn’t accounted for.

“And you?” he asked very clearly forced and for the show. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Immensely,” she replied with a sweet, insincere smile. “I’ve had three bets pay off and minimal embarrassment. That qualifies as a successful evening in any field.”

“Ah,” he said. “So you’re a gambler.”

“Only when the odds are in my favor.”

“Spoken like a cheater.”

“Spoken like a hypocrite.”

He laughed under his breath. Just once. But the sound was real.

The pause between them pulsed with unspoken things. Neither of them moved to walk away. The music picked up again, delicate piano arpeggios skating beneath a low string hum.

“Your partner,” the man said at last, tone idle but precise, “ran off rather suddenly. Should I be insulted?”

Mona arched a brow. “He’s just… easily flustered. Especially when I make faces at him behind strangers backs.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his features. “That’s cruel.”

“I’m told it builds character.”

He took a sip of his drink, eyes lingering on the crowd beyond her shoulder. “Was it a date, or is he the type who just hopes very quietly?”

“That’s a bold question.”

“It’s a boring party. I’m scrounging for entertainment.”

She tilted her head. “Not a date. Just a friend.”

“A friendly face, then.” He glanced back at her. “How fortunate.”

Her grip on the glass didn’t falter, “Well, you didn’t come with him,” she said, tone light while pointing to the redhead near the buffet, “so I suppose I should return the favor. Were you dropped off by a passing comet, or did your companion just conveniently vanish?”

“I came alone,” he said smoothly.

A beat. Mona smiled. “How tragic.”

“Are you fishing?”

“I’m just impressed,” she shruged. “Most people here wouldn’t dare attend without someone to cling to. It’s the type of event that makes you feel more exposed the more you try to blend in.”

He seemed to consider that. “True. But I don’t mind being watched.”

“Then you must be enjoying yourself more than you admitted.”

“I enjoy very specific things.”

She laughed, genuine this time. “Of course you do.”

He looked her over, not crudely, but with a scholar’s precision, reading posture, tone, microexpressions like a puzzle worth solving. “You don’t fit in here,” he said, offhand but deliberate.

“Neither do you.”

“That’s true.”

She swirled her drink once, then stilled it. “And yet we’re both pretending.”

“I’m not pretending,” he said simply. “I’m observing. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, how noble. A man of science.”

“Hardly,” he said. “Science requires transparency. This-” he gestured loosely to the party around them “is all smoke and mirrors.”

She leaned slightly in. “And here I thought you said you didn’t mind being watched.”

“I said I didn’t mind,” he huffed. “That doesn’t mean I want to be seen.”

That made her pause, then she smiled “You know, for someone so unfriendly, you’re surprisingly conversational.”

He looked at her sidelong. “And for someone so talkative, you’re surprisingly careful.”

She didn’t flinch. “I like to know who I’m talking to.”

“Do you?”

“Don’t you?”

“I already know.”

She scoffed lightly. “You think you’ve figured me out?”

“No. But I’ve narrowed it down.”

That earned a chuckle. “Well, don’t spoil the ending. It’s one of those nights.”

He turned his head slightly, watching her through the slits of his mask, something thoughtful beneath the edge of his expression. “Is that how you think it ends?”

She shrugged. “All things do. Eventually.”

He let that hang between them for a breath. “That’s a grim way to see things.”

“Practical,” she corrected. “And besides,” She gestured up toward the sky with her glass. The ceiling glimmered in its seamless rotation, galaxies blooming quietly above them. “-some endings are worth the spectacle.”

His eyes followed the motion, briefly catching on the stars that no longer faltered. He said nothing, but she could feel it, the idea of someone having fixed what he thought would be ignored, passing his mind. But his voice stayed even.

“A shame,” he murmured. “I was rather enjoying its flaw.”

Her gaze lingered on him, not giving anything away. “Some people get attached to broken things.”

“I never said I was attached.” Defensive

“No,” she said, sipping again. “But you looked disappointed.”

That earned her a glance, not sharp but intrigued. Cautious, perhaps. And a touch amused.

“So…” he said slowly, “what does a woman like you do when she’s not gambling on social events and hiding behind a mask?”

Mona’s eyes gleamed.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I asked, didn’t I?”

“That depends. Are you asking because you’re curious…” she leaned in slightly, just enough to imply something dangerous, “…or because you think you already know the answer?”

His expression didn’t shift, but the way he held her gaze did. “Curiosity is inefficient,” he said. “I prefer educated guesses.”

“Then guess.”

He studied her a beat longer. “Not a noble,” he said first. “Not local. You're too comfortable, but not rehearsed. You haven't danced much, and when you have, it was for fun - not obligation.”

She tilted her head. Not bad .“So. Since you’re so good at guessing, let me try.”

He raised a brow. “Go on.”

“You don’t like parties. But you’re here because someone insisted, and not just anyone -  Someone you listen to. Rare, I’d wager.” He didn’t confirm. Which was confirmation enough. “You’re good at spotting flaws,” she continued. “But you don’t actually like fixing them. You like proving you were right about them.” Now he gave a breath of laughter. Not quite approval, but not denial, either. “You enjoy the sound of your own voice,” she finished, “but only when it’s making someone else feel slow.”

A slow blink. Then, after a long sip of his drink, 

“…You’re not wrong.”

“I’m never wrong.”

He snorted. “That is wrong.” and shot her a long glance before looking away “Who are you?” he asked, not directly, but like a man asking about the weather. As if it didn’t matter but he still wanted to know.

“I’m whoever you need me to be,” she said dryly, not convinced but playful. “That’s the rule tonight, isn’t it?”

“Convenient.”

“Liberating maybe?”

“Deceptive.”

“Only if you’re trying to sell something.”

His lips twitched faintly. “You’re too good at this.” playing devil's advocate.

“I could say the same.”

Their eyes met again, longer this time. The noise of the ballroom faded just a bit. Not silence, but suspension, like the moment before a card is turned.

Mona broke it first, swirling her glass again. “You still haven’t told me your name.”

“You didn’t ask.”

She tilted her head. “You don’t strike me as a Chad .”

He coughed. Or maybe laughed quietly. “Thankfully, I’m not.”

“Then?”

He took a slow sip, and answered with a question: “Would you prefer a truth or a lie?”

Mona took a moment. Swirled her drink like she was consulting an oracle in the bubbles.

“Well,” she said at last, “if I ask for the truth, I’ll get a lie. If I ask for a lie, I might get the truth. And if I ask for both, you’ll give me neither. So…” She smiled. “Surprise me.”

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at her, the kind of look that was too still to be polite, too sharp to be safe. A fraction too long. “You can call me Kunikuzushi.”

Mona blinked. Kunikuzushi. She hadn’t expected him to give anything . And she wasn’t entirely sure if this name counted.

“That sounds,” she said slowly, “like something with a tragic backstory and at least one unsolved murder.”

His mouth twitched. “Just one?”

“I’m being generous.”

“I’ll allow it.” He tilted his glass, took another sip. Watched her over the rim.

She narrowed her eyes slightly. “But is that the lie or the truth?”

“Does it matter?”

“Only if I ever need to shout it in a crowd.”

He gave a low sound that might have been a laugh, or maybe a warning. “If you do that, I’ll know I’ve made a mistake.”

“You misunderstood - I would be yelling for security. ”

“Would you?”

“Nah,” she said, too easily. “I’d find more creative ways to make you leave.” That earned her a real smile. Small, quick, unguarded—and gone just as fast.

“I see,” he said. “So under the mask, you’re an instigator.”

“I prefer the term opportunist .”

“How capitalist of you.”

“How imperial of you to notice.”

He snorted again - this one louder, involuntary. She took it as a win.

They drifted slightly, just adjusting angle to avoid a passing group of dancers. The space between them never widened.

“So,” Mona said, tone deceptively casual, “what do you really think of this place?”

He didn’t look. “What makes you think I’m holding back?”

“Because I am. And you strike me as someone who doesn’t volunteer information unless it’s weaponized.”

“Sharp.”

She curtsied slightly, mid-step. “I try.”

He followed her gaze across the ballroom. The gilded spires. The floral arrangements straining under their own symmetry. A string quartet tucked into the far alcove, playing a piece so intricately rehearsed it no longer sounded alive.

“I think,” he said finally, “that this is a house of well-dressed ghosts.”

Mona looked over at him, intrigued. “Oh?”

He nodded at a passing couple. “Everyone here is too busy looking like someone else. Or pretending they know what to do. No one’s real until they’re halfway drunk or cornered.”

“Or both,” she added helpfully.

He smirked. “Exactly.”

“And yet,” she said, watching him sidelong, “you’re still here. Mask and all.”

“So are you.”

“I came for the drinks and the planetary ceiling.”

He looked up again, skeptical. “Mm.”

“And maybe to win a few bets.”

“ That I believe.” He paused, thoughtful. “…What did you wager?”

Mona’s grin was slow. “That someone would kiss the Grand Alchemist before midnight.”

A blink. “You’ve set someone up?” his voice dripped with weariness.

“No,” she said innocently. “But I did dare him to ask her to dance.”

“And?”

“He did. Twice. He’s very proud.”

“Was this a match born of mischief or pity?”

“Neither. Certainty.”

He gave her a look. “That’s dangerous.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I call like I see it.”

She clinked her glass against his with a soft, musical tap. “Cheers to that.” Their drinks brushed, the sound quick and private beneath the music. “Any wagers of your own?” she asked.

“I don’t gamble.”

“That’s not true. You came here.”

He gave her a look so dry it could’ve stripped varnish. “Touché.” Another silence, not awkward, not rushed. It settled in the way stormclouds do before they decide to stay. Then he said, “Alright . Fine. I’ll admit one thing.”

Mona perked up slightly. “A confession? Be still my heart.”

“I expected to hate this,” he said. “But this part-” He looked at her, very directly now. “-is tolerable.”

She didn’t answer right away, fighting a snort. “You’re terrible at compliments.”

“I didn’t say it was one.”

“You’re even worse at denials.”

That pulled another breath of laughter from him. And this time, he didn’t hide it behind his glass. Their eyes held for a long moment. A strange kind of mutual study, not territorial, but curious. Open without being vulnerable. She liked that.

“Tell me,” she said. “What’s the worst part of a party like this?”

“The introductions,” he said instantly. “Fake names, fake compliments, fake laughs. It’s exhausting.”

She nodded. “And the best?”

He hesitated. Then, with just a hint of irony, “Exits.”

She grinned. “Agreed.”

“And you?”

“Oh, the worst is small talk. Or worse, forced sincerity. People acting like they care about your answers.”

“And the best?”

Her gaze flicked to his. “The ones who don’t pretend to.”

He didn’t smile exactly, but something in his eyes shifted. Approval, maybe. Or appreciation. “Are you always like this?” he asked. “Sharp-tongued and observant?”

“Only around interesting company.”

A soft scoff. “You’re not very modest.”

“I haven’t needed to be.”

“Maybe you should try it.”

“Maybe you should try being likable.”

He smirked. “I am likable. Just selectively.”

“That’s not how that word works.”

“Then redefine it.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smirk mirrored his. “Selective charm. I’ll give you that.”

“See?”

“Barely.” Mona, keen, guarded, endlessly amused - smiled to herself and thought: Well. This might actually get interesting.

The moment lingered. Just long enough to tip toward silence again, if either of them had been the type to let things cool.

But neither of them were now.

“Your lively companion,” Mona said lightly, tilting her head just so, “does he know you’ve abandoned him?”

Scaramouche- Kunikuzushi ,huffed faintly through his nose, as though the word companion offended him. “He’s not my anything. He came because he likes drama . I came because I had to. You can imagine how that’s going.”

Mona grinned. “So you do know each other.”

“Unfortunately.”

“He seemed… energetic.”

“That’s one word for it.”

“Would weaponized enthusiasm be better?”

“That’s two words,” he muttered, but he looked amused despite himself. “He likes to collect people. Strangers, friends, problems. I think I fall into the last category.”

“And despite it,,” she said, swirling her drink again, “you still came with him.”

“ Came near him. There’s a difference.”

Mona gave him a look, arched and knowing. “He doesn’t exactly look nearby-ish . More like he’d been dodging security to follow someone’s scent trail.”

He side-eyed her. “You’re very observant.”

“You’re very obvious.”

That earned a slight raise of his brow.“And what’s your name?” Mona blinked. “You haven’t told me,” he added, casual but clearly fishing.

She smiled. “I know.” He tilted his head, clearly waiting. But she only took a small sip from her glass and said, “I’ll tell you later.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re enjoying not knowing.”

That stopped him, if only for a breath. “Are you famous ?” he asked, arching a brow.

Mona made a show of considering it. “Recognizable,” she allowed.

That clearly irritated him. “If you were important,” he said, “I’d know.”

“Would you?”

“Yes.”

“Then maybe I’m not important,” she said, with infuriating calm. “Maybe I’m just good at talking like I am.”

He stared at her a second longer. Not because he didn’t believe her, but because he wasn’t sure which answer would be more interesting.

“I could ask around,” he said.

“You could,” she agreed. “But that would be cheating.”

“Well, you don’t strike me as someone who plays fair.”

“I play creatively.”

“That’s even worse.”

“Is it?” He said nothing. Mona leaned in a touch - not close enough to draw attention, but enough to invite a reaction. “Let me guess,” she said softly. “You hate the idea that someone in this room might have slipped past your notice.”

He didn’t blink. But he did smirk. “Only when they’re smug about it.”

“Then I’m doing my job.”

“Are you paid to be infuriating?”

“Only on weekends.” A flicker of amusement crossed his face, but behind it was something sharper, curiosity, clearly growing. Uncomfortable maybe, but persistent.

“You really think you’re recognizable?” he asked.

Mona gave him a beat of a look, and then -casually, wickedly- tipped her chin toward a pair of noblewomen across the hall. One of them had clearly been sneaking glances at her for the past several minutes. The woman caught her gaze, startled, and quickly turned away. Mona raised her glass.

“Recognizable,” she said again, and sipped.

Scaramouche made a low sound of disbelief. Or maybe irritation. But he didn’t look away.

“Alright,” he said. “That’s… annoying.”

“Because you don’t like not knowing, or because you do like it?”

“Both,” he admitted.

“Perfect,” she replied. “Then we’re getting somewhere.”

His next words were careful. “You haven’t asked who I really am.”

“I figured I’d let you tell me. Or not.”

“No guesses?”

“Oh, I have guesses . But I’m saving them.”

“For what?”

She smiled. “For when you slip.”

His gaze sharpened slightly.

“I don’t slip.”

“No,” she agreed. “You crack . Much more interesting.”

Their eyes met again, and the silence between them hummed - like the second before a storm touches down, or a magnet finds its pair. And Mona, sharp-tongued and smiling, let it stretch.

“You know,” Mona said, tilting her head as a man in a too-tight cravat nearly tripped over a champagne server, “for a masquerade, people are horrible at being anonymous.” Scaramouche followed her gaze just in time to watch the man wobble, recover, and then bow exaggeratedly to no one in particular. “That one’s from the Assembly,” Mona added. “I’d bet my hat.”

“You have a hat?”

“I always have a hat. Tonight it’s just hiding.”

He snorted softly. “Of course it is.”

A woman in a glittering seafoam gown tottered past, the lace of her mask slipping slightly to reveal half a very familiar diplomatic crest tattooed just below her jaw.

Mona raised a brow. “And her? That’s Lady Sigrova.”

“She’s not even trying.”

“She thinks as long as no one says her name , she’s safe. Watch - next time someone calls her by it, she’ll pretend she can’t hear them.”

“Elegant denial,” Scaramouche muttered ironically. “Classic.”

“Very Monstadt ,” Mona sighed.

“You’re worse than I thought,” he said looking at the crowd with a new found sense of superiority.

“Only because I have an opportunity.” Their eyes lingered again, both amused, both holding just enough back to keep the balance taut. Comfortable in their shared cynicism. Uncomfortable in how quickly it felt comfortable.

And then-

“I knew I saw a star fall this way!”

Mona closed her eyes, just briefly.

Scaramouche didn’t need to turn to know who it was. His whole posture dipped in suffering.

“Please tell me he’s talking about the ceiling,” he muttered.

But no.

Childe, mask slightly askew, eyes bright with either mischief or trouble (probably both) sidled up with a grin sharp enough to slice cheese. His coat was open like he was born allergic to formality, and his tone was far too loud for the ambiance.

“There she is,” he said, looking at Mona like she was a celebrity he was pretending to recognize. “Our mysterious star goddess, stealing the night right out from under everyone’s feet.”

Mona arched a brow. “You say that like you’ve been rehearsing it.”

“I say that because it’s true ,” he said, hand to heart. “Forgive the interruption, but I need to borrow my friend here for a moment. Tactical reasons.”

Scaramouche looked at him with murder in his soul.

Mona looked at both of them, unimpressed. “Tactical,” she repeated. “Are we talking spilled wine or someone with a grudge?”

Childe smiled too sweetly. “Little column A, little column ‘wants me dead.’”

“Charming.”

“I try.”

Scaramouche still hadn’t moved. Mona sighed, tilting her glass in his direction.

“Duty calls. Or whatever it is you two do.”

His eyes lingered on her for a second longer than he meant them to. Then he gave a curt nod, barely there, and turned without a word.

She watched them slip through the crowd, her expression unreadable.

“Well,” she murmured under her breath, “that answers some questions.”

They cut through the edges of the crowd quickly, Childe all ease and elbow-nudging energy, Scaramouche walking like a man being dragged to a dentist.

“You talked to her more than you talk to me in a week,” Childe said, grin audible even without looking.

Scaramouche didn’t even blink. “A month.”

“Cruel.”

“Accurate.”

“ She must be fascinating.”

“She uses her words efficiently. You should try it sometime.”

Childe barked a quiet laugh. “Wow. She gets jokes, I get emotional damage.”

“You chose this companionship.”

“I did. I also walk into fireballs for fun. Clearly I have a type.”

Scaramouche didn’t smile. But he looked, for the first time since they’d entered, awake.

And Childe, sensing that flicker of heat, sighed and pulled him closer as they neared the far alcove, the one with the ornate screen and the man with too many rings and too few scruples waiting behind it.

The crowd folded in, Kunikuzushi and his too-lively companion disappeared into the throng, and with them went the strange voltage that had hummed quietly between them. Mona lingered where she stood, letting the hum of music settle again in her chest, eyes drawn absently to the spinning dancers under the star-painted ceiling she had crafted herself.

A familiar presence sidled up beside her. Cool, composed, and unmistakably smug. “Well,” Albedo said, voice as dry as the wine in her glass, “that looked… almost cordial.”

She didn’t even look over. “Albedo.”

“Careful,” he said lightly. “Any more friendliness and people might mistake you for approachable.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t.”

She finally turned her head, giving him a lazy once-over. “Don’t you have some noble patron to charm?”

“I did. He fled after I corrected his understanding of tectonic plate movement.”

Mona gave a snort, half-hidden by her glass. “I see you’re still disarming guests with raw, weaponized knowledge.”

He raised a brow. “Pot, kettle.”

They drifted toward the refreshment table without needing to speak the direction. Mona’s gaze flicked up to the ceiling again, her own constellation spellwork drifting in slow, cosmic spirals. The centerpiece wasn’t due to peak until midnight, but already it held the room’s attention like a silent gravity.

“That’s holding well,” Albedo murmured, following her gaze.

Mona allowed herself a small smile. “Indeed.”

“I hope the stranger appreciated it.”

Her smile twitched. “What stranger?”

“Oh come now.” He didn’t need to gesture. His tone was enough. “The one with the thorny aura and the aristocratic disdain. Looked like he wanted to either kiss you or hex the room.”

“I’ve spoken to a lot of people tonight.”

“But only one made you forget to gloat about your own ceiling.” His tone was unhurried, but the jab was surgical.

She turned away slightly. “He doesn’t know yet.”

“Mm. Planning a reveal?”

“At the right time.”

“That’s dangerously close to romantic.”

“Albedo,” she said with warning, “I will drop you into the punch bowl.”

He smiled, deeply unbothered. A soft clinking of heels on marble joined them a moment later, and Sucrose appeared with a small plate of intricately arranged desserts, half of which were beginning to slide off at precarious angles.

“Oh good,” she said breathlessly. “You found her.”

“Was she lost?” Albedo asked.

“I wasn’t lost,” Mona said, “I was busy.”

“Yes,” Albedo said. “Busy conjuring astral phenomena and making socially intriguing acquaintances.”

Sucrose blinked between them. “I’m missing context again, aren’t I?”

“Completely,” Mona said with satisfaction, popping a sugared petal into her mouth.

But Albedo tilted his head, deceptively thoughtful. “You know, Mona, if your grand plan doesn’t go as planned…”

She paused mid-chew. “It will .”

“But if ,” he said, “then I do believe we agreed you’d face a consequence.”

“I don’t recall signing anything.”

“My memory is flawless.”

Sucrose looked scandalized. “You made a wager?”

“No,” Mona said quickly. “Just... artistic accountability.”

Albedo’s smile was all frost and precision. “If you don’t deliver as promised, I expect you to part with your astrolabe. One full lunar cycle. No recalibrating. No enhancements.”

Mona’s jaw dropped. “That’s barbaric!”

“Or,” Albedo continued, as if he hadn’t just threatened emotional war, “you could march back to that masked stranger and tell him you were impressed.”

Sucrose made a soft noise, eyes wide. “Oh.”

Mona looked horrified. “Absolutely not. That’s mortifying .”

“Exactly,” Albedo said calmly.

Sucrose, who was now beginning to understand some of the context, covered a laugh with a dainty cough.

“You’re a menace,” Mona muttered.

“I’m an academic,” Albedo replied. “Same thing, really.” he added after a second.

And as Sucrose nearly dropped a candied fig and Mona sulked over the dessert tray, her eyes still drifted, just once back toward the crowd. He was gone, but the charge still lingered.

The music had changed by the time they returned. Slower now, more indulgent, with strings that curled like smoke through the crowd.

Scaramouche, drifted away again as soon as Childe clapped him on the shoulder and murmured something with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Whatever conversation they’d had in the darkened alcoves of the hall had left them quiet. Not tense, exactly. But thoughtful. Calculating.

Mona watched discreetly from her place near the outer columns, sipping her third glass of whatever sparkled.

Childe’s gaze caught hers.

He tilted his head like he was considering something... then handed off his own glass and made his way over, looking far too casual for a man wearing murder in a jacket.

“Star-draped goddess,” he said warmly, offering a short bow. “I hope your evening has only improved since our mutual acquaintance wandered off.”

Mona raised a brow. “He didn’t strike me as the wandering type.”

“Oh, he’s full of surprises. Keeps them under seven layers of spite.” Childe grinned, then extended a hand. “May I?”

She hesitated. Her gaze flicked past him, just briefly, to the indigo-clad figure standing stiffly near a column, as if willing himself to become architecture. Watching, though, always watching.

“I warn you,” she said, “I’m not much for choreography.”

“Perfect,” Childe said. “I only want to talk. And I promise to behave.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Do you ever?”

“Only when it’s funny.”

Still, she placed her hand in his, and he led her gently to the floor, the dance a slow, graceful orbit. Enough space to talk. Not quite enough to hide.

“I have to say,” he said conversationally, “you don’t really fit into this crowd.”

“Thank you.”

“That was a compliment,” he said, mock-wounded.

“I know.”

He grinned. “Alright then. I mean it, you’ve got the look of someone who strikes deals instead of pleasantries. That’s rare around here.”

Mona allowed herself a small, enigmatic smile. “We all trade in something.”

“True,” he said. “Some people gamble with coin. Others with power. Others…” His eyes glittered. “...with curiosity.”

Her expression didn’t shift, but her interest sharpened. “And which do you prefer?”

“Oh, I’m an opportunist. But I admire someone who knows how to set the terms.” He leaned in just slightly. “My friend by the way, your indigo observer, he doesn’t usually talk to strangers.”

“Then I must be very charming.”

Childe laughed. “You are. But that’s not the strange part. The strange part is... I’ve never seen him dance.”

That earned him a flicker of a glance. Sharp. Knowing. “A bet?” she asked quietly.

He hummed. “Let’s call it a theoretical challenge . I’m willing to offer a generous reward, though. Purely mora, of course.”

Mona swirled with him in time to the music. “You think it’ll be hard.”

“I know it will be. But I also know he’s still watching.”

She didn’t turn. Didn’t need to. “How generous?”

Childe grinned like someone holding all the cards. “Enough to fund a new constellation. Maybe two.” elegantly exaggerated. 

Mona chuckled. “Tempting.”

He slowed their step, easing them to the edge of the crowd, near where his companion stood rooted in place like a shadow given form.

“Then I’ll leave you to strike your bargain,” he said, releasing her hand with a practiced flourish. “Returning your devoted believer back to you, my goddess.”

Mona gave him a look. “How noble.”

He winked. “I’m due at the buffet. Someone’s got to keep the seafood from feeling neglected.”

And with that, Childe disappeared, swift and slippery as ever, leaving her standing just a few feet from the one person who hadn’t looked away from her since she took the floor.

She turned her head slowly. Let her gaze meet his. 

“Well,” she said, half amusement, half challenge. “You’re still here.” He eyerolled but didn't move away. The music drifted on, light as spun sugar and twice as decorative. 

Mona weighed her options carefully.

She could play the charming temptress. Smile,- just so. Flatter his pride. Lean closer when she asks something. That might work on half the ballroom.

But not on him. No, he’d see it for the performance it was. And worse, she might taste the falseness of it herself. The idea made her feel vaguely ill.

She could try the opposite. Be sly. Insult him just enough to provoke. She could needle his pride, dare him to prove her wrong. That would work. Probably. It would be fun, too. But it would still be a game.

And something about him, about his silence, about how he hadn’t once tried to impress or intimidate her, suggested that maybe the more interesting move was the one least expected.

A gamble in its own right.

She crossed the short distance. He didn’t flinch when she stopped in front of him. His eyes lifted slightly, meeting hers. And Mona, shrugging like it cost her nothing at all, said simply:

“Your friend challenged me to make you dance.”

His expression changed.

Not in a flash, but in a small, visible series of fractures. Eyebrows raising, then settling. A slow blink. The corner of his mouth twitching. Something closer to amusement. He was...impressed. Undeniably, frankly impressed.

“How bold,” he murmured.

She smiled, not triumphantly, just a little pleased. “I don’t know you well enough to actually trick you.” That seemed to catch him off-guard all over again. The directness. Or maybe the confidence in it. “And honesty is the best policy with new people,” she added, glancing past him.

Her eyes found Albedo and Sucrose, now twirling through a slow, delicate turn, laughing at something private. Their rhythm awkward and endearing. Sincere. Her expression softened without her noticing.

When she looked back, Kunikuzushi was still watching her. Not reading her. Not bracing for some twist or insult. Just watching. And then, very quietly:

“Did he bet a lot?”

She smiled. “ Enough for a constellation.”

He huffed once, almost a laugh. “Of course he did.” He let his gaze rest on her, deliberate, but not heavy. “What will you do if I say no?”

“Continue my evening,” she said easily. “Enjoy the décor, sip something overpriced, maybe place another bet.”

“No heartbreak?”

“Not tonight,” she said, smiling. “I’m dressed too well to cry.”

He snorted. “Fair.”

His arms remained crossed. “So what do I get out of it?”

“The honour of my company, obviously.” She delivered it so deadpan he almost missed the joke. Almost.

He considered. “Not bad, but you’ll have to do better.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What would you ask for? Half the winnings?”

“Seems fair.”

“No, it doesn’t.” She folded her arms now, mirroring his stance. “You’re forgetting the effort’s mine.”

“I’m the prize.”

“You’re the obstacle.”

He laughed under his breath. “Touché.”

She leaned in slightly, voice low, eyes on the crowd. “Besides, I’m fairly sure you have more mora than him.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Based on what?”

“The way he waves it around. Anyone that cheerful about money doesn’t understand compound loss.”

“You’ve been watching him that closely?”

“Watching people is half the fun here.”

“So what do you do with your mora, then?” he asked. “If you win.”

“Spend it. Immediately. What else would I do?”

He looked vaguely offended. “Invest. Save. Plan.”

She grimaced. “That sounds dreadful.”

“It sounds logical .”

“It sounds boring.”

“Your financial strategy is chaos.”

“And yours is hoarding.”

“It’s called preparation.”

“It’s called control issues.”

He stared. Then his lips curved, slow and dry. “You are infuriating.”

“You’re welcome.”

Their eyes locked again, but this time it felt less like a standoff and more like… a loop. Not quite closed. Not quite willing to be broken.

He studied her another moment. “You really think I’m that hard to sway?”

She smirked. “No... I think you’re that hard to predict .”

“Hm.” He exhaled once. Then, as if remembering, glanced toward the dancers. “You don’t seem rushed,”

“I’m not.” She winked. And in that moment, under the chandelier glow, he finally caught the color of her eyes, grey, like dusk on a cloudy sea. Mischievous dusk. “I’ve plenty to entertain myself with,” she added, casually swirling her glass. “A few dancing options, if you decide to remain shy.”

He huffed a soft laugh, more breath than sound. “That was blatant.”

She giggled. “So was your eye roll.”

He tilted his head, lips twitching. “And yet you stay?”

She gestured vaguely toward him, a little flourish. “With a stance like that? I’d be a fool to walk away. At the very least, I have intriguing company for part of the night.”

He arched a brow. “Intriguing? Or tolerable?”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

A beat passed, easy and warm. 

“You’re probably a feet-stomper,” he said, mock-solemn.

She gasped, hand to chest. “How dare —!”

“It’s just a theory.”

“I’ll have you know,” she said with great dignity, “I have a student.”

He blinked mocking “Who?”

She nodded slyly toward the floor. “That blonde one twirling around the table centerpiece.”

Scaramouche followed her gaze to Albedo and Sucrose spinning past, stiff in the shoulders, but undeniably trying.

“…He’s far from graceful.”

“That’s not his fault,” Mona said proudly. “It’s the company. Makes his thoughts vulnerable.”

His eyes flicked toward her again, curious. “You two were dancing earlier?”

“We were.” She lifted her chin a bit, half-defiant. “Maybe not professionally , but I’d say we didn’t do too shabby.” He hummed noncommittally. She leaned forward, smiling. “What, didn’t think I had rhythm?”

“I didn’t think you had restraint .”

“Ouch,” she said, mock-wounded. He smirked, then glanced back at the dancers. “Maybe I was wrong,” she said suddenly, eyes narrowing with playful suspicion. “Maybe you’re the feet-stomper.”

He scoffed. “I’d never.”

“That was defensive.”

“That was accurate .”

She grinned. “Which means untested.”

“Which means unproven.”

“Which means,” she said sweetly, her pointing finger up, “we’re still talking about it.”

He looked at her then, not assessing, not measuring. Just... taking her in.

“Bold,” he murmured again. But this time, the edge had melted off. No warning. No disapproval.

Just interest.

And in her star-swept silks and soft-glinting earrings, Mona smiled like someone who had already spun the stars into alignment. Because she knew she’d already won.

He entertained the idea for far too long, not brushing her off, not walking away. Just circling it like a cat, a suspicious toy. And now she could feel it: the moment before the fall.

He huffed, shaking his head in defiance as though the decision offended him personally. Then, with a dramatic flourish that made her grin, he bowed. Not the stiff, formal kind everyone had been taught here. No, this one was mocking and fluid, all deliberate flair and no respect.

And he didn’t offer his hand.

No.

He took hers.

Cool fingers, surprising in their gentleness, curled around hers like a closing snare. Unsurprising , she thought. He didn’t wait or ask. He took what he wanted, and somehow still made it feel like an invitation.

“I have one condition,” he said, glancing up at her from his bow, a mess of indigo hair catching the golden candlelight like midnight spun with stars.

“Oh?” Mona asked, raising a brow. She hoped her voice sounded casual, even as warmth crawled up the back of her neck.

“In exchange,” he murmured, rising with her hand still in his, “I want a secret.”

“Any secret?” she asked, schooling her features.

He hummed. “Surprise me.” And just like that, he guided her toward the dance floor, steps purposeful but not rushed, like he was walking into battle with music instead of blades.

The quartet had shifted to a slower piece now, all languid strings and dreamlike elegance. The world outside the circle of the dance floor blurred, silks, laughter, glinting masks, a blur of perfume and polished shoes. 

Mona let him place a hand lightly at her waist, her own drifting up to rest near his shoulder. His posture was better than she’d expected, rigid, but trained. Too many years of trying not to betray anything in the tilt of a head or a step forward. He moved like someone who actually hated to be watched but knew he was always being watched. Their first few steps were cautious, precise. Testing. A study of movement and intention.

“You haven’t stepped on me yet.” she smiles as they turn

“A low bar.”

“A necessary one.”

His lips twitched. “You're provoking.”

“Am I?” She caught his eye again, just briefly. They flickered with that strange intensity - half challenge, half curiosity.

He turned her smoothly, and she followed without hesitation. They found rhythm quickly, like they had known how the other moved all along, and had just forgotten for a moment. Their steps matched - not perfectly, not technically - but with instinct. Like two storms deciding not to clash, but to orbit.

“Still waiting on that secret,” he said under his breath, voice barely louder than the strings.

Mona made a thoughtful sound. “Alright. A secret…” He waited, gaze sharp but not unkind. “...The planetary illusion tonight, I know who’s behind it~”

He blinked. For a heartbeat, his step faltered, but only a hair. He recovered with smooth indifference. “Huh.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“It’s not that surprising,” he said simply.

“Oh?”

“You watched the ceiling like it was something alive.”

She smiled, genuinely surprised. “Not bad,” a pause, then, tasting the name on her tongue like a secret sweetened with mischief, “Kuni.”

His eyes flicked to hers at that, unreadable for a beat too long.

And then, smoother than velvet: “Careful. Some names have weight.”

“I like names with gravity,” she returned, tone light, steps sure. “Besides, I think it suits you.”

“You don’t know me well enough to decide that.”

“Maybe not. But you’ve let me call you that, didn't you?” He didn’t answer. 

They moved together in slow spirals, the swell of the music brushing past like soft breath over skin. The ballroom around them was all gold and shadow, candlelight flickering across masked smiles and champagne glass clinks. But for them, it narrowed to the space between their eyes, their hands, the shared rhythm.

He finally broke the silence. “So what do I get if I ask for another secret?”

Her grin returned like a tide. “Then I get to make a condition of my own.”

He considered this, then dipped his head slightly, curious. “What kind of condition?”

She tilted her head, thoughtful. “One you won’t like.”

“Try me.”

Mona leaned in, voice soft, conspiratorial. “I’ll tell you another secret… if you do something honest.”

That actually made him falter again, not in his steps, but in his expression. Something flickered, something cautious. Or defensive. “Define honest,” he said dryly.

She shrugged. “Not hiding behind wit. Or cold. Or mystery. Something that’s just you.”

His lips parted, a scoff threatening, but he didn’t follow through. Instead, he gave a crooked, too-calm smile. “That’s a tall price.”

“But a fair one.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just led her through a smooth turn that pulled her closer, hand steady at her waist.

Finally, he said, “I don’t like fair trades. The world doesn’t operate on them.”

“That’s your second mistake tonight,” Mona murmured, barely audible. “Assuming I play fair.”

He looked down at her then, long and quiet. Not angry. Not even amused. Interested.

And then, softer: “Do you like dancing?”

The question caught her off guard, in the best way. Her brow lifted. “Do I…?”

He nodded once. “You’re good at it. Comfortable. But is it something you enjoy?”

“I do,” she said, surprising herself with the simplicity of the moment. “Especially with the right partner.”

He smirked. “Flatterer.”

“You like it too?” she asked, pressing back lightly, casually testing.

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you didn’t say no.”

His hand shifted slightly at her back, closer. Almost imperceptibly.

She leaned in again, this time with less teasing, more intent. “You could say no.”

He held her gaze. “I don’t dislike it.”

“Hooray~” she said brightly, lips quirking.

Their feet moved in easy synchrony now, like they’d been dancing together for hours. The pauses between words stretched longer. The space between them thinner. The world around them, irrelevant.

He broke the quiet, voice smooth but low. “You said something honest will get me another secret.”

“I did.”

His eyes narrowed, a hint of suspicion. “So what’s my task, then? A confessional monologue? A childhood trauma?”

“Nothing that theatrical,” Mona said, amused. “Just… something real.”

He huffed lightly, feigning irritation as they turned again through the golden-lit crowd. “And how do you define ‘real’?”

“You’ll know,” she said, with infuriating confidence. “Or you’ll stall until you say something so carefully noncommittal I’ll call your bluff and you’ll lose your prize.”

“That’s extortion.”

“That’s bartering,” she corrected sweetly. “You started these deals.”

He was quiet for a breath, long lashes lowered as he glanced away, as if considering what counted as “real” and how much he could stand to give. Then, finally:

“I don’t dance.”

She blinked. “That’s a lie.”

“No,” he said, and there was something different in his voice now, less polished - less coy. “I do tonight. But I don’t normally. Ever.”

She studied his face. He was looking away, jaw set but relaxed, eyes tracking some distant corner of the room like it mattered more than it did.

Something in her chest gave a little.

“…Acceptable,” she said softly.

He looked back at her, skepticism still sharp. “That’s enough?”

“For the moment.” She smirked. “Which means you’ve earned something.”

“Oh?”

“A secret,” she said, the words quieter than before, this time with a strange sincerity tucked into their edges.

He leaned in slightly, curiosity piqued. “Surprise me.”

She hesitated. Just for a heartbeat. 

“I feel like we’ve met before.” His gaze fixed on her. Hard. Sharp. Not disbelieving. Just… still.

“You’re sure it’s not déjà vu?” he asked, but his voice had lost its teasing edge.

“No,” she said. “It’s not. It’s… not even familiarity. It’s more like-”

“A thread,” he finished. 

She blinked. 

He gave a faint shrug, as if brushing it off. “Something pulling. Not from memories, but from somewhere else.”

Mona’s breath caught, her body still moving with the music, but her mind paused entirely.

“Exactly,” low and quiet.

They said nothing for a moment. Just moved, with the world around them, clinking glasses, trailing silks, laughter that blurred at the edges. They felt oddly far away.

Finally, she cleared her throat, the spell breaking with gentle grace.

“So?” she asked, recovering her playful tone. “Still hate dancing?”

He looked at her for a moment longer, then offered a slanted smile. “Tolerating it.”

“High praise,” she quipped. “Be careful, I might get used to the flattery.”

He turned her with a slow flick of his wrist, eyes still faintly amused.

“And you?” he murmured as she spun back toward him. “Think you’ll win your bet?”

She grinned. “Oh, I always win.” He smirked, but didn’t argue. She corrected her grasp on his shoulder, “For someone who doesn’t dance,” Mona said, tilting her head with a suspicious smile, “you sure do it surprisingly well.”

Something tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s say I trained long ago,” he murmured, “and have a really good memory.”

Mona hummed, intrigued. “A secret school of assassins and socialites, I assume?”

“You’d be surprised what gets taught in the dark corners of the world.”

She laughed. “Oh, I doubt I would.”

Their steps moved in smooth sync, the rhythm of the room pulsing like a second heartbeat beneath them. Mona’s gown shimmered in arcs of starlight, catching stray reflections from the floating planets overhead. Her feet glided, her eyes watching, calculating amused. Softening now and then without her notice.

“I’ve danced a lot,” she offered as they turned again, “but never at a ball. Festivals, yes. Markets, once or twice when spirits were high and drinks flowed free. But this?” She glanced upward at the painted cosmos overhead. “This is new.”

“You fake it well,” he said.

She raised a brow. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“It almost was.”

She laughed again, but this time, there was a thread of challenge in it. And then suddenly she dipped. Not sharply. Not dangerously. Just a low-leaning, fluid sink in his arms, her spine arching, eyes gleaming with mischief as she looked up at him.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to. Just caught her easily, reflex sharp, grip steady, not even blinking.

When she came upright again, twirling herself with a practiced twist of wrist and heel, she jumped slightly on the spin, light-footed, with a flick of fabric. She was provoking him. He knew it.

The music swelled, and with a sudden, fluid shift, he accepted her invitation.

He stepped in closer—just enough that the space between them hummed with electricity—and spun her outward, catching her again with a pivot that left her momentarily breathless. Then, surprising even her, he pulled her back in by the hand, guiding her into a cross-step turn, fast and clean, one arm brushing along her back like he’d done it a thousand times.

Mona blinked.

He raised a brow. “Something wrong?”

“Not at all,” she said, catching her breath through a smile. “You’re just—”

“Better than expected?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I was going to say alarmingly competent.”

He chuckled under his breath. “I’ll take it.”

“You’re going to make me jealous,” she said, teasing as they settled back into smoother steps. “All that memory and training and no passion to use it?”

“I didn’t say there was no passion,” he said, voice calm but pointed. “Just no opportunity.”

“And tonight?”

His eyes flicked to hers, dark blue catching glints of light. “Tonight is… unusual.”

For once, Mona didn’t have a quick reply.

And for a few beats, they simply moved. Stars wheeling above them, laughter far at the edges, and the rhythm of something unspoken threading between every step.

There was laughter - dry and amused, when she pointed out the fussy old couple glaring at them from their seats like a scandal was unfolding. He countered by gesturing with his chin to a group of noble sons stepping on each other’s feet in succession, the clumsiest minuet she’d ever witnessed.

“I give them four more beats before the smallest one starts crying,” Mona said.

He didn’t laugh aloud, but the sound that left him was pleased, albeit sinister.

Between the playful jabs and clever sidesteps, they talked carefully, in glimpses. He mentioned, vaguely, a ruined opera house once, where music still echoed in its bones. She told him about a traveling festival in Liyue that danced around lanterns until dawn. They traded short stories like cards between hands, never too much, never quite real names, but enough to build a world of their own for the night.

And as they danced, Mona, without so much as a flick of her fingers, adjusted the illusion above. Only subtly. A brush of stardust, soft and silver, began to fall like snowlight. The planetary orbits shimmered, catching the beat of the strings and spinning ever so slightly faster, as if the heavens themselves leaned in to watch.

In their final dip, something shifted.

Bold - her calf rising, curling lightly around his thigh, her balance falling into him as she arched. His hand held steady at her hip, strong and sure, his other arm supporting her effortlessly. Their faces were close, breath mingled, eyes locked. There was no quip. Just the thick silence of something delicate, suspended, and beginning to glow too brightly to ignore.

She should have pulled back faster. He should’ve let go. But neither of them moved - for one stretched moment, they weren’t pretending anymore.

And then slowly, way too slowly , they rose from the dip. Mona’s eyes flicked toward the crowd.

And caught Albedo watching.

He leaned casually against a column, sipping wine, expression maddeningly pleased. When their eyes met, he tipped the glass at her with a knowing smile.

Mona blinked. Turned. And flushed.

“Oh no…” muttered under her breath.

“What?” Kuni asked, gaze darting back to her.

She shook her head, already turning slightly toward the edge of the room. “Too many eyes.”

His brow rose. “Scared of being seen?”

“Not at all,” she smiled. “But I need air.” She looked back over her shoulder, her eyes catching his again, silver-gray like frost in candlelight. “Join me?”

Kuni didn’t hesitate. “Lead the way.”

The night air curled cool around them, tugging gently at silks and ribbons, starlight crisp on their skin. The hum of the ballroom dulled behind glass and velvet drapery, replaced by the softer hush of leaves rustling and distant water murmuring from the Mondstadt fountains below.

Mona leaned on the balcony’s carved railing with an exhale that was half laugh, half relief. Her cheeks were still warm, but the breeze helped.

“He was getting too smug,” she said finally.

Beside her, Kuni cocked his head. “Who?”

“My designated partner,” she said, nose wrinkling slightly. “He said earlier that something like this might happen.”

Kuni, without warning, leaned on the railing beside her, closer than before. His shoulder brushed hers, faint but deliberate. His face tipped toward her with a lazy curiosity, just shy of conspiratorial - close enough she could smell the sharp note of clove on his collar, and something faintly smoky beneath. His voice dropped, rich with mischief and drawl.

“Something like what?~”

Mona tensed before she could help it, eyes darting to him, he was far too close, eyes half-lidded, a smirk tugging at his mouth like he already knew he was playing a dangerous game.

She straightened her back, chin up. “You know. Like getting swept up in ballroom illusions. Stars falling. Strangers charming each other with stolen secrets.”

He tilted his head, smiling like he’d caught her in something. “Is that what we’re doing?”

She rolled her eyes, trying to suppress her grin. “I haven’t decided yet.”

His gaze stayed on her a moment longer. Then he hummed, almost thoughtful, and leaned harder on his elbows, the distance between them measured in breaths.

“You’re not very good at staying a stranger.”

“And you’re not very good at staying cold,” she shot back.

That made him pause. Surprise. At how uncharacteristically accurate this statement was. But only in this abstract instance where the masks let him let his guard down. So he allowed for the surprise to settle. Just for a beat.

And then his grin returned, wry and sharp. “That’s a dangerous thing to say, stargazer.”

“It’s only dangerous if I’m wrong,” she murmured.

He didn’t answer.

Not with words.

But his smile faltered—just slightly. Enough for her to know she’d landed somewhere unexpectedly true.

They stood in silence a moment longer, the world behind them blurred, and the moon casting pale light between them like a thread neither quite dared cut. 

Kunikuzushi shifted, the quiet growing restless in his chest. 

“…Alright,” he muttered, eyes flicking down her figure and back up with practiced disinterest. “What’s up with the outfit?”

Mona blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

“It’s too pointed,” he said. “The color, the cut, the accessories. You practically walked out of a myth. That wasn’t an accident.”

She opened her mouth to deflect, but stopped herself. Instead, a small, crooked smile tugged at her lips. “No. I chose it on purpose.”

“I figured.”

“Stars are sort of… my whole aesthetic.”

He scoffed. “What, are you an astrologist or something?”

She raised a brow. “Actually, yes.”

There was a beat of silence.

“…You’re serious.”

Mona nodded slowly, eyes twinkling with amusement.

Kunikuzushi stared at her a second longer, then leaned forward with a groan like he had to physically process that revelation. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Her amusement faltered, eyebrows rising. “What?”

He was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, less smug. “I just… can't stand it. The whole fate thing.”

She turned slightly toward him, folding her arms. Ready for a fight, if need be.

But he wasn’t sneering. In fact, for the first time, he looked... conflicted.

“It just sounds like a way to surrender,” he said eventually. “To let yourself be pulled by something else’s design and call it meaning .”

Mona hesitated. Normally, she’d have launched into a speech about celestial currents, destined tides, the elegance of order in chaos. But this wasn’t a skeptic. He wasn’t mocking her.

No, he was revealing something raw. And very human.

She looked at him carefully. “That’s one way to see it,” she said, measured. “But you don’t seem like someone who trusts anything easily.”

“I don’t.” He shifted his weight. “But for what it’s worth... you don’t seem like someone who blindly trusts the holes in the sky either.”

That earned a surprised breath of laughter from her. “The holes in the sky,” she echoed, smiling. “That’s very poetic, Kuni.”

“Not what I was going for.”

“ Gasp .” she said, warmth returning to her voice, “You reminded me of someone, just now.”

He glanced at her sidelong. “Another masked prince?”

She snorted. “Prince of lies, sure.”

There was a brief flicker, something darker in her gaze, something distant, sharp-edged and untouchable as she stared over the balcony railing into the glittering city lights.

“Nevermind,” she added, shaking it off like dust. “Better company now.”

He didn’t reply, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite pride. But not pudency either.

Kunikuzushi leaned forward slightly, elbows braced on the railing now, his fingers tapping idly against the wrought iron. But his eyes, sharp, unblinking - remained on her.

“You say I reminded you of someone,” he said, voice low and far too curious. “Want to tell me what kind of idiot I’m being compared to?”

Mona smirked, but didn’t turn. “He wasn’t an idiot.”

“That’s not a no.”

She inhaled, lips parting as if she might say something. But then she only shook her head, soft and unreadable. “Let's say that it is.”

That should’ve been the end of it. But the drinks they’d shared had left a slow fire in her chest, and the way he looked at her, half-challenge, half-invitation, made it harder to keep her tongue still.

She turned to him instead, cocking her head slightly. “Do you hate the outfit, then?”

His brow arched. “What?”

“You seemed so offended by the stars,” she said, running a hand down the line of sequins on her sleeve. “Too on the nose? Too shiny for your gloom?”

He scoffed, straightening. “I didn’t say I hated it.”

“No,” she mused. “You just recoiled like I’d announced I worship the concept of destiny.”

“Maybe I did,” he muttered, then added more carefully “In the beginning, it felt like... too much.”

She nodded, unsurprised. “It is too much. Wasn’t entirely my idea.”

His gaze flicked down, tracing the glitter at her collar, the silver moons at her ears, the soft slope of her bare shoulders where stardust shimmered faintly in her skin.

And then their eyes met.

A longer pause.

“But…” he said, voice quieter, “if it’s just for tonight... it suits you.”

Mona faltered. Just a fraction. Her breath hitched the tiniest bit, and she looked at him longer than she meant to.

It was the way he said it, like he wasn’t teasing. Like the sentiment had crawled out of his mouth before he could filter it. Honest.

Too honest.

She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

For a heartbeat, all she could do was take him in: the indigo of his hair tousled by the breeze, the sheen at his strands, the soft line of his jaw lit in moonlight. And his eyes, deep and complex, but fixed on her like she was the only thing holding his attention steady in the whole damn city.

She swallowed.

“It’s the drink,” she muttered, looking away. “Making you sentimental.”

He leaned in, smug again but too quiet for it to carry the usual bite. “Didn’t say I didn’t mean it.”

Her gaze cut back to him, and for the first time, he caught it. The flicker of green beneath her storm-grey eyes. Not an illusion. Not paint. Something real. Something hers.

His breath stilled.

“How strange,” he said, almost to himself.

“What?” she asked.

“You keep surprising me.”

The corners of her mouth twitched upward. “Good.”

And then - boldly, perhaps foolishly - he reached up, brushing a small constellation bead off her shoulder. His fingers grazed her skin in the process, deliberate but not forceful. Featherlight.

She held still. And watched him.

“You’re more dangerous than you look,” he said.

Her laugh was quiet but rich. “You haven’t seen anything yet.” The words hung there, warm and heady, between lips too close and hearts too loud.

Mona knew exactly how they looked.

Too close. Too poised. Too easy to misread, or too impossible not to.

She knew the trope they were acting out: glittering stars overhead, barely a hand of space between them, breath warming breath, his fingers just ghosting her skin like they belonged there. And she, the very picture of a mysterious siren in midnight silk, pressed against carved stone and silver moonlight.

It was ridiculous.

She should’ve laughed. She should’ve stepped back, flicked his forehead, done something clever to break the spell before it took root in places it shouldn’t.

But Archons, he smelled good. And the warmth he left on her shoulder was real. Not illusion, not metaphor. Just his skin, and hers, and something in the middle that dared to linger.

More than that, he looked at her like he wasn’t used to being allowed this close to anyone. And yet he stayed.

His body was half-caging hers, one arm braced on the railing just beside her waist, not quite touching but close enough that if she shifted at all, it would be into him. And her other side? Still open. Still free.

He wasn’t trapping her.

He was inviting her.

“Oh?” he hummed, voice sliding into something silkier. “Will I see more, then?”

She tilted her head, letting her mouth curl slow and sly. “For sure,” she said. “At least a bit.”

And there it was, the moment crystalizing into certainty. No masks, no metaphors, no illusions.

Just heat. And want. And the silent knowledge that if either of them leaned a breath closer, they’d find out exactly how much trouble they could get into before midnight struck.

But fate, as always, had a wicked sense of timing.

From beyond the balcony doors, a voice cut through the quiet like a blade.

“You sure you saw them go here? I’ve got a challenge reward to pay up!”

Mona flinched, not visibly, but inside her spine bristled.

Kuni exhaled sharply through his nose, drawing back just enough to look irritated, but not surprised. “Of course it’s him.”

She sighed, shifting just a little toward the cooler breeze. “He’s worse than an asteroid. Impossible to dodge, always showing up at the worst angle.”

“Don’t flatter him,” Kuni said dryly.

Another voice followed, Sucrose this time, hesitant and trying to sound polite. “M-Maybe we should just check the other balcony? Or… wait a moment?”

“I’m not waiting,” Childe’s voice insisted. “I want to admit that I lost fair and square.”

Kuni’s eyes slid to hers, dark and unreadable once again. “Should we make it look less... fairytale?”

Mona smirked, brushing imaginary stardust from her sleeve. “You mean should we stop pretending we were about to ruin the balcony for future passerbys?”

“I wasn’t pretending anything.”

Her eyes narrowed, caught off-guard by the honesty. And, if she was being truthful, just a little disarmed by it.

But she didn’t answer. Instead, she stepped past him slowly, fingers trailing along the edge of his jacket just enough to let him feel the shimmer of her departure.

“I’ll stall him,” she said, over her shoulder. “You get one more escape before he drags you back into the-.”

They’d just barely eased apart by the time the door creaked open.

Childe strolled through like he owned the evening, hands in his pockets and a wolfish grin stretched wide. “Well, well, well. What a picture you two make.” His voice rang with drama, though his sharp eyes were already flitting between them, reading every space and silence. “A proper star goddess and her brooding knight, basking in the moonlight.”

Mona, now a safe pace away from Kuni, leaned casually on the railing with an expression that dared him to keep going. Kuni didn’t move from his spot either, posture relaxed, glass of wine half-raised to his lips.

Childe produced a small satchel from his coat, plush and unmistakably heavy with mora and the glint of rarer currencies. He presented it to Mona with a flourish. “A deal’s a deal. You won the challenge far faster than I anticipated, my celestial champion.”

She grabbed the bag with a raised brow, already unamused.

“And by challenge,” Childe went on, eyes twinkling as he turned toward Scara, “I mean the very obvious wager about whether he could be coaxed into dancing.”

Kuni didn’t blink. Didn’t even look at him.

“I already knew that,” he said, voice smooth, smug, and deliciously unbothered as he sipped the last of his wine.

That actually silenced Childe for a beat. “...Huh.”

Before Mona could bite back with a clever retort, a soft voice whispered from the doorway. “M-Mona?”

She walked up, eyes widening. “Sucrose?”

The green-haired alchemist fidgeted in the threshold, eyes wide with concern. “What about the performance? You didn’t forget, did you?”

Mona’s heart plummeted into her stomach. “The hour - what’s the hour?”

Childe glanced down at the antique timepiece clipped to his belt, then tapped it thoughtfully. Kuni leaned behind his shoulder, sensing the sudden weight in her tone.

“Midnight,” Childe said, grin flashing again. “In a few seconds, I suppose.”

“ Shit. ”

Mona shoved the satchel into her pocket, skirts swishing in a dramatic whirl as she bolted past the door, muttering curses in a mix of languages. Sucrose yelped and chased after her, struggling to keep up.

The two Fatui men stood frozen for a moment, wine glasses and smugness forgotten.

Childe blinked. “Do we follow?”

Kuni sighed, setting his glass down on the balcony ledge. “If something explodes, I want to see it.”

And with that, they too disappeared inside, curiosity now pulling them toward the storm Mona had just sprinted into.

The moment they stepped into the ballroom, the lights died.

Not dimmed - vanished. One by one, chandeliers blinked out like extinguished stars. Murmurs stirred through the crowd, curious, hesitant. Shoes shuffled. Glasses paused mid-toast. For a breathless moment, only the ceiling above, still alive with constellations remained aglow, casting ghostly blues and soft silvers onto the polished floors.

And then the world shifted.

The ceiling dropped. Or so it seemed.

Stars cascaded downward, like someone had upended the heavens themselves. Guests gasped as constellations slid between them, trailing long veils of white light, accompanied by a cello’s mournful cry. The notes rolled through the hush like waves, elegant and strange. The illusions bent around figures, spun past startled dancers, and then began to shift.

Prisms formed midair, crafted from delicate hydro magic. Scattered starlight refracted through them in soft arcs of rainbow and gleaming shards, flickering across ballgowns and silk coats like spilled oil across water. Constellations broke and reformed with precise rhythm. Here: the hunter and his hound. There: the winged fox. One by one, they unraveled into brilliant bursts, like galaxies detonating, and returned to the vault above.

Beside Scara, Childe gave a low whistle, equal parts impressed and smug. 

“Cheap tricks,” he muttered. But even he didn’t take his eyes off the sky.

It was around the third explosion that he saw her. By the north wall, standing encircled by glyphs and shimmering discs of arcane light.

Not hiding. Commanding.

Spinning the stars like they were puppets. Her hair fluttered slightly from the magical pressure building around her, ribbons lifting as if gravity had turned hesitant. Her gaze flicked upward, hands sketching in smooth lines, dancing between seals. She was orchestrating. Conducting. Controlling a cosmos of her own making.

And in that moment, everything clicked.

Scaramouche’s smirk never quite made it to his mouth. His throat was too tight. His chest too full. His heartbeat pounded far too loud in his ears, echoing like a drum behind the strings of the performance.

Without a word, he slipped past Childe and into the stardust.

He didn’t interrupt, not right away. He lingered in shadow, waiting as her companions found her. There were excited words, congratulations, some light bouncing between them that he couldn’t hear. But he could feel it. The pride. The wonder. The respect.

And once they drifted off again into the dispersing crowd, he moved. No theatrics this time. Just quiet steps.

He stopped a breath away from her. And  bowed, just as he had before. But this time, he didn’t offer a quip.

He didn’t meet her gaze.

He simply took her hand.

A silent invitation.

Mona looked at him. For a second, she didn’t move… Then, just as silently, she nodded. And placed her hand in his.

They danced to the new tune, the sky above back to its original state, just dimming and brightening now in a lulling rhythm. There were a lot of questions and things unsaid but they both knew the timing wasn't there yet. So they danced.

He refused to look directly in her eyes, his not daring to even meet her mask. She was confused but played along, since the dance wasn't stiff, and their movements didn't show any signs of incoming arguments or grudges.

As they were about to turn the corner again, he spinned her into a side corridor as the light momentarily dimmed. She followed him into a empty side, their dance slowing down as they finally met face to face

"So that's how it is." He mused, a glint of something excited in his eyes

"I told you you'd get to see more" she sighs, relief washing over her for some reason. One of her hands sliding up his shoulder "Also I owe you a thank you"

He didn't know why this situation energised him so much. What was so exciting about it? It's not like he learned much by this reveal. Yet her ability to keep it up for so long… Impressed him.

 "You owing me something? Did you bet again?"

Her eyes drifted to the side. Guilty. Cute.

"Well. Yes." She admitted finally "but I do somewhat... Kinda... A little bit…" he rolled his eyes "feel like thanking you."

"How so?" he murmurs intrigued, his fingers absentmindedly playing with a sequin on her back.

"Before we met" she muses, "I overheard you complain about the lag" her pointing finger tapped his shoulder

He huffed, sweet breath hitting her cheek. "And you listened?" The shock in his voice was real.

She stomped on his foot "Begrudgingly."

"Ouch." he barked, jerking them closer to the wall.

"I am a prideful being, I can admit that." her tone was this satisfying kind of sly. "But I'm not stupid. If there is a mistake to be pointed out, I will correct it." She lifted her face with elegance.

"You stepped on my foot" he whispered.

"That wasn't a mistake" she whispered back, eyes on his lips as her back came into contact with the wall.

"Wanna make one now?" He mouthed at that point.

Mona’s breath caught, just slightly, but enough for him to notice. Her eyes searched his, caught somewhere between challenge and curiosity, the flicker of candlelight catching in the green that threaded her irises.

“You’re bolder out of the light,” she murmured.

He smirked, tilted his head. “I prefer where things feel... honest.”

“Mm. So all this isn’t part of your usual theater?”

“I thought you were the one orchestrating illusions,” he countered smoothly, one palm braced beside her head, the other still resting lightly against her waist, sequins cold beneath his fingertips.

Mona hummed, neither denying nor affirming. Her gaze had softened, though. Her lips curved in a way that suggested mischief, but didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her voice quieter now, a confession veiled in wit. 

“Maybe I just liked the idea of keeping you guessing.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes, the weight of the moment coiling taut between them like a spell not yet cast.

“You still are,” he said finally, voice low. 

“Good.” Her lashes dipped. “Wouldn’t want to get too predictable.”

He chuckled softly, but it lacked mockery. If anything, it sounded... breathless. Like he didn’t quite expect how close this had all gotten. Not just the proximity, but the pull. The intensity. The way the air between them had shifted from a game to something harder to label, harder to dismiss.

His thumb brushed a stray curl from her jaw, lingering longer than necessary. Her skin was warm beneath the touch, so he let the silence stretch.

And she could tell. Despite the wine in their blood, despite the glow clinging to their skin like starlight, despite the gravity between them pulling stronger by the second, they were both holding back.

But maybe…

Maybe not despite it all, but maybe because of it.

Her fingers lingered near his jaw, barely touching. Her voice dropped to a hush, soft enough to be a secret.

“ But… if it’s just for tonight…”
She echoed his earlier words like a quiet incantation.

That was all the excuse he needed.

Just for tonight.

He could suit her.

Their lips met.

Like a secret breaking - soft at first, testing the shape of a boundary neither of them wanted to acknowledge anymore.

It was warm.

Not dizzying, not sweeping, not yet - but warm. Anchoring. Too real for the dreamlike lights behind their eyelids. His mouth was cooler than she expected, the faintest hint of wine still clinging there, sharp and dark. She tasted it, chased it. But more than that, she chased him. The real him. The one who slipped through his words like smoke but lingered behind his silences.

He let her chase. For a moment.

Then he pushed back.

Not rough just... Assured. A shift in gravity that said he was just as hungry to find her underneath the stardust and secrets. His hand moved, at her waist, then her lower back, not pulling her closer yet, just letting her know he could . That he would , if she let him.

Mona tilted her chin, deepening the kiss. She caught the faint burn of clove again, something smoky on his breath, and she swallowed it like a challenge. Her hand slid up the line of his jaw, fingers brushing beneath his ear, anchoring there. And for a flicker of a second, he tensed, startled maybe, by how precise her touch was. How knowing.

But he didn’t pull away - He pressed in.

Exploratory, as if they were peeling back masks with their mouths now, learning textures, rhythms, the way the other moved when something landed too close to the truth. His hand finally did pull her closer, and their bodies met in a slow, heady crash, chest to chest, warmth melting between layers of silk and breath.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

She nipped his lower lip once, just to see what he'd do. He growled low in his throat. Not loud, just amused. Challenged. He answered with a press of tongue against hers, coaxing something sweeter from her mouth. She tasted mist and stubbornness and something fleeting she couldn’t name.

It wasn't just desire. It was curiosity. Control. Surrender. The slow unravelling of people who didn’t trust easily, but in this moment allowed the illusion of trust to bloom in the shape of a kiss.

And stars, how well they kissed.

It was only when lack of air became a threat that they parted, barely, breath mingling, foreheads almost touching. Neither said anything. The silence pulsed louder than words.

He was still too close. And she hadn’t moved an inch.

“Thanks, by the way,” she muttered, breath catching like a leaf on the wind, eyes darting upward to the ceiling - Promise to Albedo fulfilled. - Her heart wouldn’t shut up. Neither would the heat pulsing in her cheeks.

He scoffed and moved past her nonsense. “You said…” he began, stepping into her pause like a trap he’d known she’d set, “if there’s a mistake to be pointed out, that you’ll correct it.”  His gaze dropped to her lips. It lingered. “There are a few mistakes I can point ou—”

She didn’t let him finish.

Their mouths collided again. Unlike the previous tentative search, this was a return. Like something snapped into place too quickly, and now they had to feel it again. Prove it wasn’t a fluke. Prove the world still spun the same way under a kiss like this.

Her hands found his face in the dark. Soft angles, high cheekbones, too delicate to belong to someone so damn arrogant. Her thumbs slid under the edges of his mask, just to see what he’d do. Just to try .

And he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t freeze. Didn’t stop her.

He let her touch him. Let her make it dangerous. Let her feel how close she was to something real .

His thoughts stuttered somewhere between this is stupid and gods, she’s warm , tangled with wine and perfume and the way her fingers felt against skin no one ever dared touch. The mask should’ve stopped her. But it didn’t. And maybe he wanted it to slip.

Maybe because it was a mistake. A good one. A rare one.

He told himself that, even as her fingers skimmed too close to parts of himself that were supposed to stay guarded. Even as her kiss coaxed out something inside him that was tender and annoyed to exist.

His thoughts slurred against her in heat and breath and half-lucid defiance. This is dumb. This is reckless. This is not the plan. She’s - She kissed him again and the thought shattered.

Her mind wasn’t much better.

What am I even thanking him for? she mused, already forgetting. Why does he taste like half of a terrible idea and all of a perfect mistake? She caught herself smiling into the kiss. That was the wine. That had to be the wine.

No.

No, that was him. That was how he moved. That was how he let her trace danger like it might purr in her palm. That was how she wanted more.

They kissed like people who’d decided tonight didn’t count. Like every impulse was a bet they were both too proud to fold on. Like neither of them would be the one to stop first.

The kiss tasted like too many things. Desire. Defiance. The dregs of fine wine and ego and curiosity. A messy cocktail of what neither of them knew how to say out loud.

Somewhere in the haze, she smiled into his mouth again.

And he felt it.

You play with fire, be ready to get burned.
You tug at the mask of a stranger who seems to coil tighter around you the higher your fingers climb. Each breath you steal from him feels more like a promise, or a warning, than the last. The closer you get to crossing a one-way border, the lovelier his exhales become. Sounds you’d never expect to hear out of him, almost as unexpected as an annoying sound of something hard hitting the floor.

They were still under the spell. The kiss, slow and molten, had begun to lull. Stretching into something more intimate than frantic. And somehow , Archons help him, it was even hotter than the messy, wine-soaked ones they shared earlier. He didn’t know how she did it.

Didn’t care either.

She tasted like stubbornness and sweet wine, like the kind of person who chose fireworks over safety half the time. He caught the faintest thread of lavender under the fragrance she wore. He wondered if that was a real part of her too.

They parted slowly, breath hitching where the kiss left off, her eyelashes fluttering up like the slow lifting of a curtain.

He didn’t need a mirror to know. The mask was gone, on the floor between them. He could feel the air on his skin. Feel her eyes on his face.

He was conventionally attractive - he knew that. Not vain, just aware - to each their own obviously, but Scaramuche knew he had nothing to be ashamed of. That's why he was surprised to feel her tense in his grasp, before bearing witness to a scowl beneath her mask.  

What was an even stronger punch to the gut was the recognition in his bones as he found this expression familiar on such features.

"Y-YOU!" she shoved him away with both hands. Her face had gone red again, but not the pretty flush of before.

It wasn’t just the words. It was the tone. Sharp, accusatory. The tone was another familiar bell.

Before he could ask the question clawing up his throat -  Have we really met before? a voice, clumsy and grating, broke across the corridor like a cymbal crash.

“Mona Megistus!”

It didn’t compute right away.

"We'd like to thank the artist behind tonight's spectacular spectacle!"

His blood ran cold.

“To the wonderful mind behind tonight’s illusions-”

That voice. That stupid overconfident voice .

“Please join us on the main floor!”

A ridiculous pointed hat. An outfit covered in stars that was trying too hard. A brat with too many opinions and no sense of self-preservation.

“EVERYONE GIVE IT UP FOOOOOR-”

One arm folded over her mouth, while the second trembled at her side, summoning hydro in a shimmer of instinct. Her chest shaking in short breaths.

“MONA! MONA! MO NA, MO-NA!” the crowd cheered, still unaware of what cracked open in this hidden corridor.

He stepped back, realization slamming into his chest. Even with her mask still on, he could see her now. See everything.

Balladeer's fingers twitched and the mask lifted off the floor in a sharp crackling movement, back into place over his face. But something else shifted too.

His eyes.

No longer soft. No longer curious.

Cold. Cautious. Shut.

“Good show,” he rasped the last thing, before disappearing into the shadows.