The Great Hall of the Agro-Capital was a shimmering sea of silk, gold leaf, and high-society gossip, but the moment the orchestra struck the first chord of a deep, haunting waltz, the "Atmospheric ROI" took a sharp turn into the scandalous.
I stood there, my 65-kilo "Super-Tank" frame feeling the weight of three different "Male Lead" stares. Prince Ford was stepping forward, his hand extended with royal grace, his golden hair catching the light of a thousand magical lanterns. Sir Alex was tensing, his silver armor clanking as he prepared to claim the dance as a "Security Maneuver."
But my Soul-Tether had other plans.
YANK.
The violet-gold cord at my sternum gave a violent, possessive throb. Before I could even mutter a "No-Unauthorized-Contact" clause, the world blurred. One second I was standing between a Prince and a Knight; the next, I was pulled into a vortex of midnight velvet and the intoxicating scent of dark jasmine.
