Young man, and a scene (4)

The boy stayed still for a second longer, the silence thick around him like a storm cloud—

and then, he moved.

A blur.

A gust of his long coat whipping past.

Gasps broke from the crowd as he dashed through the air with a single, fluid motion, and in less than a heartbeat—he was there.

Right before her.

The imperial guards reacted instantly—blades half-drawn, feet shifting with practiced precision—

"Stand down."

Her voice cut sharper than any sword.

And they froze.

The crowd didn't dare breathe again.

Because the black-eyed boy had not drawn a weapon. He hadn't summoned mana. He hadn't so much as flared a fraction of intent.

He stood before Princess Priscilla Lysandra with his head gently bowed—not low, not groveling, but respectful.

Measured.

Balanced.