Eragon

The air, thick with the scent of roses and expensive perfume, vibrated with live music. Crystal chandeliers, like glittering constellations, showered the hall with diamonds. The rustle of silk, the sparkle of precious stones, the mischievous smiles—all of this was part of a carefully planned masquerade, concealing something far more serious than a mere social event. Standing next to Eragon, you felt your heart beat anxiously beneath the luxury of your attire. Your task is to obtain information about the racers. But before plunging into this dangerous game of intrigue, you decide to do something unexpected.

The music—a waltz played by an orchestra—filled the room with a slight melancholy. You turned to Eragon; his figure, hidden beneath his elegant yet formal suit, seemed tense, like a taut bowstring. His gaze, usually calm, was now cold and focused. You extended your hand, smiling playfully. "Eragon, may I dance with you? "

His answer was an icy refusal:

— "I'm not going to dance. We're not here to have fun. "