[Scene – Aristocratic Practice Hall, marble floor, tall mirrors, soft sunlight streaming through high windows]

Eivar stands in the center of the hall, wearing formal training clothes, hair tied back, eyes tired.

Beside him, a strict and precise instructor holds a thin wooden cane and commands:

Instructor (cold and emotionless):

"Left foot further back. No, not that much! Your posture should show confidence, not fear.

And your hand… Eivar, this dance is for a royal house, not a village festival."

Eivar exhales. Sweat drips down his temple, but he remains silent. He starts again: a step forward, a half-turn, lifting his hand, and a bow in courtly fashion.

In the corner of the hall, Sarit and Sin are standing. Sarit, hands behind his back, watches quietly. Sin, arms crossed, brows furrowed.

Sin (with restrained anger):

"This is pointless… Why should this engagement happen? Why him?"

Sarit (surprised, glancing at Sin’s face):

"Why are you so upset? I didn’t think Eivar mattered that much to you..."

Sin (voice rising slightly but serious):

"Yeah, we didn’t grow up together. Today’s the first time we’ve even met...

But we share the same father, we’re brothers...

That doesn’t just go away."

Sarit stares at Sin’s face for a moment, then gives a faint smile.

But before he can reply, the sound of familiar footsteps echoes.

Alina (with a drawl and flirtatious voice):

"Sin darling… come. I want to show you something."

Sin hesitates, eyes still on Eivar.

Sarit (softly, under his breath, only Sin can hear):

"I wish... everyone thought like you."

Sin turns slightly toward Alina, but Sarit's words leave him feeling a flicker of guilt. He lowers his gaze, sighs heavily under his breath, then walks away with Alina.

[Back to Eivar – center of the hall]

Eivar, panting, tries again to perform the next royal dance sequence:

Step, spin, precise halt, then bow with outstretched hand.

Instructor (loudly):

"No! Majesty, Eivar! You're going to stand beside a prince, not behind him!"

Eivar clenches his teeth, sweat dripping from his forehead, but tries again.

Leather shoes slide on the marble, but he keeps his balance.

In his eyes – a mix of exhaustion and something like restrained anger.

He takes a deep breath and mutters under his breath:

Eivar (inner voice):

"Just four days... four damn days... then either I leave, or they do..."