Chapter Text
A flourish of colour flashed before Lance’s eyes as he found himself sitting amidst what felt like thousands of bodies suffocating the room. There was hardly any air, and the swarm of languages and strange dialects caused a concert of noise that gathered and collected in every ear. The venue was large; popular. Too many people entering, far too little leaving.
As claustrophobic as it all felt, Lance adored this scene; the people, the drinks, the music, the lights. He didn’t care when his perfect clothes collected stains by spilt beverages and food, or when he stumbled around practically blindly, utterly intoxicated by substance and excitement. He knew, deep down, that he should not be here- his presence was as out of place as a weblum in a palace- but nothing thrilled Lance more than the atmosphere of a party. In ways, the thrill encouraged him more, fuelling his desires. Usually, a harmless party was not much of a danger. Yes, getting drunk robbed the body of reactions and awareness, but mostly it was just good fun- other than one fairly large issue in Lance’s case. Having the crown prince of Altea running around carelessly at public festivities with little to no safety net was less than ideal.
Altea, the lands of diplomats and peace. Ran traditionally through a diarchy, the planet of Altea was an advanced and modernised nation, with a seemingly perfect political governing system that had satisfied their lands for millennia. Two monarchies existed in sympathy, guided by the assistance of a congregation of Elder Alteans and representatives of the people from each Altean district. Major decisions were discussed and debated between these political figures, and final laws passed by the two royal families. The two ruling kings currently were King Alfor and King Vaynas, both born from a long line of pure Altean royalty. In the past, distaste had been held between the families, and tensions had threatened their deeply rooted traditions. In hopes to disband any chances of the two families causing war, Alfor and Vaynas had formed an agreement to raise their two heirs together, praying for a bond to be created between them to join the families. The heirs? Prince Lance, the eldest and only child of Vaynas, and Alfor’s Princess Allura, another sole child. The two had been raised together as babies and were extremely close- childhood friends so intertwined they could have been siblings. A guarantee of decades of peace between the royal families of Altea.
Allura was not here now. She was usually far more sensible than Lance, choosing to stay loyal to her royal duties now that both had come of age. Unfortunately, that moment of clarity had not reached the prince. He was sat in the midst of the revelling, smiling as people passed and flirted, his hands curled around thin glass containing some kind of substance that was honestly sickening. That didn’t matter. If it made the prince’s head spin and his face feel numb, he was at that stage of the night where he would drink it. He turned slowly to the person sat next to him at a small, dark red table, smirking. It was a woman, probably just a little older than Lance, wearing a gorgeous lilac dress that kissed the floor. It haltered at her neck and was a fine cut; impressive, even to Lance.
“And what is your name?” He asked loudly, hoping his voice would carry over the infectious music. The woman flicked her long, pale orange hair over her shoulder, her curls perfectly framing her face. A very attractive girl, by anyone’s standards.
“My name?” The mystery woman responded. Even her voice seemed majestic, and received an enchanted nod from the prince. “Lilore.”
While Lance would usually be rather cautious of random people at public events, he was not in his normal state of mind. Within minutes Lilore might as well have been on top of him, lips crashing against another, tongues and teeth clashing. Princely behaviour? Most certainly not. If anyone was to recognise Lance’s status, he would probably face dramatic backlash, but he did not care. Not right now. Not when his hands were gripping this lovely woman’s hips, dragging up her body. Not when his lips were busy moving and groaning with the motions, the intensity. Not when…
Cold metal was suddenly pressed up against his throat, pausing his movements. What was that? A weapon? His eyes trained onto Lilore, confusion filling his gaze within seconds. It certainly was a weapon. A small handgun, threatening to tear his life from him in seconds. Only a tiny squeeze of finger would be enough. Did she know he was a prince? Did she recognise his face? That was very possible… The royal families were extremely publicised- but Lance could hardly think right now. As he sat in silence with this woman on his lap, music blasting so loud that it would likely drown out the noise of a weapon firing, he began cursing himself for everything. For that last drink that was almost certainly far too strong, for sitting down at this table… Quiznak, he shouldn’t even be here in the first place! Everything was running through his head at once, and at the same time, his head was blank. He couldn’t think, couldn’t talk. Would he die here?
“Hold on a moment-“ Lance quickly mumbled out, his hands starting to tremble. The woman smirked a little, and her beauty morphed into something sickly, like candy that was too sweet. Her pink Altean marks felt like cruel gashes, her orange hair suffocating.
“Hm? What have you got to say, Prince?” Even her words felt like a dagger to the stomach.
“Listen...! I don’t know who you think I am but…” That was an awful excuse. Lance was so obvious, he might as well have been wearing a sign with his full legal name scrawled upon it.
Before Lilore could do anything else, a sudden shot was fired. The prince’s eyes closed, and he let out a shaky breath. That was it. She had fired. In those moments, his last minutes, he tried thinking back to his family. How they would react. They would undoubtedly be disappointed when they saw his body, his throat torn and his breaths stolen. The lipstick smeared across his mouth and the stench of strong drinks clinging to his clothes would probably rob the grief from his mother’s soul and replace his father’s upset with anger. Disproval. He was not meant to be here, and now that would be discovered. Maybe in death his royal title would be stripped? Would be even be buried? The thoughts swirled, and he began panicking. He couldn’t die here, not now! But he was seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. The prince’s life was over before it had even started- he was so young, too young to be dying in a stingy bar to the hands of an attractive woman. He was left questioning why she had done this… Likely a rebel, one of the rare few to despise the social order of the Alteans. As a child, Lance had been warned about those dangerous people, who strived to bring down the Altean way of life from the inside. He was warned to stay away, to avoid those people at all costs. Here he was. Making out with one of them. One of the people who wished him dead.
Then, he let go.