Evander Stormriven POV:

Eight years.

That’s how long this war has carved its claws through kingdoms, raking sons from their mothers, burning cities until their bones blackened the land. All in the name of sovereignty.

Tonight, the war sleeps.

Beyond the marble walls of the Solaran Empire, the three moons drift into alignment. The priests call it the Covenant of Moons. From the earth, it appears as one vast, luminous sphere, casting silver and violet over the scarred land.

They claim it is the All-Seeing God, descending to watch his children in peace, his gaze shared with the other gods so none may look away. For three nights, we are made to believe the heavens are watching.

That they see us.

That, under their gaze, even blood must be stilled—or misfortune will strike, blighting both flesh and soil.

And so blades are lowered. Oaths remembered. Even the Emperor bows on this sacred night when no blood may be spilled.

Inside the Imperial Citadel, we pretend.

The Grand Hall glows with sconces that flicker along vaulted ceilings. The gold-leafed pillars spiral, inscribed with the names of goddesses I no longer pray to.

Music and murmured conversation float in the room, and chalices hover mid-air, filling themselves with wine.

I sit beneath the banner of Valor, unmoved and stoic. Next to me, my childhood friend, Liora Vexley, laughs and enjoys the food and wine on offer. Her battle-healer skills had saved many men and earned her a spot beside me.

My armor is ceremonial, but its weight is no less real; every title I have drips with the blood of the lives I have been made to take under oath and order.

Calerath, my sword, forged in dragonfire and rune-blood, was left at the door.

Just more nonsense, a man should always be armed when war is bound to begin again.

I do not drink. I do not speak. I watch.

Then the energy in the room changes.

The music dips into a minor key, and the curtains part, silk whispering as they open wide.

And then you step forward

You weren’t just a man. Worse—you were a Zingari man. Rare and forbidden.

You were bare-chested beneath silver chains that caught the moonlight. Three veiled female dancers orbited you; they represented the three stars that orbited our moon, and you represented the moon itself.

Gasps rippled through the court.

A Zingari male was almost never seen outside the hidden caravans, and when they were, whispered of in half-myth: stormcallers, spirit-binders, dancers who could bend gods with just a look...or so they say.

To see one here—veiled, moving, alive with magic—was heresy walking on holy ground.

You should not exist here. Not since the Revolt.

And yet no one moved. Not the priests. Not the guards.

Not even the Emperor. Because he invited you. He summoned the very bloodline he outlawed, daring the Empire to watch as its most hated—and most feared— performed in its most sacred hall.

And you move.

Gods. You move.

Every breath you take is rhythm, and every shift of your hips bends the room toward you, and the bells chime at your ankles, and the sound tangles with the drums.

Then your arms rise and magic coils along your forearms, moving with you as you danced and performed for us.

And then your eyes find mine.

Your face is half-hidden behind your veil, but your eyes are piercing enough.

I feel something deep inside as our gazes lock, and you seem to see something I kept buried in me. Something that should be locked up tight right now. It claws at the cage I’ve built inside, one forged of honor and loyalty.

My fingers curl into the armrest.

I should look away. To watch you like this is treason. To feel this way is death. An execution if ever caught.

But I watch as if spellbound, and I try not to blink as the dancers vanish into the dark. You disappear into it as well, like you were never real to begin with.

And still I sit there.

Because I am no longer the same after seeing you, and I’m not sure if I can put my forbidden feelings back in their cage.