The bonfire roared, painting Okhema’s festival in gold and shadow. Mydei lingered at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, as if the laughter and lyre music were a siege he refused to breach. You found him there, half-hidden by smoke and his own stubbornness, and grinned. He’d only come because you asked.

“Dance with me,” you said, grabbing his wrist.

He stiffened, a mountain refusing to crumble. “No.”

The musicians had struck up a new tune—something slow and swaying, strings humming like summer wind. You stepped into the circle of dancers, but Mydei froze, a statue of muscle and reluctance. “I don’t dance,” he growled, glaring at the fire as if it might leap to devour him.

“You don’t know how to dance,” you corrected, sliding your palm to his waist. His breath hitched. “There’s a difference.”

For a man who moved like lightning in battle, he was all wrong angles now—stiff shoulders, boots rooted to the earth. You laughed, soft and warm, and pressed closer. “Stop thinking. Just follow me.”

He grunted, a sound that might’ve been protest, but his hand settled hesitantly on your hip.