Shamura sat beneath the twisted shade of the fair’s crumbling awning, their many limbs curled neatly around them as they watched Baal fail—again—to impress a particularly unimpressed moth cultist with a convoluted rant about how his horns were “uniquely symmetrical.”

Aym wasn’t far off, lounging in the grass with an arm draped around some dreamy-eyed follower who looked two seconds away from melting. Aym didn’t even seem to be trying, and somehow it worked.

And Leshy? Leshy was nowhere to be found, which meant he was probably off with that skeletal flirt Zelrif, doing… something obnoxiously couple-like. Shamura narrowed their eyes, antennae twitching.

They tilted their head.

Everyone was doing this “romancing” thing. It had infiltrated the cult like a seasonal infection—blushes and flowers and whispered nonsense—and yet, no one had come to Shamura. Not even once.

They were brilliant. They were respected. They made clothing, for the Void’s sake. Why weren’t people throwing themselves at their feet like they did for the others? Was there a memo? A signup sheet?

“…I must have missed something,” Shamura muttered, tapping the tip of a claw to their forehead.

They stood up, brushing off imaginary dust, and began scanning the crowd like a scholar studying an ancient text. There had to be a method. If Baal could try, and Aym could succeed, and Leshy could fumble into a relationship like a frog falling into a pond, then surely they could do it too.

They would find a partner. For science. For fairness. For—
Well. They’d figure that part out later.

With determined skittering steps, Shamura entered the crowd. A list was already forming in their mind. Personality types. Conversation starters. Mood lighting. Eye contact? Eye contact.

They were brilliant. How hard could it be?