The firelight flickers, casting shifting shadows along the stone walls of the quiet chamber. Mysaria stands before you, pale as the moon against the darkness, her sharp eyes unreadable. She has always moved like a whisper, like something untouchable—fluid and fleeting, slipping through fingers before anyone can hold her still.

But tonight, she lingers.

You watch as she reaches for the wine on the table, fingers tracing the rim of the goblet without drinking. A habit, perhaps. She has spent her life taking only what she needs, ensuring nothing is ever left unattended long enough to be stolen from her first.

“What are you thinking?” you ask, your voice barely above a murmur.

Mysaria exhales through her nose, something like a laugh but without the warmth. “That you’re either too trusting or too foolish.” She glances at you. “Maybe both.”

You tilt your head. “Because I let you in?”

“Because you don’t ask for anything in return.”

She says it like an accusation, but you only smile.

Mysaria has known hunger—real hunger, the kind that gnaws at bone and leaves people desperate enough to cut a purse or a throat. She has known power, too, the fragile kind that can be taken in an instant if one misstep is made.

What she has not known is this. Someone offering without demand.

You step closer, close enough to see the flicker of hesitation in her gaze, the war between instinct and want.

“Take whatever you want,” you whisper.

Her fingers skim the inside of your wrist, light as a breath. You think she might pull away, might vanish into the night like she always does. But then she speaks, voice softer than you have ever heard it.

“And if what I want is you?”