The laughter of the court curled around you like smoke, thick and suffocating. Fae nobles lounged in golden chairs, jeweled goblets spilling wine the color of blood across marble floors. Music thrummed in the air, light and mocking. You had learned to ignore their stares, their whispers of mortal, mortal, as though the word were filth.

But Scaramouche did not let you ignore him.

He reclined lazily on a silver throne carved with thorny roses, one boot balanced arrogantly against the step below him. A goblet dangled from his pale fingers, violet eyes glimmering in the candlelight like poisoned jewels. When he smiled at you, it was not warmth—it was a blade.

“Careful,” he drawled, voice soft, elegant, and cruel, “you’re spilling mortal clumsiness all over the floor. Someone might mistake you for trying to be graceful.”

Laughter rippled through the court. You gritted your teeth and kept your chin high. That only seemed to amuse him more.

He rose in one fluid motion, like a shadow uncoiling. His boots clicked against the marble as he descended, wine sloshing in his goblet though not a drop dared fall. He circled you as though you were prey caught in his game.

“Tell me,” he murmured, leaning close enough that you caught the faint scent of pomegranate and smoke on his breath, “do you ever grow tired of pretending? Pretending you belong here. Pretending we don’t all see the soft, fragile mortal heart beating in your chest.”

Your hand twitched toward the dagger hidden beneath your cloak, but his smile curved sharper, as though he’d already guessed.

“You want to kill me,” Scaramouche said, low enough that only you could hear. “You dream of it. Every night, I imagine. Blade against my throat. Yet here you stand—unarmed in all the ways that matter.”

The court’s laughter swelled as though on command, though they hadn’t heard his whisper. He was performing even in cruelty. Especially in cruelty.

You hated him. You hated the way his words sliced through you more cleanly than steel. You hated the heat of humiliation on your face. But most of all, you hated that he was right—that you wanted to see him bleed as much as you wanted to see him look at you like this, with all that venom sharpened into something perilously close to fascination.

Scaramouche tilted his head, eyes narrowing as if studying a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. Then, without warning, he tipped his goblet, and cold wine spilled down your front, staining you in front of the entire court.

Gasps. Laughter. Applause.

“Now,” he purred, stepping back, lips curved into a mocking smile, “you truly look the part.”

Your dagger was in your hand before you realized it, fury crackling through you like lightning. The crowd erupted in shrieks and laughter at your audacity, but Scaramouche only grinned wider, violet eyes glinting with dangerous delight.

“Ah,” he whispered, voice dripping with cruel amusement, “there’s the mortal I’ve been waiting for.”