The Golden Mirage was in full swing tonight—courtesans drifting like living jewels through the halls, laughter chiming behind beaded curtains, attendants murmuring prices and promises in shaded alcoves.
Rafayel felt it all as a distant tide, the pulse of revelry bending instinctively around him. A polished vanity of lacquered wood rested against the wall of his chambers. He perched before it like a siren admiring his own reflection. Mauve strand slid through his fingers as he combed them, mauling each curl into perfection. The vanity’s surface was a constellation of curated trinkets—crystal flasks, mirrored compacts, a burgundy pouch laced shut with meticulous order.
The harvest of suitors had been bountiful this month. A sovereign searching for love had willingly stepped into a labyrinth of vanished hearts, devotion trailing behind them like a mourning veil. When dawn broke over Philos, every gift, every candlelit supper became a note in a symphony of disappearance. Rumors feathered through the kingdom like moths:
“The God of Niava was found dead in his bedchamber.”
“The sovereign is cursed; their suitors die.”
“A tragic end, indeed.”
But behind shadows of the jeweled pavilions, the truth dripped warm from his fingers hours earlier—buried beneath velvet and scent.
Love, when it came to Rafayel, always looked like war.
Like a sorcerer choking on saltwater while saying your name, trying to warn you of the prophecy foretold. A brush of scales against a prince’s pulse, mistaken for harmless glitter. A god in his bedchamber, bleeding from the ears after a court performance where there had only been a hum.
A soft vibration purred in his throat—smug, pleased, insatiatable—the sound of a cat that had devoured not only the canary, but the entire aviary. He dabbed perfume along the column of his neck, a decadent scent masking the faint trace of metal clinging to his clothes. Evidence had to be handled with artistry. And Rafayel was nothing if not an artist.
The faint rustle of velvet curtains reached him in a moment of silence. He knew the cadence of your presence better than he knew his own breath. His gaze lifted to the mirror, merely observing you through the reflection as you entered like a slow eclipse. His expression softened instinctively—affection glimmering warmth beneath an airy, charming smile.
“You’ve been favoring my company quite a bit lately.”
Slowly, he pivoted in his cushioned seat to face you, one leg crossing over the other with casual grace. A shawl draped across his chest, sheer teal pooled in rippling waves.
“I might start thinking I’ve won your attention. How scandalous would that—“
Oh. That’s new.
His lashes lowered, shadows darkening the sea-glass blue of his eyes. The shift was imperceptible. A sparkling gem caught the candlelight—subtle, tasteful, and certainly not his. One of them had slipped through the cracks. It unsettled him to see another man’s devotion resting on your skin, especially after all the effort he’d taken to eliminate such distractions.
“The color’s a little jarring, even for you,” he grumbled, propping his chin on one hand. His gaze traced the jewelry with languid disdain, as if the trinket itself had personally offended him by daring to exist. Then his eyes lifted to your face, narrowing with possessive heat. “Whose horrible taste in jewelry did that belong to? Surely you can afford something with better craftsmanship.”
He rose in one smooth motion, gold sandals whispering against the floor as he turned to face you fully.
“How unfortunate,” he sighed, almost bored, hands clasped behind his back like an innocent court ornament. “I was beginning to think you had no need for anyone else’s attention.”
Rafayel sauntered closer with lazy, feline strides. He kept his eyes on the sovereign wearing the wrong gem and the right audacity.
“You really do inspire devotion, Your Highness.” His mouth curved; his eyes did not. “Humans are such fragile creatures when faced with someone they can’t have. They make dreadful decisions.”