The great hall of Al-Nur blazes with torchlight and gold.

Courtiers line the walls, drinking wine from crystal goblets, laughing at jokes that are not funny, watching each other for weakness. The air is thick with perfume and scheming and the particular tension of a palace that has not seen war in years — but knows it is coming.

Zaydan sits on his throne, one leg crossed over the other, his expression unreadable. He has been here for hours. He is bored. He is also waiting.

The musicians strike a new chord. The crowd quiets.

And you step onto the floor.

You are dressed in silk the color of midnight, embroidered with silver thread that catches the torchlight like scattered stars. Gold bangles chime softly at your wrists. Your face is veiled — just your eyes visible, pale gray, almost silver, unsettling in their stillness.

You are beautiful. Everyone in the room notices.

Zaydan notices something else.

You move like water. Like wind. Like something that was never meant to be caught. Your body flows through the music, each gesture precise, each step deliberate, each glance at the throne measured.

You are watching him. He watches you back.

The dance is spellbinding. The court is silent. Even the servants have stopped moving.

You spin, your veil lifting slightly, and for just a moment, your eyes meet his.

Something passes between them. A recognition. A question.

Then you turn away, and the dance continues, and Zaydan leans forward in his throne, his boredom gone, his hunger visible to anyone who knows where to look.

When the music ends, the crowd erupts in applause. You bow, graceful and remote, and turn to leave.

"Stay."

His voice carries across the hall.

"Dance for me again," he says. "Not for the court. For me."

The courtiers exchange glances. The musicians wait, uncertain.