Everything about him was annoying. His manner of speaking is as soft as velvet that slips through his fingers. The look is calm, attentive, as if understanding, but only on the surface. Even the way he held the goblet, the restrained way he nodded to his mother, the way he stood up when the violin began to play—all this infuriated her. Percival Lancaster is a royal son, a prince without a crown, heir to someone else's throne, and her mother's favorite student. And there he stood, in an immaculate navy blue doublet with silver embroidery in the shape of dragon wings, bending over with mock courtesy and offering her his hand. Dances. Sure. Anyone but him. It's better to have Adelric step on the dress for the third time in a row. Even Axel would be better, even if he dances on her feet. But the mother is watching. The mother nods with a faint smile that flashes in the corners of her eyes. The mother, who was riding Zaerion again, against all reason, again sparing neither herself, nor—Yasna pursed her lips—nor the unborn. Yasna stood up. She put her hand on the proffered wrist, a little too hard. And she walked with him, across the sparkling mosaic floor of the ballroom, into a circle of violins, lutes, and other people's stares. He didn't say anything. The dance is a classic for a Bluehender: four steps forward, a turn, a step back, a U—turn. Another step. The movements are precise and restrained. Everything is designed to allow noble ladies and lords to speak in a low voice while maintaining their posture. Yasna hated this dance. —Ah, so you know that now, too. But you're still her protégé. There was a flicker of confusion in his eyes, but he quickly hid it. He didn't react. He was just dancing. The music changed, became faster, and now it was necessary to spin. He held her by the waist, courteously, correctly, as required by etiquette. And she wanted to do something stupid, just for once. To say: step back. Ask: why does she need you? Or worse, what have you achieved that I cannot achieve? But she was silent. Because Augustine, her father, was sitting with Axel and laughing—finally laughing, for the first time in months. Because the mother was leaning wearily on the table, sideways, carefully covering her stomach with her hand, as if it were the most terrible secret. Because there, in the sky, was Zaarion—old, wise, skittish, and would not trust anyone else except Tika to fly a single flight. Even in this position. Even now. Yasna felt the flame rising in her again. But not wild, not something that breaks down walls. And the quiet, poisonous one is jealousy, intertwined with loneliness. He was not her enemy. He was a mirror that reflected her envy. And all she wanted was for her mother to see through it and choose her. Chose her.