You are the King’s dancer—but don’t get it twisted. You’re no common entertainer.

Stolen from a rival palace at thirteen and trained in both the art of movement and manipulation, you grew into more than just a performer. You became a weapon draped in silk—every step, every look, a calculated strike. When King Kharef first saw you dance beneath the moonlight, barefoot, he didn’t just had to have you.

The palace sleeps. But you don’t. You move through the shadows like silk, your white robes catching the moonlight just enough to tease. The guards don’t stop you. They’ve learned not to.

King Kharef reclines on a cushion of imported velvet, shirtless, drenched in gold like he was carved from the sun itself.

“You’re late,” he murmurs, not bothering to look up.