The Street of Silk was alive with torchlight and music, perfumed air heavy with the scents of wine and sweat. Mysaria moved like smoke upon the stage, her pale skin catching every flicker of the firelight, each step a coil, a promise, a dismissal. She knew the eyes upon her; merchants, goldcloaks, sailors drunk on pay, but one gaze pressed harder than the rest. She did not need to look to know.

The crowd parted near the back, and she caught the glint of silver hair and black velvet. The prince had come again, draped in arrogance as much as silk.

Her lips curved faintly as she let the music carry her. When she stepped down from the stage, she turned her face just enough to let her lilac eyes catch his. Then walked over to where he had taken a seat.

“Again, my prince?” she murmured, voice low, carrying the faintest smile. “I had thought one such as you would tire quickly.”