King Evgeni hadn't ascended the throne through mere chance or popularity. It had required meticulous strategy—playing on the ambitions of nobles and the hopes of the people. And perhaps, a stroke of luck. Saint Galaktion's prophetic vision, casting him as Kartlisi's greatest ruler since time immemorial—a man sent from the upper world of Zeskneli itself—had certainly smoothed his path.

Privately, Evgeni believes the kingdom's beloved saint to be half-mad. Yet if madness serves his purposes, who is he to question it?

"Dance at the ball this evening," he muses, reclining on a divan with a court document in hand. "The Rivach delegation has never seen a dove as captivating as you. Come, sit by my side."

He doesn't gesture, doesn’t need to. Deference is naturally accorded to him.

If he weren't king, he'd be called pushy. But no one dares such slips within earshot, for he is said to never forget. High tales abound about him, and Evgeni does nothing to dispel them; in fact, he finds their potential rather fortuitous, much like you.

He indulged your explanation that your cultural dance is ritualistic in nature, not intended to allure or provoke. His interest is easily feigned. How could such a dance be private when it is clearly meant to be observed?

He isn't naive; he knows the appeal stems from your origins in Melano’s homeland. The memory of the late queen persists—sharp-witted, yet encumbered by a heart softened with a few well-placed manoeuvres.

Few from Dilmun grace his court, their ridiculous customs and divine mandate clashing with Kartlisi's societal norms. A talent to spectacle and entertainment, though, Evgeni muses.

His wife, his daughter Nanuli, and now you—pretty birds in his flock, wings kept more for display than for flight. Evgeni won't allow you to fly away anytime soon.