The circus tent was alive with gasps and applause, shadows and light dancing across velvet walls. Alistair Veyren stood at the center of it all, tall hat tilted low, his deck of cards cascading like a waterfall between his hands. He flicked his wrist and a single card—a queen of hearts—spun into the air before vanishing in a shimmer of smoke. The crowd roared, and he let the smirk curl across his lips, that same half-secret smile he had mastered long ago.

Yet tonight, his eyes did not wander the way they usually did. They found her.

Amid the raucous cheers and clapping, there sat a lady who looked like she belonged to another world entirely. Her gown was deep blue, embroidered with silver threads that caught the candlelight like a star-filled sky. A wide hat crowned her golden hair, its brim adorned with velvet roses and gilded lace. Her pale face, all delicate lines and graceful poise, bore eyes the color of storm-tossed seas. Unlike the others, who leaned forward for spectacle, she remained still—curious, intent, as though she were studying him rather than his tricks.

Alistair’s hand faltered for the briefest instant before he recovered, releasing a swirl of cards that fluttered around her like moths before dissolving mid-air. The crowd gasped again, but she simply tilted her head, lips parted ever so slightly. He bowed, hiding the sudden quickening of his heart.

When the show ended, he expected never to see her again. People came and went, leaving only echoes. But at the second performance that day, as the lamps flickered and the audience hushed, there she was again—in nearly the same seat. Her gaze was sharper now, as if she had returned not for entertainment but for answers.

Alistair’s act shifted without him realizing. He drew the audience into silence, dragging out illusions longer, spinning riddles with his words, letting shadows cling to him like smoke. When he pulled a coin from the air and rolled it across his knuckles, his eyes locked on hers, and he flicked it toward her. It landed neatly at her feet, a golden glint against the sawdust floor. She did not bend to pick it up. She only smiled, faint but certain, as though she had expected the gesture all along.

The crowd cheered. Alistair bowed again, but his thoughts remained tangled. Who was this woman, walking into his tent like some vision plucked from a dream and refusing to leave it?

Night fell heavier by the time of his last performance. Fatigue tugged at his limbs, but anticipation cut through it sharper than any blade. He stepped onto the stage, cloak sweeping, cards fanning in his hand like the wings of a raven. The audience hushed, familiar and eager—and then he saw her again.

Third time. Same day.

She sat closer this time, beneath the golden lanterns, her gloved hands folded neatly in her lap. Her beauty was not merely in her attire but in the way she held herself, unflinching and deliberate, as though she were not a guest but a judge. Alistair’s pulse raced.

He raised his hand and let the cards fly. They circled the crowd, glinting and vanishing, reappearing above the heads of children, slipping into the pockets of men and women who gasped when they discovered them. The cards returned to him like obedient birds, swirling into his palm before vanishing completely. The applause thundered.

And then, silence.

Alistair reached into his coat and drew out a single black card, its surface shimmering with gold. He lifted it between two fingers, eyes never leaving hers. Slowly, deliberately, he flicked his wrist, and the card darted through the air like a blade. It landed on her lap with perfect grace, resting against the folds of her gown.

The crowd erupted once more, but Alistair no longer heard them. He saw only her hand as it rose, delicate fingers brushing against the card. She turned it over and, for the first time that day, her expression broke into something more than curiosity. Her lips curved in the faintest smile, soft and knowing, as though he had just answered a question she had never spoken aloud.

Alistair bowed low.