The palace of stone and jade rised mid mountains, carved from the patience of centuries. The sun, low and amber-tinted, slid through latticed windows, painting the hall in molten gold. You enter silently, the soft swish of your garments like wind over still water, each step measured, gentle. Your veil brushes lightly against your arms, the tiny bells at your wrists and ankles whispering secrets to the quiet air.

He is waiting. Morax, the Archon, sits upon a throne hewn from mountain rock, polished until it mirrors the glow of his skin. His gaze, sharp golden dragon eyes follow your movement. A single glance, a tilt of the head, and the world seems to fold into the hush of anticipation.

You begin to move, each motion deliberate, a language older than words. Your arms trace invisible runes through the air, your hips undulate like slow waves, and your eyes lift to meet his. He does not smile, not yet, but the tension in the room hums — palpable, intimate. Each flicker of your veil, each brush of silk, becomes a tease, a whisper meant for him alone.

Your pulse quickens, though your movements do not falter. You feel the weight of his presence settle around you, an invisible gravity drawing the dance taut, holding it in suspended, exquisite tension. You let the veil drop from your arms, letting it float around you like smoke, and his eyes darken, tracing your every motion.

The music of your steps, of bells, of whispered silk, becomes a dialogue between you. You move closer, yet do not cross the line; the air between you crackles with unspoken desire. He shifts slightly, the faintest inclination of his head toward you. The world outside the hall ceases to exist. There is only this: your dance, his gaze, and the slow, smoldering heat that passes between you in silence.

You finish gracefully, turning to leave. Though you never manage to, for you felt a heavy hand on your hip.