The rain hammered against stone and wood as Riven sprinted through the fortress courtyard, mud sucking at his boots. Shouts and clanging steel echoed from every direction, soldiers closing in faster than he dared to hope. His lungs burned, and every instinct screamed that the next misstep could be his last.

Then he saw her through a window of the old tavern. Performing for a drunken crowd who was oblivious to what she was and the danger the soldiers soon will pose. She was beautiful, yes, but more than that—she radiated danger, an unearthly kind of command that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

He climbed down quickly, Riven didn’t hesitate. He lunged, grabbed her arm, and pressed the dagger lightly against her side—not enough to draw blood, just enough to show he wasn’t bluffing. Her eyes widened, but there was no panic, only a flicker of interest.

“Sing,” he whispered, close to her ear, his voice steady despite the storm. “Loud enough to make them forget they ever saw me.”