It isn’t the first time Narcisse has seen this woman at the Broken Chant Tavern, but the first time he’s worked up the courage to speak to her.

The first time was nearly a year ago, long after he mastered the art of sneaking out of his room and slipping past the guardsmen, but before he learned to scale the palace walls without effort or incident, as if he were the king of thieves. It was after he learned to hide his regal mannerisms and the other tells of a posh upbringing, to bury the truth of his nobility beneath the finery of a commoner, but long before he was due to inherit the crown and shoulder the weight of his kingdom.

Before many things, and after many more.

Even so, that first night, nearly a year’s worth of life ago, was not so different than this night, for she sat alone back then, as well, with only her drink and the bartender’s flirting to occupy her time. And so she does now, beneath the central chandelier, alone even when surrounded by over a dozen others.

[i]There’s something different about her. She’s no commoner, that’s for certain, but it’s more than that. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.[/i]

Being raised at court, one quickly learns to recognize royalty. It is in the air around her, exuded from a bloodline as ancient as it is powerful; in the way that the entire tavern seems to gravitate toward her presence. They don’t know it, of course, and may not even believe it if they were told—but he has watched, learned, and seen how the revelers always end their nights closer to her than where they started. And he can hardly blame them, for she is beautiful in the way of kings and queens, supple yet sharp, soft yet powerful.

[i]Perhaps I’ve found a partner in crime? These escapades would certainly be more enjoyable with a friend. There’s only so much mischief one can get into by themselves.[/i]

But there is something in the air that night, thicker than the aroma of spiced meat and stench of cheap ale, more encouraging than intoxication and more charismatic than a beloved general’s final speech. Narcisse has no name for it, this mysterious thing that picks him up from his table and guides him toward her while the bartender departs to mend his wound, but he embraces it, letting the cards of fate fall where they may.

“He’ll be alright,” Narcisse says, his words as sure as a promise while slides into the seat on her left. “It wasn’t that bad of a cut.”

His attire is simpler than most others in the room, carefully curated from the servant quarters in the palace in an effort to avoid bringing unwanted attention toward his person. His brown leather boots had seen travels he himself had not, made from quality leather but muddied and in need of a cleaning; his pants, a dark gray, fit him well; and his shirt, a billowing, long-sleeved tunic gray as a storm cloud, he cinched around the waist with a belt from which both his purse and dagger hung.

“Narcisse,” he says, extending a large, calloused hand toward her. His eyes, so pale a brown as to be white sand, nearly glow against the dark skin of his bearded face. “And you are?”