JJ Doe

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Hala Sami

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

28 Sola, Night
The Grand Banquet
@Oso

Absorbing Milo’s praise, Hala’s chest expanded like a peacock’s plume. Obviously people would want to immortalize them in art—that was the natural order of things. Shame those attempts would only ever catch a sliver of their essence. Still, hearing it said out loud made Hala glow brighter.

“Please,” they exhaled, their voice textured with amused impatience. “Humble is cute, but confidence is what makes blood rush to all the interesting places.” A smirk crossed their lips. “You orchestrated that whole scene without even trying. Own your genius. Don’t waste your talents on modesty.” With an elegant flick of their wrist, they added, “The world’s already drowning in mediocrity.”

Around the dining hall, fragments of drama unfolding in every corner caught their ear. Their expression turned positively feline. “Do you hear that?” Hala leaned in, close enough to smell Milo’s cologne—an original blend, they guessed, and tastefully applied. “All this wasted material, just begging for you to turn them into something unforgettable.”

Without waiting for permission—a thing Hala rarely did—their hand slipped into the crook of Milo’s arm. Their bangles chimed softly with the movement. Against their fingertips, the fabric of his jacket felt expensive, and they allowed themselves a moment to appreciate both the tailoring and the arm underneath it.

“Now that you know you're being watched so closely…” Dark and rich, their voice dipped like chocolate with a hint of chili. “Show me what masterpiece you can create, artiste.” They gestured to the hall, giving Milo the honor of escorting them to the stage of his choosing.

Beneath the layers of fabric, something moved.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Fritz "Ryn" Hendrix

Time: Sola 28 1739; Nighttime Hours
Location: Castle Dining Room
Interaction(s)/Mention(s): @FunnyGuy @Potter @samreaper @princess

“You’re welcome to get in where you fit in if you find yourself bored! Duke Gideon’s section. We all know the Edwards family can throw a good party but they are rarely the lifeblood of it! Hahahahahahahaha!”

Ryn had not the foggiest notion whether that statement was true or false, but he favoured Duke Vikena with a courteous smile nonetheless. “Thank you for your gracious offer, Your Grace. It is rather a pity we have not been seated in closer proximity this evening. I should have greatly enjoyed the privilege of dining and conversing with all of you.”

As he spoke, a thought that had been patiently waiting in some corner of his mind suddenly stepped forward and cleared its throat. “What if we arrange to have dinner together sometime?” he suggested, addressing all three now. “Something a bit less…” he gestured vaguely at the elaborate banquet, “structured than this.”

It would be splendid, he thought, to become better acquainted in surroundings where one was not perpetually on guard against sudden arrest or brutal assault—whether they be cutting remarks, physical confrontation, or those subtle political maneuvers that left one’s standing in tatters. A drama-free meal.

One could hope.

“Very well, thank you and yourself?”

To Ms. Persephone’s verbal handshake, he replied, “Excellent! … But.” Ryn took a more casual tone. “You don’t need to force yourself to speak like that if you’d rather not, Olivia.”

Judging by the strength of his grip and need for secrecy, Ryn suspected Mr. Kazumin had neglected to mention what transpired earlier that day to Ms. Persephone and the duke.

Either that or the man had a predilection for roughness. To each their own, Ryn supposed, though he preferred a gentler touch himself.

“Well, if you walked away with your head attached and appetite intact, I’d chalk that up as a victory.” He tried to picture how that conversation must have unfolded. When an opening presented itself, Ryn asked. “What did His Majesty want with you?”

—Fireflies. Ryn’s expression softened at the charming name and sentiment behind it. Putting a name to their intrepid little band of truth-seekers made it feel like they were truly in this together; camaraderie forged in the face of darkness.

Of course, the pedantic voice in his head had to note that fireflies could not burn anything, despite the name.Their glow was a product of bioluminescence, a process in which a chemical reaction within the organism produces light without significant heat—a property known as ‘cold light.’

An imaginary Peter scowled at him in disgust. “You couldn’t just let that go could you, Boss? No one gives a rat’s arse about hot or cold beetle bums.”

Fair point. Though technically speaking, it was the abdomen, not the rear, where the special lantern organ was located.

The lines on mind-Peter’s scowl deepened. “Boss. What did I just say?”

“I think it’s brilliant.” Ryn said aloud, nodding at Mr. Kazumin’s handiwork. “An inspiring motto, too. ‘Fireflies seeking to burn the truth out.’ Very catchy.”

At least, he thought so until Mr. Kazumin let out a rather manic giggle, a glint of something wild sparking in his eyes. Ryn wondered if he had handed a pyromaniac black powder at the masquerade ball the Damiens hosted.

“If no one is strongly opposed to it, I think we can make it official.” Which reminded him… His gaze drifted, searching. “Speaking of, did something happen to Lady Charlotte? She seemed upset.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Ríoghnach "Riona"

Time/Date: Nighttime, Sola 28th
Location: Birthday Party Boat

How hard would it be to clobber a grown man and heave him overboard without anyone noticing?

She’d been arranging Lady Thea’s birthday decorations when that shock of orange hair caught her eye—him. The same bastard who’d attacked her and Cal in Wystan’s bedroom several nights ago.

Tight as a spring, every muscle in Riona’s body coiled. Slowly, carefully, she reached for the heavy brass candelabra on a nearby table. Perfect for caving in an unwelcome skull.

How in seven hells did he get aboard?

“Whoa, hold up,” Mr. Window Lurker raised his hands in surrender. “Not here for another scrap.”

Riona’s eyes narrowed to slits, dark with suspicion. “Right. Then why are you here?” Each ridge and whorl of the metalwork pressed reassuringly against her palm as her fingers closed around the candelabra.

An exasperated sigh gusted from the redhead. “Seriously? Didn’t His Whininess tell you about the giant?”
“You mean His Whininess who had you cornered like a rat?”
His jaw worked soundlessly for a moment before he wisely kept his thoughts to himself. “So did he tell you or not?”
“He did.”
“Then why in blazes haven’t you—” He flung his hands skyward in exasperation.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Riona bit out. “Maybe because the first time I met your lot, I had some mountain of a man stalking me. Then, the second time, you tried to kill us. Forgive me if I’m not eager to skip off alone to meet your employer, gods-know-where.”

Heads turned at her outburst. Nearby servants paused mid-task. The redhead stepped closer, gesturing for her to lower her voice. “Geez, woman, calm down.”

Ah yes, because telling someone to calm down always works. “Don’t you ‘woman’ me,” she hissed.

Sighing, the man reached into his jacket. Riona’s grip tightened on the candelabra, ready to swing, but he only pulled out a folded paper and held it out.

Her eyes flicked between his face and the paper.

“It won’t bite.” A pause, a sidelong glance. “Well, not ’til you say the word, anyway.”

Brow furrowed, she snatched the paper and unfolded it. Her breath caught—it was the scroll this thieving bastard had taken from Cal.

“Call it a gesture of good faith,” he said, almost smug.

Riona tucked it away with a scoff. “I don’t even know who your boss is.” For a split second she wondered if it could be Marek, but quickly dismissed the idea. All she knew was that their employer—boss, or master, or whatever—came from Varian.

“You there! Both of you!” The crisp, no-nonsense voice of Mrs. Copperfield, one of House Smithwood’s most senior maids, cut through her thoughts. “If you’ve hands to spare, carry those empty crates off the boat and stack them with the others!”

“Yes, ma’am,”
“Yes, ma’am,” they chorused, then shared a look. Only now Riona noticed the redhead wore the same pressed uniform as the boat servers. Questions formed and died on her tongue.

Together they hefted the crates and made their way down the gangplank onto the dock.

“Fritz Hendrix,” the redhead said abruptly.

The name came out of the blue that at first Riona had no idea what the redhead was talking about. “Count Hendrix?” Why would a Varian count send men skulking through the castle? What could he possibly want with—... With her?

Her heart stuttered. A wild, desperate hope leapt up inside her, so sharp it hurt.

The redhead set his crate on the boards with a hollow thump and turned to Riona, amber eyes fixed on her. “He’ll be at the birthday party.” She knew—she’d memorized the guest list. “That’s your chance to talk to him.” The weight of the box lifted from her arms as he stepped back. “And get your prince’s sword back.”
“... And my dagger?”
His eyes rolled skyward before he shrugged. “Eh.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Ryn & Prince Wulfric - Part III

FLASHBACK: Sola, 27th

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Since Wulfric’s tunic had dried a fair bit while they chatted, he tied it around his waist, and the two moved on. They were in the slums proper now, the prison a dark and forbidding sentinel which overlooked the worst section of the city. Its solid drab walls marked an unseen boundary, serving as a reminder of what awaited those who strayed on the wrong side of law. It was supposed to be a warning to criminals as well as a reassurance of safety to those who were not. The deeper they progressed into the slums, the more Wulfric learned of the life there, the more he realized the prison’s intended message was an illusion at best.

The further off the Peasant Lane, the narrower, filthier, and more convoluted the alleys became. Thrash littered the streets, and in one courtyard, the royal could see people systematically picking through it to find anything of use. The buildings crowded each other, stacked haphazardly side to side, or added on top what had once been there. Many were in a state of disrepair, the wooden huts patched up with cloth and tin sheets or else left exposed to the elements. Several were too broken down for anyone to live in properly, though that did not deter squatters from seeking shelter in their ruins.

The unluckiest folk were left out in the streets. Some resided in makeshift tents, others slept on beds of newspaper and cardboard. They were the lost, the forgotten, the abandoned. To be kept out of sight and out of mind, to be hidden or disposed of like the trash so many viewed them as.

The prince took them in, and…

…wasn’t sure that he felt anything.

But even so. Even if that was the case, he acknowledged that they were his people. He might be indifferent to their suffering, might not especially care what happened to each individual. But even so…If there was a chance, if there was potential, if they could be party to change - if they were a requisite for change - then it was up to him to make it a reality.

As he pondered these matters, a certain exchange perked up his ears. Peeking down a side street, Wulfric was sure he spotted a suspect gathering. He stopped, gesturing to the count. He was about to go investigate, when something brushed past him. A hand tried to sneak into his trousers’ pocket. The prince reacted on instinct, grabbing the offender. Their body was much lighter than expected, so he tackled them to the ground with ease. A knee pinned down their back and one arm, their other hand held in his grasp and twisted behind them, he saw that they were, “...A child.”

He glanced down the back alley he had meant to look into. Having heard a commotion nearby, the group had scattered already. Coincidence, or, “Were you hired by them?” he speculated. The small, filthy thing below him struggled with a renewed burst of energy. “Geroff!” He supposed the protest meant his guess was on the mark. “I do not care either way,” he confessed. “Assaulting a child wasn’t on the day’s agenda,” he drawled. The youth calmed down a bit, grumbling, “Not a kid,” before giving a perfunctory wriggle. “Mmmmhm. I’m sure you aren’t.” Spying a glint of something sharp, he lifted a shoddy shiv off the adolescent before releasing them.

The street rat scurried up, and was about to dash away when they noticed Wulfric casually twirling their improvised weapon between his fingers. “HEY! ‘Ats mine!” they accused. “Says the thief?” He smirked, arching an eyebrow. “Don’t worry, I will give it back.” The kid stared at him with open suspicion but stayed put. “I want you to entertain a suggestion of mine. I will pose three questions to you. If you answer them all to the best of your ability, you get one silver.” He could practically see the metaphorical gears turning. “An’ mah ‘nife?” Wulfric snorted, and held it out handle first. “This hardly merits being called a knife, but go ahead, take it now. Whether you agree to the exchange is entirely your choice.” He held out the item in question, which the youth snagged quickly.

“H-how do I know yeh’ll pay?”

The prince shrugged. “I can give you three copper after the first question, three after the second, and four after the third.” The child took a moment to count, and nodded hesitantly.

“There was a deal of some sort going on there,” he motioned to the side street. “What was it about?”

Even underneath the grime, he could see the youth paling. “I dunno,” their eyes lowered, darting around. “Drugs, maybe. Or…stuff. D-dun’ poke yer nose in it. ‘Ats how yeh meet– how-” a gesture of a knife slitting a throat followed.

“Oh, unlike you, I can take care of myself. But you didn’t finish your sentence,” he stated, attempting to pry out more information as part of the first question. But the child refused, shaking their head. “I can’t-can’t.” Sighing, Wulfric handed over three coins. “If you poke your nose into it, that is how you meet who?” he stressed. Grasping their bounty with trembling fingers, the child gulped. “They all jus’ say it’s The Gardener. I dunno who, no one's seen ‘em and lived…” Three more coins followed, and the youth shivered as they took the money, head swiveling here and there with a hunted look about them.

“Last question…” The adolescent was clearly relieved at that. “What can you tell me about the city?”

“Huh?” A goggled stare was directed his way. “Yeh mean Sorian?” The prince nodded. “I dunno the city,” the kid spat bitterly. “Jus’ this ‘ell’ole.”

“It’s part of the city,” Wulfric asserted. “So tell me about it.”

And the thief did. They told them about which streets were the worst, where you could get food reliably, where the cheapest merchandise could be found, how to avoid danger, and a few other tidbits. “Fer more I’ll hafta show yeh ‘round…but it’ll cost yeh.” With a comfortable topic, the youth had grown more confident. “I will keep that in mind,” the royal chuckled, and handed over the four coppers he owed for that answer.

The street rat shuffled back, gaze travelling to the count. “Yeh got questions too?” they tested.

“Oh? Am I allowed to have a go at it too?”

“Not fer free,” they stressed, and the count nodded.

His hand found his chin, fingers curling thoughtfully against his jawline while his other arm crossed his chest, providing a steady perch for his elbow.

Then the man asked one of the simplest and most basic questions to ever exist. “What should I call you?”

“Yeh’ll pay me fer that?”

There was a meaningful pause before he answered, “Names are important.”

They tilted their head this way and that way, but in the end, decided the count was sincere. “It’s Jo.” The name wasn’t indicative of their gender any more than their appearance. A small, thin, dirty figure in mismatched rags, hair cut short, and voice still young-sounding enough the higher pitch could be attributed to age alone. Overall, they seemed more boyish, but it wasn’t certain. Cautiously, the child stepped closer to the count, an expectant glint in their eye as they held out their hand.

“Hello, Jo.” Ryn took the child’s hand into his and shook.

That brief touch revealed more than a dozen conversations could have. Ryn felt the story written in Jo’s hands—one of empty bellies and cold nights, of desperate scrambles for survival. The kind of tale no child should have to tell.

“You can call me Henri,” Ryn said, offering a conspiratorial wink. He knew very well that monikers, like Jo, served as an armor in this world. Not unlike titles, he supposed, but this was for a different kind of protection.

A small theater of emotions played across Jo’s face: first the fall of disappointment at the handshake, then sharp alertness when they caught the meaning behind his wink, and finally a bright flash of joy as they discovered the coin he had slipped into their palm without them noticing.

“Jo, have you ever had a lemon drop or humbug before?”

“What-bug?” They blinked up at him, confused. “Uh, no. I didn’t. None o’ ‘em.” Hands in pockets, they rubbed the toe of one foot against the ankle of the other. “Mister…Uh…Henri. Yeh paid a silver, so…’At’s one more question fer yeh.” They’d already stashed away the coin, of course, but it hadn’t escaped their notice that the count had paid in advance. They could have ditched. They knew it, and they saw that ‘Henri’ knew it too. But they’d decided to stick around for the last question.

“Never?” A smile took over Ryn’s face in an instant. “We better change that!” He moved his hands slowly, no quick gestures to startle. A twist, a turn, and there they were: two candies in their wax paper wrappings, appearing like wishes made real—the lemon drop in its yellow wrapper, the humbug in its striped one.

“Both are sweet, but…” Ryn lifted his left hand. “If you have a taste for sour things, you might like lemon drops.” He lowered that hand and raised his right. “If you like mint, then you should try the humbug.” He held out both candies and waited.

“Um…” Jo’s eyes traveled from the man’s left hand to his right, and back again. They were curious about both. After one more glance at Henri to confirm it really was ok to pick and take one, they came close enough to take the lemon drop. For a while, they just admired the bright yellow wrapping, turning the piece of candy round and round in their hand, feeling it as if to confirm it was real. They unwrapped it slowly, sniffing it cautiously. “It smells nice…” Bracing themselves, they took the plunge, and put it into their mouth. “Mmmh!” They immediately exclaimed, eyes widening. Rolling the candy on their tongue, a smile like the rise of dawn lightened their expression, slowly but surely until a full blown, bright sunny grin crested. “Whoa!” They laughed. “This ain’t like lemon at all!” They squished their cheeks with both hands, as if by touch alone they could channel that out-of-the-world sensation to the whole of their body. “This is the best – best – tastin’ thing ever!” Closing their eyes, they savoured the candy, humming happily. Their eyelashes fluttered open, and they looked at the count dreamily. “Thanks, Henri,” they said, soft and genuine. “Tha’s real nice,” their gaze dropped, smile faltering. “I-I hafta go soon. D’ya got any questions left?”

There was magic in witnessing a first taste of sweetness—the kind of magic that had nothing to do with incantations or celestial alignments and everything to do with the way joy could spill from one person into another like wine overflowing its cup. Ryn found himself carried along by the tide of that pure delight. It felt rather like being tipsy without having touched a drop of wine.

“I’ll save my last question for the next time we meet,” he said, pressing two fingers to his brow in a lazy farewell. “See you around, Jo.”

The youth gave a single nod. “Yeah. See ya, Henri.” Then they were off.

Once the child had vanished around the corner, Ryn turned to Prince Wulfric with a raised eyebrow and a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes. “And have you had a humbug or lemon drop before?”

Pushing off against the wall he’d been leaning against since Hendrix had taken over the conversation with the would-be-thief, Wulfric made another cursory inspection of the streets. He had largely been observing the interaction between man and child, but had also kept an eye out at the surroundings. Huffing, he quirked an eyebrow in return. “Of course, I have,” he retorted dryly. With a singular head tilt, he indicated the alley he had initially wanted to investigate, proposing nonverbally they check it out now, despite it having been vacated.

When the prince turned his head back around, something smooth and hard touched his lips, sharp with peppermint. Wax paper crinkled as the count tucked the wrapper into his pocket, humbug held steady between them. Just holding it there, not forcing the prince to eat it and ready to pull away if he refused.

“From the finest confectioners in the country, I’m guessing? These are less refined than those and much more affordable…” His gaze dropped to the sweet. “But even this is a luxury for the poor.”

Before he consciously realized, he was grabbing yet another appendage. This time it was Hendrix’s, candy at the tip of the man’s fingers now held to his mouth. Instinctively, Wulfric’s nose scrunched, and he yanked the count’s arm away, forcefully refusing the treat. The offense that crossed his expression was so acrid, one might think he had just been smacked on the cheek with a rotting fish. Lips thinning, he took a step back, releasing Fritz’s arm, though he still watched him with a displeased slant to his features. “I noticed,” he bit out. “Now, keep your hands to yourself…And save that for someone else.” The sting of peppermint could be refreshing, perhaps, but the sickly sweet, sticky nature of the candy was not something he appreciated.

The count tilted his head, seemingly oblivious to what just happened and continued the conversation. “No? Your loss then.” Plopping the humbug into his mouth, he hummed in delight and began to make his way down the alley. “It’s not as sweet as the ones sold to higher society. Closer to horehound drops, actually. And much more refreshing. I think you would’ve liked it.”

The prince only scoffed. “I might have considered it, had you not tried shoving it into my mouth.”

The count halted sharply, his expression shifting to one of pity as he regarded the prince. “If that is what you believed was happening, I am sorry. It’s no wonder you were so terrified.” Each word came soft, careful, as if reaching toward a wounded cat. “How are you feeling right now? We could stop here for a while, if you need a moment.”

An uncomprehending stare was turned Fritz’s way. “What…are you on about?” Shaking his head in befuddlement, he answered if only to move past this strange moment. “I was exaggerating to make a point. I do not appreciate sudden intrusions into my personal space, especially not from a blind spot…” he thought the count knew as much, and waved a dismissive hand. “I was annoyed, but there is no reason for concern. Come on, let’s go,” he pressed, because the pity was even more off-putting than what he had perceived as an ambush.

Deep stillness held the count in place, his gaze boring into the prince with an intensity that made the air thick and close.

“Your reaction might’ve been disproportionate to the situation,” the count’s words settled like ash. “But when a touch makes you flinch like that, makes your body cry out—” His eyes drifted to the prince’s throat, where pulse betrayed what pride concealed. “That’s old pain talking… Don’t be so quick to dismiss what your body’s trying to tell you.”

“I know why I reacted the way I did. Don’t assume you do,” he retorted cooly, gaze as hard and chilling as a glacier. It was akin to trying to scratch through a thick, solid wall of ice; even a layer removed revealed more of the same. “If you are so worried, stay out of my space. But please, don’t treat me as you would a helpless child.” As if he needed the soft handling that unfortunate street rat Jo had been provided. “Your sympathy is misplaced.”

The count met that glacial stare with a smile that held all the quiet warmth of hearth-stones in winter. Ice might make a fine fortress, yes, but what the little prince inside had not learned was that pure ice had a tendency toward transparency. How it magnified rather than masked what had been locked away inside, preserved like insects in amber.

Gently, he set his hand on the boy’s head. “It is not,” he said, voice quieter than before. “... I hope there comes a day when you can overcome that hurt, Adelard.”

He saw it coming this time, but it was such an incomprehensible gesture, Hendrix was able to lay a palm on his head before he could block or evade. “I have–” Indignation scorched his throat, but he wasn’t fast enough to slap away Fritz’s hand either.

Their gazes locked, held, released. The count ruffled the prince’s hair and continued down the path. Wulfric felt a veritable growl clawing its way up his chest, an animalistic snarl emerging into existence. “For someone so keen on preaching how I need to ‘listen to myself’, you are awfully hellbent on dismissing what I’m saying,” he spat.

He marched after that infuriating man into the backstreet, and they went right up to where the presumed drug trade might have happened. Despite the anger still coursing in his veins, he could see this was a strategic location. He surveyed all the exits, the angles which were useful both for hiding and surveying, and the shaded areas created as a result of messily constructed buildings.

“Adel,” Ryn called out, “look at this.” He directed Prince Wulfric’s attention to a small rose symbol carved into the very stone of the building.

“Ah.” The royal approached, inspecting the symbol. With all the other damage to the building, it was difficult to notice unless you were looking for it. He touched the faded etching, tracing it. “I see.” He knew how widespread Black Rose’s influence was, so this was not entirely surprising. But then, if he had noticed the obvious before…Well, what was, was. “Say, how many others do you wager we can find?” a smirk slid into place.

Staring thoughtfully at the symbol, Ryn spoke. “Counting just the ones we walked past today, five. Eight, if you include those shipping crates down at the docks.” His fingers ghosted over the grooves of the symbol, remembering identical marks scored into salt-stained wood that morning.

Wulfric clicked his tongue. “Aren’t you observant.” A competition lost before it could even begin. How annoying.

“That’s just what I happened to spot.” He straightened, gaze sweeping down the narrow passage between buildings. “I’d wager there’s a whole web of these threading through the city. We just didn’t know to look for them before.”

“Oh, no, you knew. After the second or third one, at least. So, what else did you notice?”

“That you’re still charming when you sulk.” he offered, earning himself a sharp look that only widened his grin. Ryn gestured to Prince Wulfric to follow him back to the alley’s mouth.

“Here,” he said, tapping a copper downspout. A simple mark had been scratched into the metal—three short lines arranged like a bird’s foot. A 130 degree spin and five steps away, barely visible beneath a window’s crumbling ledge, someone had drawn what might have been an eye in fading chalk.

“There are marks and symbols everywhere if you look carefully. Different hands, different meanings.” Ryn returned to the rose-marked wall. “I just remember seeing eight of these. And now that we know what they might mean…” He glanced at the direction of the docks. “We can be confident those crates weren’t just carrying tea leaves.”

“Of course, they weren’t. That fishmonger practically announced the smuggling. I did not think it would be Black Rose related, however.”

“They definitely weren’t the only people smuggling things in or out.”

The prince hummed in affirmation. “If that is a sign of rival factions, it means they do not have a monopoly, at the very least.” Then again, it made for more targets to eliminate, so it was a scant silver lining.

Wulfric inspected the one mark they had stopped by. A fading eye…a sign to watch out? He peeked through the window, but it was a derelict building. “I am fairly certain I have seen similar markings here and there, but I assumed they were senseless graffiti.” he remarked. “No doubt some of it is nothing more than defacement, which makes the ones with a specific meaning blend in quite well,” he reasoned. “Anyhow, I shall be more mindful of these.” He gazed up at the sky. Late afternoon was transitioning into early evening. Sunset was a few hours away, but there was already a gradual shift in the activities taking place outside. “Let us explore some more, shall we?”

The slums were extensive. It took but a glance at the city map to realize so. Altogether, this derelict neighborhood was approximately as sizable as the noble district sans the castle. However, so many more people were packed in here, hidden out of view by strategically grown greenery. Rather than protecting those inside from the outside, as the castle area’s fortification did the nobles, the wall of shrubbery was meant to protect the delicate sensibilities of all the other citizens. One could get lost in here for a day, and not see all there was to see.

The prince certainly gave it his best attempt. He and the count traversed the labyrinthine alleys, meandered down winding streets stretching across the slums, people-watching as much as they were surveying the land. Wulfric was on alert for any strange symbols this time around, keeping track of emerging patterns.

Curious about why so many people were stuck in circumstances so deplorable, the royal sought individuals who were willing to impart their sorry tale. A veteran turned alcoholic who didn’t care where he lived, haunted by memories of war. A single mother left alone to take care of several children. A farmer who had been forced to sell his animals and lands to cover a predatory debt. A young woman who had been thrown out for her strangeness. There were quite a few of these so-called ‘rejects’, people who didn’t fit into society at large. Several had been met with misfortune, unable to crawl back out of the pit of poverty they found themselves in. Many of them had long since given up trying. But the majority of residents were simply people who had been born in the slums, had lived there their whole lives, and expected to die there as well. Whoever had ambition for more, regardless of the reason, they were likely to end up tied in with crime.

After the sun set, gloom encroached upon the area, shadows and darkness taking over. Lightning was poor, with scant oil lanterns in proper working order. Those still out and about mainly converged at streetside stalls or in dingy establishments, drinking and smoking in groups. The people still out in the streets at this time were those who were homeless, struggling with addiction, prostitutes – some far too young to be selling their body – or common criminals. Hours of wandering behind them, the pair eventually made their way to the Seafarer’s Slop Shack.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Hala Sami

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

28 Sola, Night
The Grand Banquet
@PapaOso @Tae

Hala had been watching the two men square off like an audience at the theater—entertained, invested, and utterly delighted by the display. They plucked a plump grape from a nearby guest’s plate, the woman too engrossed in the drama to notice the theft. Hala popped it into their mouth and the fruit burst between their teeth, sweet and tart, a perfect accompaniment to the simmering tension.

Then, of course, that bh***a Kalliope had to spoil everything by barging in right when things were getting juicy! The room’s temperature seemed to drop several degrees as the spectacle fizzled, leaving Hala with the distinct disappointment of a climax denied.

Depositing their half-finished wine glass on the grape-deprived plate, Hala ignored the owner’s indignant gasp and brought their hands together in a slow, elegant clap. “Why not indeed. Especially when you showed me firsthand how skilled you are at both,” they said. “I heard you did static pieces. Nobody said you have a talent for performance art, too.”

The rings adorning their fingers caught the light from the overhead chandeliers as Hala gestured toward the space where the confrontation had just unfolded. “The scene blocking? Masterful.” Their eyes slid meaningfully toward Cassius and Kalliope’s retreating forms. “The casting? Perfect. Your crafted lines drew out such exquisite drama.”

With a grin straddling the line between admiration and wickedness, Hala added, “A man like you doesn’t just create portraits or sculptures—you create moments, reactions... consequences.” They angled their head, earrings swinging, studying him. “I find myself more interested in your creative process.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Ryn & Prince Wulfric - Part I

FLASHBACK: Sola, 27th

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Having arranged with Count Hendrix a day for their outing, Wulfric was waiting at the training area where they’d decided to meet that morning. He had arrived early, curious what reactions his disguise would garner. So far, no one had recognized him as a prince, so he was counting it as a success. Taking his previous experience acting as a ‘sell-sword’, he had arranged for second-hand leather armour of his size to be delivered to him. His own sabre was unfortunately too distinctive, so he had taken one of a less artisanal make. This was part of the reason he had chosen this location; he was testing the weight and handling of the unfamiliar weapon.

Besides the lower quality attire, his appearance was only slightly altered. He had told Curran he required a disguise for undercover work. The servant hadn’t asked questions, and had helped dye his hair and eyebrows a dark shade of umber with what he was told was a washable dye. His valet was skilled enough with makeup to subtly alter his features – a warmer face powder for the base, a strengthened jaw here, a few lines and shades to add some visual heft to his nose there, thickened eyebrows, penciled in hooded eyelids, and some other details had done the job. His hair had been styled differently, too. It had been mussed to give it a more unruly look, all of it brushed back, his customary side fringe gone. His tiny eyebrow scar had been deepened and lengthened to make it more apparent. Another mark to point to his ‘profession’, as it were.

A few more casual swings against the training dummy had him habituated to his sword. He switched it out with his side-arms next. A dagger sheathed at the small of his back, and a knife hidden within a boot. Both were adequate, which meant he could comfortably use them if he happened to have need of them. He sheathed his weapons, and engaged in a light stretching routine, biding his time until the count arrived.

What Wulfic didn’t realize was that the count was already there.

The early morning sun cast long shadows across the training yard as Ryn leaned against the fence, his eyes fixed on the figure before him. He had arrived earlier than the promised time, expecting to be the first one there. However, His Royal Highness was even more eager for their rendezvous. Prince Wulfric seemed utterly absorbed in his training, oblivious to his audience of one. Ryn watched, fascinated, as the prince tested an unfamiliar blade, his movements a study in controlled power.

When at last the sword was sheathed and stretches began, Ryn decided it was time to make his presence known. He pushed off from the fence, his boots crunched softly on the packed earth as he approached. “Morning, Adel,” he called out, using the pseudonym they had agreed upon. “That was some fine bladework. Though I couldn’t help but notice you’re favoring your right side a touch more than usual. Is the new sword throwing off your balance?”

“Good morning,” he replied as he completed the last few exercises. The count had made his steps audible this time. Based on where he’d come from, he had already been at the training area for some time. Wulfric could have sworn no one had been there, hadn’t heard him arrive, and hadn’t felt being watched at all. “You might have said sooner you were here,” he commented, and finally glanced at the count. An eyebrow raised, both at Fritz’s comment, and his modest attire. “A bit,” he agreed. That the count had not only managed to assess his usual style, but had also discerned the subtle differences in his handling now spoke of his skill. “It shouldn’t be a problem, but…Care for a spar?” he tried, a hint of intrigue sparking. He had felt challenged by Hendrix in other instances, so he was rather curious how a practice match with him would go.

“Only if you enjoy sparring with opponents who fall short of your skill.” Palms open, Ryn shrugged, “I fear I’d offer little challenge for you.”

“I do not believe you would make for a dull opponent, but I shan’t press.” He motioned with his head towards the slums. “Shall we?” He didn’t take the lead, because if he was to act as the count’s guard, he needed to keep Hendrix in his view.

“Ah,” Ryn raised a hand. “A moment.”

He began to circle the prince, slow and deliberate. From a distance, his disguise was passable—worn leather armor and boots, a plain tunic and trousers, and a nondescript sword sold by the dozen. However…

Completing his circle, Ryn planted himself before Prince Wulfric. “Excuse me,” he murmured, reaching to test the material of the shirt between his fingers. Soft, finely-woven. His hand shifted to the leather armor—scratched, but beneath the wear, the hide was supple and expertly tanned. He could almost smell the richness of it.

Just as he suspected: second-hand, but high-quality. Perhaps too high-quality for where they were going.

“May I ask where these hand-me-downs came from?”

Tilting his head, Wulfric observed the man as he circled him. He resisted the urge to turn around to keep him within sight. For better or worse, he was getting used to Hendrix appearing out of nowhere, behaving oddly, and being in his proximity. Even so, he pinned the count with a habitual stare as he inspected his outfit. Fritz’s examination was entirely professional, revealing his mercantile roots as he explored the make of his apparel. He was tempted to capture the man’s wrist, but if he did that…It was for the best he kept himself still. Subtle tension lined the prince’s body until the count stepped out of his personal space.

“I made several inquiries for the armour, but this particular piece is from Ser Warren. He purchased it for his son with the idea that he would follow his father’s footsteps, but Warren Jr. was ultimately headhunted for investigative work. This was a keepsake they didn’t mind me having,” he rolled a shoulder as he explained. “It was either this, newly made leather armour, a collector’s piece, or army surplus - all distinct one way or another. Why, do you have a preference?”

When the title “Ser” was mentioned, Ryn smiled. “I don’t. However, you’re overdressed for the slums. Which usually leads to unwanted attention.” He took three measured steps backward, creating space between them.

“Thus your choice to dress down,” he nodded at Hendrix’s clothes for the day. “You do not intend to make it apparent in any way whatsoever that you are a count or a merchant?” he checked. When Fritz confirmed that was the case, Wulfric grew thoughtful. “I see…” He watched the man for a moment longer. “Is the idea of me going as your guard not feasible then?” he questioned. “I doubt your everyday peasant could afford to hire someone for protection, or that they would have a reason to do so in the first place,” he noted. He had expected they would act as the count and his guard. However, Hendrix seemed to have something else in mind. Wulfric wasn’t comfortable with the idea of leaving behind his weapons or armour. Yet, if he wished to blend in, he would have to make concessions. Resigning himself to last-minute alterations with a light sigh, he prompted, “Do you have any suggestions?”

The furrowed contemplation etched across Prince Wulfric’s features drew Ryn forward—one measured pace, then another—until his hand could rest against the pauldron. “I suggest… you learn what life is like without the securities you’ve grown accustomed to.”

His fingers traced the intricate fastenings until they found the first of the buckles. “No armor to shield you.” The buckle came loose with a quiet sound. “No blade to ward off threats.” His hands sought the next fastening. “No coin to smooth your path.” The second buckle gave way. “Nor title to bend others to your will.”

“It’s time you saw this kingdom from the bottom.” Of course, even the slums they would visit today were not truly the bottom—not by far. But it was as close as they could reasonably get.

For now.

Wulfric tracked Hendrix’s movements, entranced. He was reminded of their dance, the intricate back and forth they had been entangled in unfolding yet again. A bracing touch to his shoulder, then the count’s hands were already working to unleash his straps one by one. Disarming him. Unbinding him. Unearthing new possibilities. A frisson of excitement ran down his spine, electrifying. The awareness he had forcefully kept at bay surged forth as eager as flames stirred by a poker. He was interested in this man, but not only that - Wulfric was letting him in. Fritz had a way of working past his defenses, of testing boundaries, of shifting and blurring the lines until they could be crossed unnoticed.

And that, that was…

Dangerous.

“Careful.” A warning to them both. Listening to his earlier impulse, Wulfric grabbed Hendrix’s wrist, staying him from progressing any further. He was glad he was so practiced at controlling himself, truly. His expression and voice remained impassive, his breath even, his heartbeat steady. His muscles were taut, but that was the same as before.

He didn’t care to test if the heat he felt could be sensed in his gaze, so before they could lock eyes, he released the count’s hand, and walked away. “I will get rid of these, then, shall I?” He gestured to his warrior’s equipment with a wave, a casual glance thrown across his shoulder. On the way towards the training hall - the sole building in the training area, which was used for storage and changing - he focused on his breathing to regain his equilibrium.

He did not take any longer than usual to take off the armour and weapons, but the familiar process centered his mind on what was important: the mission awaiting him. Really, that he was thrown off that easily showed one thing, and one thing only - it had been far too long since he had last visited his favoured escort agency. He would have to book an appointment one of these days. Right now, though, there was work to do.

Having paid off a groggy receptionist for the use of a secured locker to store his gear in, Wulfric emerged in his boots, trousers, and tunic only. He had carried a mere pouchful of silver with a couple of gold coins in the mix, an amount he had deemed minimal. Yet, when he’d passed it all to the receptionist in exchange for the locker’s key, insisting the man keep the extra as a tip, he’d been given a look that said was out of his mind. He was sure the worker had the impression some shady exchange might happen at the training hall, now.

Oh, well.

The royal had achieved his goal, which was to divest himself of the money and the mercenary guise. He was sure he passed off as a peasant now. He strolled back to Hendrix, this time genuinely as unruffled as he appeared. “Well?” he questioned with a smirk, raising his arms, inviting observation and assessment.

There was something endearing in His Royal Highness taking such evident pride in looking perfectly ordinary. Ryn offered an approving nod.

“Much better,” he said, already shrugging out of his summer jacket—a well-worn piece of sturdy cotton, faded from its original forest green to the color of old moss, patched at the elbows and frayed just so at the cuffs, with brass buttons that had long since lost their shine. The garment, which had always hung somewhat loose on Ryn, settled perfectly across Prince Wulfric’s broader shoulders when he helped the prince into it. The prince’s shirt, while passable, still carried subtle hints of its finer origins in its weave. It was better to obscure the shirt as much as possible.

“And for the final touch.” Ryn dropped to one knee in the dirt and wrapped a hand around the prince’s ankle to guide his foot onto the propped knee with the practiced care of a bootblack preparing to earn his coin. But instead of polish and brushes, Ryn armed himself with a convenient stone and began systematically destroying several hundred gold’s worth of master cobbling. When the boot was sufficiently abused, he slathered a liberal coating of mud over his handiwork, working it into each crack and crevice until every scuff and scrape looked honestly earned.

The other boot received the same attentive ruination, his trouser knees collecting muck as he worked. Ryn paid no mind to it.

Wulfric raised an eyebrow as Hendrix went on to ruin his shoes, an amused smirk playing about his lips. Being coated with mud unexpectedly reminded him of Aiden. As a boy and a young man, his cousin was habitually mucky on account of his job. Nostalgia washed over him, and for a moment, he wondered what it would have been like if he was there to accompany them. He dismissed the idea with a huff, the wistfulness receding to the deepest recesses of his mind. When his second foot was released, Wulfric offered a hand up to the count. “Should I go roll over in a puddle of mud?” he joked. ”Or have all the details been attended to?”

Ryn chuckled as he rose to his feet, brushing off the lingering dirt from his knees. “If we were aiming for true authenticity, we’d do better to purchase some from a citizen,” he said. “But I dare say we’ve tarried long enough.” His fingers found the flat brown cap tucked away in his pocket and settled it atop his head. “Shall we?”

“You say that as if we’re running late,” he quipped, amused. “But let’s.”

They emerged from the training grounds into the city. Morning crept across the city like spilled honey, golden and slow. Already the streets stirred with life. Shopkeepers threw open their shutters with wooden groans and metallic clinks. Chimney smoke rose in lazy spirals from breakfast fires and bakery ovens, while darker plumes surged upward from smithy forges. Market-bound carts clattered over the stones, their steady rhythm mixing with vendors calling greetings.

The street they walked down was familiar. It was in the so-called respectable part of the city, the baron’s estate at the tail end of it. However, traversing it on foot was a different experience. When Wulfric had to go somewhere, it was usually in a carriage or mounted. He had taken strolls, of course, but most often in the noble area or the merchant district. Treading upon the cobbled paths, he took in the waking city.

The scent of freshly baked bread drew in early risers on their way to work. Sizzled sausages, fluffy waffles, sandwiches, and more were offered on the go by tiny street-bound food stalls. A few patrons had settled down in cafés, coffee or tea in hand. A young news hawker was charming her way into more sales as she went from eatery to eatery, proprietors and regulars greeting her with a welcoming smile. A milkman was in the middle of his milk run, hand drawn wagon rattling behind him, ferrying secured churns. Many craftsmen were already working away in their shops, preparing for customers who would visit later in the day.

Passing carriages forced pedestrians to the sides. On one such crossing, a man heading down the opposite way knocked shoulders with him, gave him a single angry look, and spat, “Watch out,” before hurrying along. A curious experience, that. The prince was not used to having to move out of anyone’s way. He remarked upon the action with a thoughtful hum, and moved on with a metaphorical shrug. He was in the guise of a peasant, so others had no reason to be so mindful.

“‘Ats how they get ya,” an old man smoking a pipe in a shaded corner announced to him. He was leaning in a rickety chair which was as aged and worn as its occupant, a gray-haired and bearded vendor. He was minding a fish stall. Some fish were laid out on a limited stock of ice while others had been smoked or pickled. A few specimens were still alive, stored in containers of saltwater.

“Pardon?” Wulfric turned to him with a puzzled smile.

“Thugs. Some o’em look real nice, like that,” he pointed his chin at the departing gentleman in the distance. “But they’ll knock in ya, fake a fall, drop some shit. Pretend yer at fault, demand you pay ‘em back. Miserable bullies, they are.” He took a drag of his pipe, blowing rings of smoke upwards. “Best take care, lad.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Hm?” The man opened his eyes slowly, not having expected the conversation to continue. He squinted at him, inspecting him. “Hrm…Yer not from around here, aye?” It wasn’t a question. “So, ‘ats why. Reckon’ ya were too cocky fer yer own ‘ood, or jus’ ‘ad yer ‘ead in th’ clouds, was tellin’ ya what type t’ avoid,” he shook his head, rambling half to himself. “Yer lookin’ fer a fight?”

“No fights,” he smiled. “Just gossip.”

“Psshh,” he snorted. Spying a potential customer, he called out, “FISH! FRESH CATCH O’ THE DAY!” He turned to the men. “Now, if ya ain’t buyin’, shoo,” he waved them away, turning to his prospective buyer.

Ryn stepped forward before the conversation could wander off entirely. “Actually,” he said, “we were wondering if you might have any work going. Or know someone who does?” He gestured between himself and the prince. “We’re a bit short on coin.”

The old man’s pipe bobbed as his eyes moved from Ryn to Prince Wulfric and back again, like he was weighing fish on invisible scales. Whatever he saw apparently met some internal standard, because he took the pipe from his mouth and pointed it toward the waterfront. “’Round the docks, they’s always needin’ muscle. Loadin’, unloadin’, that sort. Pay ain’t much, but it’s ’onest enough.” He paused. “Usually.” He squinted at them again. “Just don’t go askin’ too many questions ’bout what’s in them crates.”

Another customer approached, and the fishmonger’s attention snapped away. “FISH! FRESH CATCH O’ THE DAY!” The fishmonger turned back to them and made shooing motions. “Go on then, can’t stand ’ere gassin’ all day. Though…” He hesitated. “If yer still ’bout later, might be worth stoppin’ by t’ Shack. Buy an old man a drink, ’ear what’s what.” He turned to his customer, dismissing them as thoroughly as if they had ceased to exist.

Ryn and Prince Wulfric exchanged glances. The docks it was, then.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Fritz "Ryn" Hendrix

Time: Sola 28 1739; Nighttime Hours
Location: Castle Dining Room
Interaction(s)/Mention(s): @CitrusArms @Helo @Tae @princess @Lava Alckon @FunnyGuy @Potter @samreaper

While Ser Durmand’s request was unexpected, it was her hesitation that caught Ryn’s attention. She had delivered the question like someone might handle a suspicious package—gingerly, with one eye out for eavesdroppers.

Perhaps talk of “unusual laws or hazards” was an ill-suited choice of topic to speak at a banquet where walls had ears and servants reported to half a dozen masters. Or perhaps the Knight Captain wanted to speak in private about something entirely unrelated.

Ryn could not be certain. What he did know was that curiosity had always been one of his most reliable vices. He smiled. “I’d be delighted to assist, though I must caution you my knowledge extends only to places I’ve personally travelled or had dealings with.”

“I.. believe I’m due tae grreet t’ Rroyal Family.” A nervous chuckle escaped her, “perr’aps tha’ was due when I arrived?”

“Better fashionably late than never, I always say.” He raised his glass in a small salute. “Please, don’t let me keep you, Ser Durmand.” As she departed, Ryn noted how she subtly squared her shoulders like a soldier preparing to march into contested territory.

Turning his attention back to the grand hall, Ryn surveyed the scene. It was, in its way, a battlefield of silk and pearls, where the weapons were words and the casualties were rarely visible until much later.

Though unfamiliar faces beckoned from various corners with the allure of new connections, friendships demanded the first call on his attention.

His gaze first settled on Lord Smithwood across the room, engaged with his sister, Lady Charlotte, and Lord Edwards.

Ryn took a step forward, then froze mid-stride. The question burning in his mind might require privacy, unsuitable for their current grouping. What was also concerning was Lady Charlotte’s expression—something was clearly amiss there...

With considerable effort, he tore his eyes from the group and approached the other Vikena—or rather, “Vikenas”—in the room.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” he offered with a respectful bow to Duke Vikena. “You look particularly dapper this evening.” He turned to Ms. Persephone with a warm smile, lifting her hand and kissing the air just above her knuckles. “Lady Vikena, a pleasure to meet you again. How have you been keeping?”

For Mr. Kazumin, a forthright handshake completed the circuit of greetings. “Master Nagasa. How fare your injuries?” Leaning in closer, he lowered his voice to add, “Did the audience with His Highness prove fruitful?”

Avalia

Time: A.M.
Location: The River Port Lodge
Interactions/Mentions: @Conscripts @mole
Equipment: Knife (Barrock took it), drugs, and wallet looted from dope peddler

✠✠✠✠✠

The oak door wheezed on its hinges as Vasco stepped into the daylight and sighed his disappointment. No ice for the lizard-man today. That much was clear when Barrock had confiscated his blade with those meaty paws of his. “So much for my lizard skin suit,” he muttered, running a calloused thumb along his jawline.

Beneath his skin crawled that familiar itch—insistent, demanding attention. Dipping into his trouser pocket, he fished out one of his latest acquisitions—strange nuts he’d lifted off the two-bit dope peddler the other night. What they did exactly? He couldn’t say. But in Vasco’s world, where tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed, some things deserved at least one chance.

He popped one between his teeth and began to chew. Bitter flooded his mouth first—Christ, like licking a rusty razor! Soon after came warmth, then tingling, then the flood of crimson juices that stained his teeth. Methodically he worked the quid. The rush would come soon enough; it always did. Already he could feel the first hints of it—tightening in his jaw, the slight quickening of his pulse…

“You’re very brave,” came Aurora’s voice behind him. “Both Barrock and you… Thank you.”

What burst from him? Not laughter—nothing so kind. A bark, humor nowhere to be found. “Brave, eh?” He hawked and spat a stream of crimson juice that hit the dirt with a splat. The red stain spread like a fresh kill on the ground.

Vasco squared himself to the light elf. “In that highfalutin religion of yours, doll, is lying a sin? Or is it a bigger sin to say the words you really wanna call fellas like us?”

With jaw working mechanically, his gaze bore into her unseeing eyes, his intensity undiminished by her blindness.

Their standoff broke at the creak of the lodge door. Barrock, massive frame filling the doorway, lumbered toward them.

Between cheek and gum Vasco tucked the quid, then asked, “Why didn’t you bump him off?” Stretching out his hand, palm up, fingers impatient, he beckoned for his knife. “You know he’s gonna scram and squeal to his buddies the first chance he gets.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Hala Sami

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

28 Sola, Night
The Grand Banquet
@PapaOso @Helo @Tae @Potter

Hala swirled the wine in their glass as they studied the artist who went by the name of Milo St. Claire from across the banquet hall. His outfit wasn’t just assembled—it was curated, calculated, and criminal in all the right ways. In this wasteland of sartorial despair, the man’s attire was a revelation.

“Well, well,” Hala said, wine glass dangling from manicured fingers. “Someone actually dressed for the occasion they wanted, not the one they were invited to.”

When Rohit mentioned exclusive gatherings, Hala’s smile unfurled like a poisonous flower.

“VIP party? Sounds delicious. I’ll be joining you in the next one.” Not a question. Not a maybe. A fact. The sky is blue, water is wet, and Hala would be at that party. Invited or not.

Reluctantly, they dragged their eyes away from Milo to locate this other VIP Rohit mentioned—Mina, the flame-haired woman. Instead, he pointed toward a plain-looking girl who must’ve stumbled in here by accident. “Rohit, locks of any shade adore you.” They plucked a sugared fig from his plate and popped it into their mouth. “Don’t insult me by selling yourself short.”

“How was your journey? Have you been bored without me?”

Hala sighed, their head falling back slightly. “Mind numbingly. I was hoping we’d get attacked by pirates on the way just to spice things up. Alas.” A shrug, then a sharp pat on Rohit’s arm. “You’ll have to make up for your absence.”

The introductions between Rohit and the woman sitting across from them—Kira, if the castle staff hadn’t botched the name cards—barely registered in Hala’s consciousness. Their focus magnetized back to the golden-haired artist.

“I’m going to go say hi to this Milo man.” Hala announced, rising from their seat with sudden decisiveness.

As they navigated the crowd, Hala felt the familiar weight of eyes following them. Nadim’s protective presence trailed behind like a shadow, and conversations briefly stuttered as they passed—a small pleasure Hala had come to expect but never tired of.

Hala stopped short of Milo, making no effort to hide their blatant assessment of his ensemble. When his hazel eyes met theirs, acknowledging their inspection, Hala merely offered a smile—part challenge, part approval, all confidence. They closed the remaining distance between them, fingers reaching out to ghost over—but not touch—the fine embroidery on his sleeve, examining the quality of the material while the rest of the room faded to background noise.

“Are you an artist who creates with your own hands, or do you direct others to make your vision a reality?”