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This grand ballroom is true to its name, it’s grand!

Gleaming marble floors, chandeliers that look like they are made of thousands of diamonds, and a ceiling so high I almost get a crick in my neck just looking at it. Servants weave through the crowd like graceful swans, carrying trays piled high with food and enough wine to sink a ship.

The room hums with chatter, peculiar accents, and polite laughter.

Ladies drift by in dresses that could double as wedding marquees, their hair decorated with enough jewels and feathers to make a peacock jealous.

Meanwhile, I stand there in a gown that, only a short while ago, seemed extravagant to me but now appears woefully inadequate.

I nudge Zanyar, who is busy scanning the room like a hawk, and whisper, “Did we accidentally stumble into a royal gathering? Because I’m quite sure my peasant attire is not going to sell it here.”

Zanyar smiles, cruelly reminding me of his handsome features when he graces the world with that alluring grin.

He just places his hand over mine, which is nervously gripping his arm, and skillfully navigates me through the crowd.

“Just try not to spill wine on anyone important or challenge anyone to a duel. Otherwise, you’ll be all right. ”

“Would be difficult. You know. With my natural tendency to randomly ask strangers for a duel. And easy for you to say,” I grumble. “You were born to mingle with the nobility. I, on the other hand, look like I’m about to ask if they have any spare potatoes in the kitchen.”

He chuckles in a low rumble. “Don’t worry, Arien. You look lovely. Besides, we’re not here to impress anyone. You’re only here to steal information from a very powerful host and spy on Martysh. You know. Nothing major.”

Even though I feel like a fish out of water, I can’t help but laugh. Gods. If I had to imagine all sorts of wild affairs after my arrival at Jahanwatch, teasing and walking arm-in-arm with Zanyar Zareen in a ballroom certainly wouldn’t have been one of them.

Lord Palewyne addresses our host. “Lord Bakewell. It’s a pleasure to enjoy such generous hospitality.”

Lord Bakewell, a man of ample proportions, looks like a peacock that has stumbled into a tailor’s shop and got a bit too enthusiastic with the silks and velvets.

His round figure strains against its seams, and I have to stifle a laugh, wondering if he might take off at any moment!

With rosy cheeks and a wig that looks like it had a fierce encounter with a family of squirrels, he is certainly a sight to behold.

“The pleasure is mine,” he hiccups, the scent of wine thick on his breath. “And who might these unexpected guests be?”

“Lord and Lady Lefford! Coming to us from Banefort, searching fortune in our fair Shemiran,” he says, his voice booming over the din of the crowd like a battle horn.

Lord Bakewell has hiccups again. “Well met! Though Shemiran’s gold is more often won with wit than toil.”

The only thing he doesn’t resemble at this moment is wit . He soon starts to talk with his other guests, and Lord Palewyne sweeps us along. “Come, come! Let me acquaint you with the other esteemed guests.”

It seems our true purpose is forgotten amidst the swirl of courtly niceties. I share a knowing glance with Zanyar, a silent question in my eyes. He just squeezes my hand and follows Palewyne. He introduces us to a whole parade of characters, each one more striking than the last.

There is a Jamshahi noble with skin so smooth it glows under the chandeliers.

He gives Zanyar a nod, and I swear I see a spark of recognition in his eyes.

Then we meet nobles from Hamden, decked out in outfits that scream, We’re richer than you .

There is a gaggle of Aramisi merchants huddled in a corner, giving us the side-eye.

I suspect they recognize Zanyar, their High Lord’s son, but none of them approaches us.

Maybe Palewyne has given them notice about our little charade.

Then, a Maravanian lordling latches onto Zanyar, rambling on and on about trade routes and political alliances.

I just stand there, nodding politely and trying not to yawn.

I have to admit that this affair of socializing with nobles isn’t exactly as fun as I might once have thought it would be.

I think I’m more comfortable battling monsters and deciphering ancient texts than engaging in noble talk.

Zanyar, however, is in his element. Although his conversation is short and brief, it flows effortlessly as he navigates the complexities of courtly etiquette.

While we are conversing with a Hamdeni noble, whose wife is shamelessly eyeing Zanyar despite my arms around his and her husband standing beside her, Lord Palewyne subtly nods toward a solitary figure standing near the edge of the room.

The man is tall and broad-shouldered, his posture and bearing suggesting a military background. He is nursing a goblet of wine, and his gaze scans the crowd with a detached air. Zanyar nods back and ushers me toward the side of the room as if hiding us from the man’s view.

“Who is that?”

“A Martyshyar,” he murmurs, his voice barely rising above the music. “This changes everything. We need to change our plan.”

“And what exactly is this plan?”

Zanyar, the master of wordless communication, just tilts his head to a door hidden by a tapestry.

I understand the message loud and clear.

Making sure nobody is watching us—thankfully, everyone is too busy gossiping about who wore the most ridiculous hat to notice our escape act—I slip through the door and into a dimly lit hallway.

Zanyar follows, and the door shuts behind us quietly.

Before I can ask where we are going, he grabs my arm and drags me deeper into the mansion. We creep through the shadowy hallway, feeling the eyes of all those stern-faced lord and lady portraits on the walls boring into our backs.

“Where are we going?” I whisper.

Zanyar replies in a low voice, “Lord Bakewell’s solar.”

Suddenly, the clatter of footsteps and the muffled chatter of approaching servants erupt. Zanyar reacts instantly, yanking me, not so gently, back into the deepest shadows, pressing me hard against the cold stone wall. I gasp, the air whooshing from my lungs.

A whole squadron of servants, laden with trays piled high with food and drink, storms past our hiding place, completely oblivious to the two figures pressed into the darkness. The scent of rich spices and sweet wine fills my nose.

Don’t sneeze, don’t breathe, don’t even think.

Pressed against Zanyar, I’m acutely aware of every point of contact: the hard wall at my back, the strength of his body against mine, the warmth radiating from him, the clean scent of his skin.

He is looking away at where the sounds are coming from, but almost as if he knows what I am thinking, his face turns toward me as I quickly lower my gaze.

I can feel his eyes on me, even in the near-total darkness, but I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze. My heart thunders and the sound is deafening in my ears.

Is he feeling this, too? Our… closeness?

His breath is warm and intimate against my forehead, sending wave after wave of heat through me, each one a fresh reminder of our touching bodies.

My heart feels impossibly tight, a knot of tension that makes every inhale a conscious, difficult effort.

Swallowing down the lump of pure, undiluted him that has formed in my throat, I finally force myself to look up.

The shadows are powerless to hide the fierce light in his gaze.

It’s a dark, devouring look, a searching that seems to bypass every defense, stripping me bare until I feel utterly exposed, yet strangely, almost achingly, seen .

I can barely draw a breath. Time distorts, stretching into an elastic moment where only the frantic rhythm of my own blood and our overwhelming closeness exist .

What is he searching for in my eyes? What hidden part of me does he see when he looks at me with such consuming intensity?

When the last echo of footsteps fades, and a strained silence falls on us, Zanyar finally releases me. But the imprint of his body, the ghost of his warmth, the weight of his breath on my face… I can still feel it, and my skin prickles.

We scurry around the corner, emerging into a vast hall with a wide staircase. Zanyar, of course, doesn’t hesitate. He strides forward, climbing the stairs with the confident air of a man who owns the place, and I’m left wondering if Palewyne slipped him a map of the mansion.

At the top of the stairs, we turn right and come face-to-face with a massive wooden door. Zanyar produces a set of lock picks from his pocket and goes to work. A few clicks later, the lock springs open.

“No magic spell to unlock it?” I wave my hand dramatically.

“I’d rather not risk losing my wit at this particular moment. Not all of us are as keen on self-sacrifice and playing with the rules as you.” Oh, right. I’d forgotten he’d seen my little healing stunt in the arena.

“Well, if anything, me not being disqualified shows that if you don’t use sorcery to change the outcome of the trial, it’s not against the rules.”

“Thanks. I’ll remember that for the next time, I run a spy mission in the middle of a cutthroat trial,” he says with a flat voice.

The room is small and crammed full of clutter—books, scrolls, weird-looking statues, you name it. A massive desk dominates the space, covered in papers and maps. Zanyar starts poking around, inspecting everything.

“Well,” I ask, leaning against a bookshelf that looks like it might collapse at any moment, “what exactly are we hunting for in this treasure trove of junk?”

“Clues,” he replies, his eyes glued to a scroll.

“Ah, clues,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Of course. How foolish of me. But hey, maybe if you were a little less cryptic, I could, in fact, I suppose, help?”