Tapestries of silver and violet lanterns draped the royal gardens in ethereal light as courtiers in ornate masks and gowns twirled beneath the vaulted trellis. Marin Ashveil stood at the edge of the crowd, bundled in a charcoal cloak, her grey eyes scanning every flicker of motion. A hush of anticipation mingled with the scent of night-blooming jasmine.
Beside her, Rowan—still disguised as a lowly steward—whispered, “Remember, Marin: the dancers will be posed as entertainers. Stay near Elias." He slid a slender dagger into her palm. “For you only."
Marin nodded once, steel humming through her fingers. “Ready."
A soft trill of lute strings announced the Fire Dancers' entrance. Six dancers, faces painted like coals, wove flaming torches through the air, their robes shimmering like embers.
