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The performance was a simple one, practiced and fluid. The music moved him like the tide moved water. Magic flowed within, spheres of gold and silver flickering into existence at his whim. Silks connected his body to his partner’s, swirling between them as thread connected spirits. Bells marked their steps from ankles, shimmering as the two synchronized.
They moved as one. The flute their breath, the drum their heart, the oud their soul.
The music was all. As it should be.
The wagon door was closed carefully behind them.
Horatia was there, smiling brightly. “You were music in motion again tonight, Ajin.”
He laughed at that, already removing the gold chains from his fingers, the hanging gold coins from his ears. “Thank you, Horatia, but it was truly Akori that was the star tonight.”
The other dancer knocked the back of his head at that, her outer silks already removed, leaving the soft wraps beneath. “Don’t say that just to sate me, runaway. You’ve got more pride than that.”
“You’ve no proof of that,” Ajin huffed, burying his frown in a soft towel.
“I’ve no proof to the contrary, either, you know.”
She was always faster than him. She was already passing the handheld mirror, face clean and hair down.
They fell into routine then. Bells were tucked away, chains and necklaces laid carefully in fabric lined boxes, stage makeup replaced by softer, simpler lines and shades. Silks were replaced by softer, simpler clothes, and then hung by the windows to air.
Long skirts and wide legged pants embroidered at the hems were fitted with wide belts. Thin tops were slipped on to breathe in the night, sleeveless and form fitting. Smaller earrings and chains were swapped in, thin and fine, embedded with jewels. Hair was fixed, the tousled lengths braided tightly by thin fingers, tied off with small bells of their own, twisted and held back by decorative headbands.
A knock interrupted their pattern.
“My notes, there is a messenger here to speak with you.”
“We’ll be there in a beat, Dai,” Horatia called, finishing his braids. She tied the silver strand off with a bell, and he nodded in thanks.
Akori was the first to leave the wagon, as was usual. Horatia ran her fingers through his waterfall of braids with a hum. The bells shimmered softly as her fingers passed.
“What is on your mind, love?” She sighed.
“I just wonder what the message will be. Dahisa sounded more worried than normal after such a show.” He met her eyes in the small mirror. She offered a soft, simple smirk of her lips.
“She seemed excited to me. Now, don’t leave our maestra waiting, yes? I will finish here.”
He hummed, leaving her to the bell boxes and the chests, taking care to close the wagon door gently as he went.
The path between wagons was uneven as it was thin. Other performers were cleaning silks by the river, singing as they worked. Music drifted on the humid evening breeze as the musicians had taken their cue.
The clearing in front of the stage was on the edge of the village, the wagons looped behind it. Those watching danced unpracticed motions, feeling nothing but the drum in their step. He smiled nonetheless, allowing the tune to guide his own feet.
When he reached the front of the caravan, Akori was waiting. Dahisa stood by her side, nose in her writing board already.
“He’s here now, Dai.”
Without looking from her board, Dahisa turned to the spacious tent, the private lounge where guests could be met and meetings occurred. The dancers followed gracefully.
“These are our best performers, sir. Ajin, the star, and Akori, the flame.” Dahisa’s small curtsey was indication for them to show full respect. “Are they the notes you had in mind?”
Looking up from the bow, he met the visitor’s gaze carefully. The visitor was dressed functionally: no flare at all. His bag-bearing attendant, however, wore house colors of the nearby nobles, their crest proudly on his chest.
A stone settled deep in Ajin’s stomach.
A dark crow on a field of red.
“His Majesty specified the Star,” the visitor snapped.
“Our notes are paired to perform, sir, and the musicians will be required as well for a performance of this scale.”
“Whatever must happen to have that dancer on the stage at the celebration, you will do it. Do I make myself understood?”
“Of course, sir,” Dahisa curtseyed again, her eyes down.
“You will require a new outfit for the performers as well. One of a kind. His Majesty will not suffer the mediocre performance that was put on this evening.”
“With all due respect, sir,” Akori stepped forward, gracefully ignoring Dahisa’s panicked glance, “we do not replace our silks easily. They are handcrafted, and the materials are in short supply. To create a truly new set would be… immeasurably expensive, and beyond our reach at the time.”
The visitor frowned, waving a hand to his attendant. The smaller man leapt to scramble through his pack. A purse, heavy with coin, landed on the carpets with a clatter. The visitor did not flinch.
“I’m certain that will suffice. You will receive payment for the performance after it is completed, and only if his Majesty is contented by the show.” The visitor brushed by Dahisa, fixing Ajin in his gaze. “You have five weeks to arrive at the palace at Kaenaath. His Majesty will not suffer lateness.”
With that, the visitor and his attendant retreated from the tent, vanishing to the growing shadows of the night.
But the crow on the field of blood remained. It nested deep in Ajin’s mind, picking at the glittering remains of memories he had long tried to forget.
The women were speaking of something, counting the coins. He murmured some excuse, hurrying from the tent in a daze.
Not even the drum could guide his step as he raced to his wagon.
He couldn’t breathe.
Dark halls, thick tomes, angry voices. He was small, he was weak.
He wasn’t enough.
He needed to try harder, to study more, to make him happy.
He was never happy. Never could be happy. Not him. Not the Crow.
No, the Crow was never happy upon that throne of blood. Looking down at him, glittering and angry.
He wouldn’t remember. He wouldn’t go back.
Nails dug into the nape of his neck, pulling at the hair there. Pulling him from those thoughts.
The pain could center him, could drag him out.
His chest was tight, his breath shallow. His vision was blurred.
The stone wall of his room was cold on his back, he was alone again, fearful again.
No, he wasn’t there. Nails dug harder. Remembering the wagon, the pressure on his chest.
A flicker of light, someone at his door. The Crow was outside, the door couldn’t open. It had to stay closed!
“-ove?”
Someone was here, they’d tell the Crow, he had to stop them, they couldn’t tell.
They were talking, hands on his. Nails dug harder, pulled away.
“Breathe, love, just breathe.”
Who was that? Love?
Horatia.
“Ajin, breathe, you’re fine. You’re here.”
Here?
“The wagon, see? You’re safe. Breathe, love.”
His hands were pressed to firm wood. Not stone. Smooth fingers intertwined with his own, tracing lines on his skin.
“In time with me, love, stay in time with me.”
Yes, he was safe. This was the wagon. Horatia was there, not the—
The Crow.
“You’re safe, nothing will hurt you here, love. Breathe in time.”
Her whispers became his focus. Her heart became his beat. He met her eyes unsteadily, vision blurred with fear.
She stayed there, a tempo to step in time with. He breathed. He stilled. He pulled her close to him.
Buried there in her scent, the walls of stone melted away. The wagon came into focus. Sturdy, strong wood. Soft, simple lantern light replaced the harsh magelights.
He stayed there, clinging to her. And she hummed a soft melody.
Two melodies passed, the lantern candle burned to a dim, and silence came. Stillness came.
“Ajin?”
Her breath was soft on his neck. He loosened his grasp, and she pulled back to meet his gaze. Even in the shadows, her eyes shimmered with worry.
“My love, are you alright now?” She reached out slowly, brushing a thumb on his cheek, wiping a tear track away. “It has been almost seven summers since your last attack, I thought…”
He brushed a strand of her hair aside, meeting her gaze carefully. Willing himself to speak, he frowned deeply. “The… king has summoned us. To perform.”
Her brow furrowed at that. “At the castle town? That was…”
“My home, yes,” he stopped her, allowing silence to reign again. He had to gather the words.
She didn’t know about the Crow.
“I left that place,” he whispered, “I left that place for a reason, Horatia. If I go back and he sees me… He’ll know me. He’ll see me, and know me, and I don’t know what he will do.”
“The Demon knows you? Love, what do you mean?”
“I can’t… I don’t…” He trailed off with a sigh. “I don’t know how to say that. I just. I can’t go back there.”
Horatia traced the golden lines of opal embedded in his hands. Her work, that. Simple yet elegant. Beautiful. Like her.
“We cannot disobey the Demon, Ajin.” She pressed her lips to the swirling lines. “We cannot hide from him either. If he summoned you, you must go.”
“I know.”
Her tracing slowed, she chewed her lip, considering him in the dim lantern light. “It’s been nearly nine summers since you left there, Ajin.”
“Yes.”
“Your skin is so much darker since then; the desert has colored you well.” Her fingers caught onto the bells in his hair. “And your hair is longer, your body taller, stronger. You’re older now; you’ve changed much these years.”
He hummed low. Her fingers brushed his cheek.
“The demon, he would know your face. Your eyes. They have not changed. We cannot change that, but perhaps…”
Horatia traced lines on his face, across his cheek, down his nose. She was shaping something in her mind; her eyes were distant, unfocused. She was creating.
“You will need new silks for a performance of this scale, yes? So, love, a mask. A mask for you, a mask for the Demon. A mask for his queen and his daughters. Handcrafted gifts, from the Star himself,” Her lines came to a point at his nose, spreading toward his ears. “Crafted of opal, they’d be worthy gifts. Hide your cheekbones with roundness, your nose becomes narrow, your eyes shaded by those of another. Your jaw hidden by coins, your head reformed by ears… a fox.”
He could feel the lines she’d drawn with her mind. A mask to hide behind, a new face the Crow couldn’t see through. “That… might work.”
“It will work, love,” she rose quickly, rummaging for a new candle. The light renewed, a sketchpad in hand, she began to craft. “A fox, of course. For the tricks, and the elegance. The dance will be playful, but respectful. The silks of red and silver, the gifts of gold… yes. Yes, this will work.”
Looking up at her determination from the wagon floor, he could almost believe that it would.
If anyone could trick the Crow, it was her.
The journey would be a long one. Traveling from the southern forests to the castle at Kaenaath would take them across the deep deserts of Sunraaku. The caravan was moving before first light, the village was not awake to see them go.
As they traveled, Horatia sketched, leaving Ajin to guide the horses. He walked some of the journey, riding the wagon only when his feet became sore and legs tired.
Akori strolled with them for a short time. “Why is it that you seem so stiff, stowaway?” she asked it in a joking way, her tone flitting and light.
“This is simply the most important performance we’ve been called for.” He prayed she couldn’t hear the waver in his voice.
Night fell, camp was set, the fire lit. Horatia explained her vision to the others, the new gold, the masks.
He was grateful she didn’t explain the true reason for the masks.
Twin foxes, split at birth, enemies by cause. Reunited through battle, they bring peace to the land. Horatia’s tale was simple, but elegant. The musicians played carefully, synchronizing to the beat of the drum. Akori stepped to the flute, he stepped to the oud. The flames flickered to their dance, shining approval in the night.
They sent a runner to the next town, to ask for preparation. It was a place they frequented, as close to a home as could be to their nomadic sort. Other Raquinta lived there, too young or too elderly to travel. They crafted metals and silks and kept horses and viika.
A week passed, dancing to the flames at night and singing to their steps by day.
At the next town, they swapped soft horses for scaly viika, the wood sides of the wagons unlatched and raised in preparation for the desert to the north. Water wagons were filled, gold was exchanged, fresh silk was gathered.
Horatia crafted her masks with the help of an elder. Plain and white, they were blank slates.
A second troupe arrived there soon after, and they danced to folk songs that night. Songs played by youths and sung by elders. Stories were exchanged, motions shared. A feast was held to send them on their way, to wish them luck. The Demon King of Sunraaku was a thought held at the back of their minds, never spoken. Never feared.
They performed the fox dance for the first time there, away from foreign eyes. A dance would go before Raquinta before others, as was the law.
Elders and teachers added to the tale, defining the siblings. The masks were engraved by any who wished to leave a mark. Gentle swirls and dark paint were added, an opaline glow embedded in the lines. The masks became mirrors of one another. One gold engraved with black and silver. The other dark, with bright gold opal and faint silver marks. Tassels from the sister troupe were tied to the large ears of the desert foxes, hanging on opposite sides. A set of earrings for the siblings divided.
They slept to midday on the fifteenth day, and set out for the desert when the heat began to fade.
The travel was slow, methodical. They traveled mostly at night, when the stars served as shimmering guides. At midday, they rested, sleeping through the sun’s blistering heat. The viika, scaly lizards that they were, needed the midday rest. They lazed under the wagons until called to return by the promise of food and drink.
Practice was at dusk and dawn, over simple meals. Weavers worked at night and during rests, crafting silks with quick fingers in the shade of the wagons. Gone was the singing and festivities of old, replaced by the simple voice of the oud at the heart of the troupe.
The heat was sweltering, the horizon liquid. But they were no strangers to the desert.
Time passed like the beat of the song, days melting into bars of a melody. The tale of the twin foxes was finished, the silks sewn to match each mask. They traveled with the stars, from one oasis to the next, meeting the caretakers and sharing news of the world.
Other travelers joined them along the way. Some mages, some mercenaries, some merchants. Their caravan grew and split as they came and went. The nights were more energetic when they had guests.
Another fortnight passed before the walls of their destination came into view.
The heat was less dangerous here. A gentle river fed farms around the city and in the hills. Walls of brown stone protected the houses and markets within. The castle rose above it all, spires reaching toward the sky like fingers clutching at the sun: grasping at the shining light as if to clutch it, control it, as the Crow clutched at all things in his domain.
The thought of the Crow set a new stone of dread in Ajin’s core.
The troupe made camp and celebrated as normal. They saw their traveling companions off with encouraging words and bright smiles. Weavers fitted the silks for the foxes with gleeful eyes and proud strides. Musicians laughed brightly and sang their new songs, excited to share them with the most powerful being in the land.
But he knew the joy was a show. In less than a week, they would enter the Crow’s nest. They could only hope they would all make it out unscathed.
The castle was dark and sharp, in contrast to the bright, rounded city around it. The interior was warm and festive, lit with large chandeliers and filled to the brim with smiling, excited guests. At the edges were the cold metal of armored guards, the Crow’s eyes, always watching. They stood at all doors and walls, polearms in hand. Not one of the guests acknowledged the men, but Ajin found it difficult to ignore them.
They were backstage as well.
He avoided the gazes of the guards, hiding behind his dark opal mask. As was law, neither he nor his partner had shown themselves before the dance, arriving with cloaks over their silks.
Horatia was fixing Akori’s belt, struggling a little with the large, ropelike thing. He easily reached in to assist.
“I-I’m sorry,” she shrunk back with a blush. She wasn’t easily embarrassed, and he smiled softly to reassure her.
“It’s alright, you’re best at hair anyway,” Akori chuckled. “Sun knows I wouldn’t look half as good without you.”
The belt fixed, Akori spun around. Her mask was bright, shining white on her sun darkened skin. Her lips were painted with a thin stripe of red that trailed to her chin. She was smiling.
“You two need to be less nervous about this. This is our big chance to shine. The whole kingdom will hear of us if we impress the Demon King himself!” Akori practically skipped past them to where the gift masks lay nearby.
He decided she was far too excitable.
“Your opalcraft is so lovely, Horatia, as usual! These will be magnificent gifts.”
He tuned his partner out as she went on, choosing to adjust the long sleeves of his silks instead. They were lightweight and thin, to slide and flow easily. It would allow his golden markings to peek through, to shine and shimmer as he pleased. Tracing the thin lines running across his palm—marks of his mastery, of his years stepping in time, of his new life—he risked a glance at the stagefront.
Dahisa was there, bowing to the crowd, addressing the king with a bright reverence. The musicians had tuned, were waiting at the stageside. They, too, were masked. The drum was a lizard, steady and slow; the flute a falcon, soaring and bright; the oud a desert cat, wise and dark.
Watching the stage was a large crowd of nobles in extravagant colors and fine clothes. The ladies were dressed with large, colorful skirts and scarves. The men stood tall and proud in military gear and fine tailcoats.
There was a time when he would have been out there. What would that have been like? Watching instead of dancing?
The royal family sat on a raised platform, to better see the stage. The twin princesses had matching dresses of deep purple and red, finely crafted armor on their shoulders and chests. They looked like twin warrior queens of flame. The queen herself stood behind them in a similar dress, albeit with a delicate crown of gold tucked into her hair.
He refused to look at the Crow.
Not yet.
“Love,” her words broke his reverie. “Breathe, love, you’re scratching.”
He pulled his nails from the opaline marks in his skin with a frown.
“You’ve not been this nervous since your first dance alone, love.” Horatia whispered, her voice soft and low. “Step in time with your partner. You are not that boy anymore; you are the fox. Let his spirit guide you.”
With that, she stepped onto the stage, her opal masks held on a long tray. Dahisa led her to present them to the Crow and his family. With a final bow, they left, and the stage was theirs.
Akori’s hand found his own, and she nodded.
He breathed deep.
The drum beat firmly. His heart beat in time.
They stepped on stage.
The fox came to life.
The dance was jagged, sharp. The foxes spun together and split apart, their tale of battle and loss leading them to different beats. Magic welled in him, lights dancing at his fingertips as flame danced on hers. They danced apart, the flute her strikes, the oud his call, the drum one of war.
The tale swelled, then softened. They met gazes for the first time, flame meeting a sphere of light, and he led them to new steps. Reunited, the foxes danced in time now. They calmed the storm between them, and found harmony in their motions.
The drum was a heartbeat, the flute her awe, the oud his words.
The music said all, as it should.
When it was over, only when the fox had melted away and their bows were done, only then did he look at the Crow.
The Crow was staring at him, golden eyes boring into his very soul.
He looked away, but could not leave their light behind.
Back then, that gaze would have sent him running to his room, and his feet itched to retreat to the wagons.
But the night was not yet done.
“Take a break for now, my notes. The king himself has requested to see you, Ajin. Rest a beat, and ask the guards to take you to him,” Dahisa hummed with a smile. “I daresay you impressed him.”
She vanished to the front room, to mingle and converse. He folded inward, stumbling to a small stool. His breath was short, the walls were folding in again, and his vision blurred.
He couldn’t breathe again. Not again.
His fingers dug at the mask, not finding purchase on the slick opal surface.
“Breathe, love, breathe.”
Horatia’s voice was low and welcome, her hands easily pulling the mask from his face. He buried his eyes in his fists, trying to time his breaths to the tap of her finger on his knee.
“He only asked for you, huh? How about that? The runaway is moving up in the world.” Akori was doing something by the mirror, clearly unaware of their position. “I’m a little jealous, you know? Going face to face with royalty!”
She faltered when no one responded, and he felt her confusion on his shoulders as she stared.
Horatia’s fingers kept their beat, her breath remained steady. He breathed in time, trying to block out everything else in the room. But Akori made that impossible.
“What’s wrong, runaway? Having a breakdown isn’t your style. Not since we were kids.” He must have imagined the hint of care in her words. He managed to glance up at his partner, peeling his fists from his face carefully.
Akori was leaning casually against the small makeup table, mask set lightly beside her. Her brow furrowed and a frown settled upon her lips.
He couldn’t form words to respond.
“Oh, I get it. This was your home, wasn’t it? This is where we picked you up as a stray.” Akori frowned deeper at the revelation. “Does that mean you have history here? With the king?”
His voice cracked, and he had to let the breath shrivel to a nod.
“Well, who is the king to you, then?”
Horatia’s beat was steady on his knee. A pulse to ground him. She was following his partner’s lead; curiosity surrounded them like a mist.
His mouth was sand, his pulse was doubled, and the crow stuck in his vision. A dark crow on a field of red. The crow that had followed him for years, that defined his youth.
“He–” The word was weak, a dying note in the stifling noise of his mind. He shook his head sharply. “I can’t. I can’t, not yet, not here.”
“It’s alright. You don’t have to tell us,” Horatia hummed softly. “Have a drink, and calm yourself. You have an audience to go to, Ajin. It’ll be alright.”
He stayed there until his hands stopped shaking, until his breath came easy again. The knot in his stomach remained, twisting at him impatiently, but he swallowed it down. He took his mask from Horatia’s waiting hands, tying it on steadily. Akori actively avoided looking in his direction as he left without a word.
One of the guards by the door fell in line beside him, and he allowed the man to lead the way.
He didn’t need a guide. He knew these halls, after all.
The Crow wouldn’t know that.
Would he?
The guard led him away from the celebrations and to a private audience room on a side hall. This was the place where the Crow met with high ranking officers, a place banned to all but the Crow’s personal guests.
He bowed to the guard as he was let in the room. The guard remained outside, and the door was closed firmly behind him.
“There he is! The star himself.”
He folded himself in a bow, refusing to look up at the Crow’s words. “My lord, I am humbled to be summoned by you.”
“I was beginning to worry you had turned down my invitation.”
“I would be a fool to refuse a personal invitation from a king, my lord.”
The Crow hummed softly, almost a chuckle. “I suppose so.”
He could feel the Crow’s gaze burning through him as he straightened from the bow. He stood tall, not allowing his body to betray his weakness. The Crow wore that half smile, that trap of an expression. Mock kindness radiated off the Crow as he sipped wine, leaning on the edge of the large table that dominated the space.
The silence was suffocating as he waited for the Crow to drink.
“Tell me about yourself,” the Crow finally said, setting his wine down.
He wasn’t sure if it was the sound of the glass or the words that sent the shiver down his spine.
“Of course, my lord.” He managed to hide the jump of terror behind a deep nod. “I am called Ajin, a dancer of the Raquinta. I have danced for nine summers, and I have been marked a master for five of those.”
How much could he say without the Crow realizing?
“And how old are you, then?”
“I have seen nineteen summers, my lord.”
The Crow’s eyes sparked. He had said too much. “Such a young master.” The Crow stood. He glided across the small space that divided the two, brushing a thin finger along the bridge of the mask’s nose. “Fine craftsmanship. Did you…?”
“No, my lord. The mask and silks were created by all hands but my own, as is the tradition,” Ajin spoke quickly, not allowing the question to hang. “Each Raquinta adds a step, a beat, a note, and a strand. The dancers give nothing; they give their whole self to the dance. This way, our hearts are always aligned, and in every dance we step in time.”
The Crow hummed, staring deep into the fox’s eyes. “I see.” The Crow smiled, then. “Perhaps I could see the performer beneath the mask?”
A long finger drifted toward the ties at the side of the mask. Ajin carefully turned the ties away, bowing slightly.
“I’m afraid you cannot, my lord. It would be improper of me to allow the costume to be incomplete.”
It was a practiced lie. Horatia’s words, not his own. The Crow’s hand, thankfully, dropped slowly away. Ajin’s heart pounded. Surely the Crow could hear it.
“Of course, your tradition is important.” The Crow’s smile stopped low of his eyes. “I shall not ask again.”
Ajin was left with no words. The Crow lifted the fox’s chin with a soft touch, hands trailing to the fine embroidery on the silks’ neckline. Their eyes met, the Crow’s sharp golden gaze sending a burning chill down Ajin’s spine.
The dancer looked away first.
“I have a proposition for you, Ajin.” The Crow’s voice was velvet, nearly a purr. Ajin felt his feet try to run, and held them at rest as the Crow continued. “Stay here, as a part of my court. You will perform for myself and my guests alone. You will be provided anything you could require. You are powerful and beautiful; there could be arrangements for you to marry noble, should you desire such.”
Powerful and beautiful.
How he had once yearned to hear those words. It was far too late for that now.
“Life would be kind to you here,” the Crow breathed. “I am very good to those loyal to me. You would be a… precious addition to my,” the Crow paused, thumbing the cheek of the fox gently, “collection.”
Ajin sucked in a breath. This would be a way back, to what it was before. To his old life.
The thought petrified him.
Panic welled in his gut, his throat constricted, and his palms began to sweat. He was unable to hide his shiver, and the Crow’s sickening sweet smile showed he saw it.
Ajin let out the breath he’d held, and took a small step back. The Crow didn’t follow. “Beg pardon, my lord, but I cannot accept.”
“Oh?” the Crow raised an eyebrow, a moment of true confusion flashing across his face. The smile never faded. “I thought you’d be a fool to deny a summon from a king?”
“That is true, my lord, but I’m afraid—” Ajin scrambled for his next words. He couldn’t stop speaking at that, or the Crow would wrap him in tighter. “I’m afraid my heart steps in time with another. One must be a fool to deny a king, but a greater fool ignores their heart.”
The Crow’s gaze softened at that, and the chill in his eyes faded slightly. One thin hand fell to rest over the dancer’s heart, the gaze following it.
“I see.” The Crow’s voice was genuinely soft. Ajin had never heard it like that. “You are wise beyond your years, dancer. Truly the heart is the greatest of guides. I would allow one other to stay as well, to be yours.”
Ajin shook his head, “I am sorry, my lord, but the desert is our home. And we would like to start a family. Raquinta belong to the sands. It would be wrong to let them grow here.”
The Crow was silent, unmoving. For a moment, Ajin feared the worst. A direct order, a heavy demand, a fit of rage. The things from before. The things he’d run from once.
Instead, the Crow nodded and turned, returning to his wine. “Family is the most important, dancer. I wish you the best.” The Crow glanced over his shoulder. “Know that my offer remains open to you, whenever you wish to take it.”
Ajin bowed low, thanking the Crow. When the only response was a half wave, he retreated.
He outpaced the guard on his way to Horatia.
The wagons were packed several days later. They had performed in the market for several days, celebrating with the city and the king. Several new mercenaries joined them as they left, looking for companions as they traveled. A merchant joined the caravan for a while, heading south. There was music, there was cheer, there was song and sales.
Ajin hid from it all.
Horatia had the heart to not pry, at least. That much he was thankful for. Akori had asked questions, of course, but pointedly ignoring his partner had worked so far.
It wasn’t until the castle was long under the horizon that Ajin joined the others at the fire. Even then, the golden embers brought memories of the Crow, of that burning cold gaze.
“You’re fine,” Horatia’s voice pulled him back to the present. “He won’t follow us to the desert, Ajin. He’s got a kingdom to dominate after all.”
He could only hope her words to be true. If his father really wanted something, there was nothing Ajin would be able to do about it.
He’d learned that lesson long ago.
The musicians started the tune for the night, and Horatia snatched up his hand.
“Come, love, dance with me!”
Ajin breathed deep, the night air chill and fresh. The drum settled in his heart, beating strong. Horatia’s hand was soft and warm, kind. He smiled, letting her drag him to his feet. He pushed all thoughts of the Crow aside, focusing on the beautiful magenta gaze of his lover. It would be okay, so long as she was here.
The flute breathed his breath. The drum commanded his heart. The oud melded with his soul.
He lost himself in the dance. The music was all.
As it should be.