Chapter Text
The kingdom of Mahan still pulsed with life that night. Night two of the festival.
Large colored lanterns swung overhead, spilling gold light over the streets and the square. Drums thundered in layered rhythms, each beat weaving through the air like a heartbeat too large to belong to a single body. Strings sang sharp, high and low; woodwinds threaded low between them. The scents of roasted meat, spiced dishes, fried finger foods, and honeyed drinks clung to the air so thickly Tamsy almost felt he could taste it without eating.
Everywhere he turned there were colors—bright cloths, golden jewelry flashing, beads clattering in hair, shells gleaming like tiny moons. Anklets chimed when women spun, waist beads flashed when children leapt into the circles of dancers. It was overwhelming, all of it, but in a way that made his chest ache.
Tamsy shouldn't have been there. The crown prince of Mahan wasn't meant to slip out of the castle alone, hood pulled low, cloak disguising the cut of his shoulders and the sharp lines of his face. He should have been spectating over the festival from the balcony with his father—in the day—not brushing past vendors calling out for him to try skewered meat or buy festival trinkets.
But he wanted to know what real freedom tasted like.
At first, it had been intoxicating. No guards, no advisors. No throne weighing at his back. He wandered like a ghost through the streets, the songs shaking the earth beneath his feet. For a while, it felt like flying.
Then the loneliness truly set in.
He was here . . . but apart. Everyone else was in step with each other—laughing, sharing food, clasping hands in dance. And him? He might as well have still been behind the castle walls, watching from the window.
Until he saw her.
A beautiful Mahani woman, dressed in the colors of the kingdom. Her top cropped high, her long skirt reaching just a few inches above her ankles, flaring out wide as she spun.
She was in the center of the square near the great fountain, and the crowd had parted to watch her. She danced like the music lived in her bones, each step precise yet effortless, her thick curly hair swinging as she spun, white seashells threaded in her hair clacking with each turn. Gold anklets gleamed on her ankles, the soft jingle matching the beat of the drums. She moved with a fluid confidence that made it impossible to look anywhere else.
Children cheered, clapping along. Elders lifted their voices to encourage her. Even the musicians seemed to smile wider, spurred on by her joy. They followed her.
And then her eyes caught his.
It felt like being struck by lightning. In an instant, he wasn't a shadow drifting through the crowd anymore. Her grin broke across her face like a beautiful sunrise, and then, she wove her way through the crowd of people, straight toward him.
Tamsy's breath caught. He hadn't prepared for this. He needed to be invisible—strived for it—and now all of a sudden he simply wasn't.
She stopped in front of him, her hair wind tossed, eyes bright. "Dance with me?" she asked, reaching for his hand without hesitation. He stammered, caught off guard. "Oh—I—I don't dance." His voice came out lower, rougher than usual, trying to disguise itself.
"You don't dance?!" she echoed, dumbfounded. "What do you mean you don't dance? You must not be from here." A laugh slipped from her, warm and teasing. Surprisingly, his cheeks faintly burned. He could have explained—could have said I'm the prince, I wasn't taught this the way you were—but the words felt foolish even in his own mind. So he shook his head instead, letting the lie cover what truth couldn't.
And then he noticed. All around them, even the smallest of children knew the steps. The whole square moved in unison, like waves in a tide. Everyone belonged to this rhythm but him.
"Here," she said, tugging at his hand as she shook her head. "I'll show you."
Before he could protest, she pulled him into the circle, into the wave of bodies and music. He stumbled once, then again, awkward under the weight of her expectant smile.
It was a dance that could be done alone, but during the festival—during this celebration of peace—everyone had a partner.
And tonight, somehow, she had chosen him.
The drums pounded, the strings sang, and somehow he was moving. Not well, not gracefully, but enough to get by. The dance was particularly harder than anything he'd been forced to learn in the palace. She laughed every time he lost the rhythm, not cruelly—never cruelly—but with a joy that made him laugh too, though he'd blush just a bit beneath the hood.
She guided him through each step, her golden anklets chiming in time with the rhythm. Her hair caught the lantern light as she spun, shells clacking with her every turn. He'd never seen anyone so alive.
The songs weren't just music, he'd soon realized. They were calls and responses, the musicians crying out in bold melodies, the crowd answering back in harmony. Children, elders, vendors at their stalls—all of them sang like they'd been born knowing the words.
Everyone except him.
When the drum leader shouted a line, the crowd roared it back, and Tamsy stayed silent. She noticed, of course. She noticed everything. Her brows arched, mischief sparking in her eyes.
"You really aren't from here," she teased when the verse ended, breathless from the dance. "Don't tell me you've never heard these songs before?"
He only shook his head, too aware of the truth he couldn't say. "I . . . I'm from Tarsi."
He'd have to remember he'd said that now. He'd picked the kingdom off the top of his head. A kingdom farther to the north, one he's become accustomed to while accompanying his father there.
"Aaaaah," She nodded, as if that alone completely explained his lack of rhythm, his obliviousness to the songs. She grinned, a little prideful. "Then you've got a lot to learn, Tarsi boy."
The words should have stung, but in her mouth it sounded warm, almost fond. He found himself smiling back.
The song wound to a finish, the last drumbeats echoing through the square. The crowd erupted into bright cheers, the musicians stepping back for a quick drink and a bite of food before the next round. Tamsy's chest heaved with the effort of keeping up, his cloak slightly damp with heat, but for once he didn't care.
"You're not too bad—" she started, eyes glinting as she brushed her curly bangs back from over her eyes where they naturally seemed to fall.
But he'd already seen them.
A pair of soldiers in the navy blue and gold of the palace guard, moving through the crowd, scanning faces. His pulse leapt. If they looked too closely, the hood wouldn't save him.
Without thinking, he caught her hand. "Come on."
Her brows shot up as he pulled her from the square, weaving through the edges of the crowd. "What—?"
"Water," he said quickly, voice clipped, low. "I need water."
She blinked, then laughed softly, letting him drag her along. "You could have just said you were thirsty."
They ducked to a stall at the far end of the square, the air cooler here thanks to the shadows. Tamsy leaned against the counter, back turned toward the soldiers threading their way across the square, and finally let out a breath.
Her fingers still lingered in his hand. She didn't seem to mind.
It was a food stall tucked between two lantern poles, the air sweet with fried plantains and smoky grilled fish.
"Two waters," Tamsy said, his voice steady but clipped, still careful not to give himself away. He'd added the distinct Tarsi accent just to keep up with the act. He'd have to remember that.
The vendor poured them drinks of sweetened hibiscus water, the red liquid glowing in the lamplight. Then, as if really seeing him, the vendor sized him up, glanced at his cloak, then named a price that made her head snap up in disbelief.
"Eh?!" she asked, narrowing her eyes. "You think just because he's foreign he'll really pay that price?" She jerked her chin toward Tamsy. "He's with me."
The vendor blinked, chuckled nervously, then slashed the price in half—still more than fair.
Tamsy handed over the coins without complaint. More than what was asked.
She shook her head, exasperated but amused. "He cuts down the price and still managed to play you."
He tilted his head. "I got what I wanted, didn't I?"
"Mm," she grunted with a shake of her head, handing him his drink. "You foreigners. Always getting played."
They wandered the festival together after that. She showed him the stalls piled with beadwork, children's toys, and carved masks, led him past long tables where old women weaved colored baskets and pressed wrapped sweets into his hand before he could protest.
Everywhere they turned, people greeted her with warmth. Couples with linked arms, groups of friends their age, families swaying together to the music. She seemed to know everyone—or maybe everyone just liked her that much.
They ran into a friend of hers near a rowdy beer stand, a young man draped half-over a girl in a high bun threaded with golden string. He was wobbling, loud enough to be heard halfway across the square.
"Ahhh!" he called, throwing his arms wide. "There-there go my favorite giiiiirl!"
She laughed, steadying him as he nearly fell into her. "It's only night two, Hakim. You should go easy."
"Never! Never enough!" he declared, slurring the words. The girl at his side rolled her eyes but grinned at Tamsy, who lingered a step back, unsure.
"You got yourself a shy boy?" she teased, her smile sly.
A flicker of heat touched her cheeks. "Guess so," she shrugged, "He's from Tarsi."
The girl's brows raised, but before she could press, Hakim tugged her away, insisting she dance with him somewhere. The two stumbled off, leaving her and Tamsy standing in the street, the sound of their laughter trailing behind.
To his own surprise, Tamsy chuckled along with her. He wasn't used to this—chaos, noise, the raw messiness of people living without walls around their words. But he found he liked it. Liked it even more because she was here, beside him, looking up at him with a grin that still hadn't faded.
They continued walking, weaving through the crowd until the streets narrowed. Lanterns swung overhead, and the music pulsed from every corner. He felt lighter, freer—until he spotted them again.
Two soldiers, patrolling the festivities, and walking right toward them.
His chest tightened. He grabbed her hand again, sharp and instinctive.
"What—?" she gasped as he tugged her into a sharp left, pushing through a press of people and down into a darkened alley between two shops.
They stopped in the shadow of the walls, her back brushing the stone, his body angled just in front of hers. She glanced at him, breathless. "What happened now?! Are you running from someone?"
He nodded once, eyes on the street. "I . . . snuck out. Don't want to get caught."
Her eyes widened slightly, but before she could ask, boots clicked against the cobblestones outside. The soldiers. One of them glanced into the alley. She'd seen plenty of times strict parents going to the soldiers to have them search for their unruly son or daughter who had snuck out into the festival. She'd experienced that walk of shame with the soldiers a few times in her life.
So without thinking, she grabbed him by the collar and kissed him.
The world faded out.
Her lips were so soft, sweet from the hibiscus water they'd shared. He froze, shocked—and then even more shocked at the fact that he didn't pull away. He couldn't. Something in his chest jolted like it had been waiting for this, like he'd been waiting for her all along.
When she finally pulled back, his first thought was disappointment. Way too quick. Too brief.
She covered her own fluster with a shrug, voice casual despite the faint glow on her cheeks. "It'll be less conspicuous if we look like a couple."
He stared at her, heart hammering, the taste of her still lingering.
He wasn't sure which part rattled him more: the danger of being caught or the fact that he wanted her to kiss him again.
The agreement came easily after the alley. Neither of them said the word couple out loud, but when they stepped back into the lantern-lit streets, her hand slipped naturally into his. She didn't let go, and neither did he.
They wandered through the swarms of people, arm linked with his sometimes, sometimes fingers laced, weaving their way between stalls heavy with food. She insisted he try everything.
Plantains glazed with honey. Meat skewers dripping with spice. Sweet breads soft as clouds, sticky with palm sugar. He wasn't used to eating like this—snatching a bite from here and there with his fingers, licking sauce from the corner of his mouth—but it felt easier with her beside him, laughing every time he hesitated and grinning with pride when he ate something he particularly loved. He quickly decided he prefers common food more than what he's served in the palace.
And then came the drinks . . .
The first was blade-sharp and biting, burning down his throat until his eyes watered. He coughed into his fist, earning her soft laughter. He noted she didn't drink it herself. The second was almost sickeningly sweet, the syrup thick on his tongue. "There's no balance," he muttered, brows furrowed. But he took another sip, and then another. She liked the sweet drinks too. By the third and definitely the fourth stall, his head was buzzed, the edges of the world around him glowing brighter.
It was different from the faintly perfumed wines and soft pale liquors of the court. This was raw, messy, lively. And so utterly addictive.
And her hand in his felt addictive, too.
He found himself staring as she tugged him toward the next stall, bracelets chiming, her anklets jingling with each step. The sway of her hips was hypnotic, her coils catching the lamplight as they bounced around her shoulders and down her back. She was so at home here, so effortless, while he kept reminding himself not to get caught—by the soldiers, by her, by the truth of who he was.
But every time she glanced back at him, grinning and smiling, his chest tightened, and the thought returned: If she knew . . . would she still look at me that way?
The crowd was thick near one of the more larger stalls. He craned his neck to see past others and the tall lantern poles. A bunch of couples stood at the front, leaning across a wooden arch carved with symbols of unity and luck.
Couples kissing.
For a blessing, someone said. A kiss for good fortune. For their marriage to last forever.
Around them, people were drunk on festival wine, chanting and clapping as each pair leaned in. Young lovers kissed for the first time, blushing badly. Older couples kissed with the ease of decades between them. Every embrace was met with cheers.
And then the crowd noticed them.
"Your turn!" someone shouted.
"Don't be shy! Kiss her!" another called, laughter bubbling around them.
He froze for half a breath, then looked at her. She was already flustered, eyes wide, mouth parted in protest.
The chant began anyway. Kiss her! Kiss her! Kiss her!
Something inside him shifted. The drinks buzzing in his head, the warmth of her hand in his, the drums beating somewhere deep in his chest. He didn't think—didn't plan.
He leaned down and kissed her.
Not quick, not hesitant. He made it long enough, deep enough, to satisfy the crowd's roar. Her lips parted against his, soft and uncertain, but she didn't pull away. She leaned in, even if only for a second.
When he drew back, everyone erupted with cheers, whistles, laughter.
She turned her head quickly, cheeks glowing, trying to hide behind her curtain of curls. But he saw it anyway—the flustered, giddy smile tugging at her mouth.
She liked it.
He felt something sharp and sweet twist in his chest, the realization hitting in a way he couldn't ignore if he tried.
She had led them here—way deeper than the square, down a narrow street only the few who knew it could find, lit with only two flickering lanterns. People streamed in and out of a deep red doorway at the end, laughter spilling with the muffled rhythm of festival music.
She tugged his hand, grinning back at him over her shoulder. "Come on."
Inside, a staircase coiled down into the ground, voices growing louder with each step. By the time they reached the bottom, the air was thick—music reverberating against the walls, colored lanterns washing the room in waves of blue, violet, red, and gold.
It wasn't like the festival outside. This was sharper, heavier. The square was for families, children, the whole kingdom. This was most definitely not.
The room pulsed with young voices, smoke slowly curling from pipes, couples pressed close in corners and against walls. Cabanas lined the perimeter, cushioned and draped in thin fabric, some already claimed by laughing groups of friends or tangled pairs. Drinks were passed around freely, strong and sweet, all with the sole purpose of loosening inhibitions.
Tamsy swayed slightly, the buzz from the festival drinks blooming stronger in his head just from breathing the air.
And then—her.
As soon as they entered, people spotted her, and a wave of cheers rose. Names called, greetings shouted, arms lifted. The whole place seemed to brighten at the sight of her.
Tamsy was impressed. She wasn't just popular. She was beloved. Wherever she walked, people's eyes lit, smiles sparked. He'd grown up in a palace where others bowed to him out of duty and obligation, not joy. No one had ever greeted him like this. Not like she was greeted. Tamsy was indeed the future king, the crown prince of the nation, but this woman had the hearts of the people in a way he wasn't sure even his father has achieved.
She only laughed, brushing off embraces, waving as she led him past the crowd. She was radiant, more at home here than he'd ever felt anywhere.
Tamsy followed, caught in the wake of her glow.
She slid into an empty cabana at the edge of the room, red pillows spilling around her. With her legs tucked, she patted the space beside her, her bracelets chiming faintly even over the music.
He sat stiff at first, too aware of the cushions sinking beneath his weight, of how close the others in the room were pressed together. His cloak felt too heavy, his hood too low.
Then she leaned in.
Close enough that her shoulder brushed his. Close enough that her lips brushed his ear, warm even through the music's roar.
"The soldiers won't find you here," she murmured, voice pitched low. "Not many know about this place."
The sound of her, the nearness—it shot straight through him. A shiver crawled down his spine before he could stop it. He swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of how her curls brushed against his cheek, how the dim lantern light painted her skin in shades of blue, purple, and gold.
For the first time in his life, the crown prince wasn't thinking about his duty, or the soldiers above, or the throne waiting for him back at the castle.
He was thinking only of her. And he couldn't stop staring.
"So," he said, leaning back as though casual, though the edge in his voice betrayed him. "You've been dragging me all over the kingdom, and I don't even know your name."
She smiled, eyes bright, and gave it to him. He repeated it under his breath as though tasting it. It felt dangerous on his tongue, because he already knew he'd remember it for the rest of his life.
"And yours?" she asked, tilting her head.
His mouth opened—and nearly betrayed him. Tamsy. Crown Prince Tamsy to be exact. The name almost slipped free, heavy with years of expectation. He caught himself just in time, swallowed it, and instead said, "Toka." The lie slid easily, helped by years of court training and diplomacy.
Her eyes subtly narrowed, clearly suspicious, but she didn't press. "Toka . . .," she repeated slowly, like she was testing him, deciding whether it suited him. Then she smirked. "Hmph, still Tarsi boy to me."
He chuckled low in his throat, thankful for the dimness to hide the way his pulse raced.
Conversation flowed easily after that. She explained pieces of the festival—the dances, the foods only reserved for this time o f year, the songs and their meaning. He knew much of it already, of course. It was his kingdom after all, his heritage. But he let her explain anyway, nodding, asking questions in the lilting accent he'd perfected from Tarsi nobles he'd met in council.
And all the while, he watched her.
Watched how her glossy lips shaped every word. How her bracelets always chimed faintly when she gestured. Watched her pretty lashes flutter, and her soft eyes as they looked at him.
Every few moments, he found himself leaning closer. Close enough that he could smell the faint sweetness of her perfume oil. Close enough that his hand boldly brushed her jaw as he angled her head toward him, pretending he simply couldn't hear her over the music. She mirrored him, leaning in, their knees brushing, her curls resting against his shoulder.
She didn't pull away. Not once.
Drinks were pressed into their hands at one point—bright liquid sloshing in clay cups—but neither of them sipped from them. They set them aside without a thought, too wrapped up in the invisible golden thread pulling them closer and closer.
He couldn't take it anymore.
"You're very beautiful," he murmured low.
Her breath hitched, and that flustered glow he's come to adore swept across her face. He reached for one of her curls, watching it coil around his finger before springing free. Mesmerized. Addicted.
She smiled coyly, her voice warm as honey. "Thank you."
That smile undid him.
He cupped her cheek in his palm and kissed her.
It was nothing like the quick, necessary kiss in the alley, or the playful one at the blessing stall. This one was long, consuming, fiery—the kind of kiss that burned away everything else until there was only her. Her bracelets chimed faintly as she lifted her hand to his face, pulling him closer still.
He didn't want to stop. Couldn't. Every time she shifted back for breath, he leaned in again, holding her there—greedy for more. She giggled low against his lips, the sound vibrating into his chest, and his heart lurched so sharply he thought she might feel it herself.
By the time they stumbled back into the streets, the festival had fully changed shape. Gone were all the children laughing and playing with their toys int he streets. Gone were the families of four, six, and three, and the vendors handing out treats to wide-eyed little ones.
Now it belonged to the adults. Young men leaning tipsy on their friends' shoulders, teenagers sneaking kisses in doorways, couples grasping each others' hands as they ducked out of sight. The music hadn't stopped, not once—it only shifted, lower and heavier.
They hadn't made it far. Just a short ways down the street, away from the thrum of the underground club, before she tugged him into the narrow space between two buildings where lanterns still burned.
Now his back pressed against the wall, her body against his, his hands on her waist like they'd always belonged there. He'd lost track of time. Lost track of how long they'd been tangled together like this, mouths finding each other again and again, pulling back for only a breath before diving in once more.
The lantern light painted her skin in molten gold, shadows dancing across her curls. She kissed him like she'd never get enough, and he was certain he never would.
Her palms cradled his cheeks as she finally pulled back, breathless. "Do you have to go?"
Reality pressed in sharp for the first time all night. Yes. He really should have been gone hours ago. The palace would notice if he were gone any longer. The guards would be frantic by morning, afraid to lose their heads if they don't find the king's only son. He was the crown prince—he couldn't vanish into the streets all night like this, not without consequence.
But staring at her, lips swollen from all his kisses, eyes shining with lanternlight—he couldn't make himself say it.
His clenched for a moment—the weight of his next decision heavy on his shoulders—and then he shook his head. "No. Do you?"
Her smile spread slowly, flustered and mischievous all at once. She shook her head too.
The music carried faintly through the streets, the rhythm intoxicating, thrumming in his blood like the strongest drink. And then she asked it—voice soft and hypnotic, a question wrapped in a dare:
"Would you want to stay with me tonight?"
His heart nearly jumped straight from his chest.
He knew exactly what she meant. Her bold words were softened by the coy tilt of her mouth, the flicker of nervousness in her eyes—something she hadn't shown all night, not once.
Ugh, he shouldn't. Every sober thought screamed that he shouldn't. He was a noble, a royal. He'd risk damn near everything if he stayed.
But he didn't want to be the crown prince tonight. Not even a little.
He just wanted to be hers.
He couldn't look away from her, couldn't stop the way his hands slowly trailed up and down her bare waist, couldn't refuse the way she looked at him like he wasn't the king's son, like she wasn't obligated to press her face to the floor in a bow—just a boy worth holding onto.
With his false Tarsi accent still intact he said, low and certain, "Yeah."