The Enemy's Embrace
Then—footsteps.
Not hasty, but weighty. Deliberate. Each one landed with the soft finality of a hammer against an anvil, the sound ringing through the dim, scented air. They came closer, slow enough to be deliberate, unavoidable.
Heads turned, one after another, as if some unseen hand was stripping away the moment. The music's spell shattered—notes suspending unfinished, movements freezing mid-course.
Out of the shadows at the door of the tent, a figure emerged. Towering. Clad in a cloak of seamless black. The creases of the garment absorbed all threads of light, and his form was only silhouetted by the faintest ember. Even the fire's light, constant and covetous, hesitated before him, as if cautioned back.
The melody of the lute died away into silence.
The dancers' hips froze, the soft jingle of anklets dying on the air.
