The morning after the festival, the river town seemed quieter, though the memory of last night lingered in every corner. Lanterns swayed in the gentle breeze, their light catching on the rippling water. The Fourth Prince strolled along the cobbled streets, pretending casual interest in market stalls, though his eyes were elsewhere.
He saw it again — a flash of white silk, a soft shimmer of silver bells, moving with impossible elegance through the crowd. He froze.
The dancer did not notice him. Perhaps he never would. Perhaps he wanted it that way — the veil, the deliberate mystery, the subtle control in every motion.
The Prince found himself following at a distance. Not too close, but not far. The dancer's movements were hypnotic: the swing of water sleeves, the flick of the fan in hand, the soft chime of the bells. Every step was precise, every gesture a language the Prince didn't yet understand but was already craving to learn.
Throughout the day, he saw him in fleeting moments:
At a quiet fountain, spinning alone, silk fluttering.
On a rooftop, silhouette framed by morning mist.
Walking past a busy market, bells barely audible over chatter.
Each sighting left him restless, thinking of nothing else.
That night, back in his lodgings, he replayed every movement in his mind. The way the veil concealed the face yet revealed grace. The rhythm of the bells, almost like a heartbeat. The curve of the fan in a hand that could just as easily strike as dance.
And in a low, reluctant voice, he admitted to himself:
I cannot get him out of my mind.