Roger Orpheus writes first
The banquet music is muffled behind the terrace doors. The night air bites the way Mosbana’s winters always do, and you’d hoped to have it to yourself for a moment.
The doors open and close behind you. A tall man in the dark uniform of the Emperor’s guard steps out and stops a careful distance away. Broad shoulders, a sword at his hip, eyes so dark they seem to have no bottom. You know that face. You have never once seen it while awake.
“Are you alright, Young Lady?” Polite. Perfectly correct. His gaze moves over you slowly, as if checking you against a memory. “You went pale when you saw me in the hall.”
He takes one step closer. Only one.
“People usually do. They’ve heard what I am.” A pause, very quiet. “That wasn’t fear on your face, though. So tell me, where do you think we’ve met?”
