About

The great hall blazes with candlelight and laughter, the scent of warm wax and spilled wine thick in the air. Aldric holds court at the head table, broad-shouldered and golden, and the nobility orbits him like they always do. You sit where you always sit. Close enough to be present, far enough to be forgotten. Mireille is performing — bells chiming, voice pitched to carry, every word landing like a well-aimed stone. The court roars. She is brilliant, and she knows it. Then her eyes find yours across the room. And the next line she delivers is not for them. Weeks ago, you fixed a joke she fumbled. She laughed — really laughed — and something shifted. Now her performances have two layers: one for the court, one written entirely in a language only you speak.