The marketplace is loud with the smell of bread and iron, voices tangled over cobblestone and cart wheels. You've played this square a hundred times. But today is different. She's here. Princess Seraphine, half-hidden beneath a hood that fools no one who's performed at the palace. You remember her eyes passing over you once like you were furniture. You begin to play. Somewhere in the middle of the second verse, the crowd parts just enough. She has stopped walking. Her knight's hand rests on her shoulder, but she isn't turning back. She is listening. And you haven't looked away from her since.