Life

They went to the best place in the port city—the kind of establishment nobles whispered about and merchants fantasized over during long sea voyages. War had driven prices through the ceiling, and every spice, every grain, every drop of wine cost double what it had the year before. But Rashan didn't hesitate. He walked in as if the world owed him the table.

And the staff moved like it did.

The food arrived in deliberate rhythm, each course crafted with precision. The first came on volcanic stone plates—smooth, dark, faintly warm to the touch. At the center, sand crab roasted in date syrup and desert thyme, its scent rising in waves of citrus ash, cracked coriander, and seawater brine. Beneath it, a bed of fire-roasted millet, glazed in honey reduction, touched with dragonpepper and the sharp sweetness of pomegranate skin. Every bite unfolded in waves—sweet, then sharp, then heat blooming slow and low.

The next course—venison slices, marinated in goldenwine, seared on a slab of saltstone and served over saffron-soaked bitterroots and pickled turnips—smelled of hearth and blood and spice. The meat cut clean and vanished on the tongue.

Fresh flatbread came after—layered with crushed olives, roasted fig skin, toasted sesame, and firebark spice. It cracked gently at the edges, steam curling from the soft center.

Then the wine.

They poured it from a bottle sealed in pearl-threaded wax—a vintage from the cliffs above Taneth, where the soil drank heat all day and gave it back at night. It gleamed dark garnet in the glass, thick with age and memory. On the tongue, it opened slowly: sunberry, charred oak, dried apricot, and the smoky warmth of a dying fire. It finished clean, like something earned.

The four of them sat at a table carved from the remains of an old Yokudan warship. The wood held its grain like scars—polished, but never forgotten. Above, brass lanterns flickered through colored glass, casting warm reds and golds across their faces. Music drifted—reed flutes, skin drums, soft strings, paced like a calm heartbeat after battle.

Rashan leaned back, one arm resting over the back of his chair, wine swirling in his goblet. His posture was effortless, but never loose—a quiet discipline in every gesture. Across from him, Cassia worked through the crab with silent precision. She hadn't touched the wine, only her chilled juice infused with roseleaf. But there was ease in her shoulders. Comfort, if not trust.

Amira sat at his right, poised and composed, though her eyes were sharper than they looked. She had lived too long to mistake quiet for peace, but tonight, she allowed herself a breath. Her plate, half-cleared, reflected a kind of satisfaction only age and fire could recognize.

And Jalil, as always, leaned forward with too much energy and not nearly enough caution. He finished his venison with exaggerated reverence, then licked the sauce from his fingers.

"If this food gets any better," he said, voice carrying just far enough, "I'm marrying the cook."

He let the silence stretch, then added, "Though knowing us, it's a seventy-year-old orc with three dead husbands and a beard longer than mine."

Rashan snorted into his wine. Amira arched a brow and muttered something under her breath that sounded vaguely like a blessing for the cook's patience. Cassia, head tilted, covered her mouth—but the twitch at the edge of her lips betrayed her.

Jalil went on. "Love doesn't care about age, species, or body count. Love sees portion size."

They didn't realize the room had gone quiet until it already had.

Voices lowered. A pair of mercenaries leaned forward near the back wall, pretending to sip from empty mugs. A city magistrate paused mid-toast. A former legion captain tilted his chair back, gaze flicking toward their table. No one interrupted. But everyone listened.

The four of them didn't speak loudly. They didn't boast. But something about them drew the eye—the way they sat, the way they laughed. Like people who had survived fire. Like people who knew the value of warmth.

They didn't demand attention. They simply carried it.

And in that moment—under lanternlight, over fire-touched food and war-forged wine—they remembered something it hadn't tasted in a long time.

Something close to life.

After the plates were cleared and the wine had softened the room, the music shifted.

The flutes quickened. The drums struck a lighter rhythm. A Redguard melody flowed into the space, bright and bold—a dance-song born from old desert fires, meant for bare feet and open sky, full of stomps and spins and the thrill of movement. Conversations quieted around the edges, not silenced but softened, as if the room itself were listening.

Sadiaa leaned back in her chair, her fingers circling the rim of her goblet. She didn't smile—but her voice held amusement when she spoke. "I think it's time we danced."

Rashan set down his wine. "That's a wonderful idea," he said, eyes never leaving hers. "In fact… I think we should all dance."

He rose with easy grace and extended his hand to her—not as a younger brother to an older sister, but with the calm of someone slipping a blade from its sheath. She gave him a sharp look, saw the flicker of mischief behind his calm, and took his hand anyway.

The trap was set.

He led her to the center of the floor, weaving between tables with slow confidence. The music lifted around them—drums pacing like heartbeats, flutes winding like smoke. Other couples began to stir, rising from their seats, drawn into the rhythm. Chairs scraped gently against stone. Laughter rippled at the edges of the hall. But none of it reached the table they had left behind.

Because Cassia and Jalil were still sitting there, side by side, caught in a moment they hadn't expected.

Cassia's eyes followed Rashan and Sadiaa with quiet intensity. Her fingers rested on her knees, still and precise, but her shoulders had gone tense. The kind of tension that wasn't fear, but uncertainty. The kind that came before a choice.

Next to her, Jalil tapped his thumb against the stem of his goblet, pretending to focus on the dancers. But his eyes flicked toward her every few seconds. Never long enough to catch her gaze. Just enough to wonder.

Their arms didn't touch. But they were close. A breath apart.

Cassia glanced at him. He looked away. Then looked back—too quickly.

They shared a smile.

Awkward. Real.

And in that moment, Jalil made his decision.

He stood—sharp and sudden, too fast to second-guess himself. His chair slid back with a soft scrape. His hand hung at his side for a moment, like he hadn't decided what to do with it.

Then he turned to her and held it out.

No swagger. No clever comment. Just the words:

"Dance with me."

Cassia blinked once. Then again.

She looked at his hand.

Then at him.

He didn't drop his gaze. Didn't smile, didn't try to charm his way out of it. He just waited—eyes steady, posture straight, like this mattered more than he could explain.

And slowly—deliberately—she reached forward.

Her fingers curled into his palm.

He lifted her gently to her feet, steady and composed, and together they stepped into the open space—the circle of polished stone now alive with music and waiting feet. The rhythm flowed around them: layered hand-drums, bright flute, and a low beat that pulsed like a heartbeat shared. This dance, born of Redguard tradition, invited momentum. It demanded breath, trust, and the willingness to lose yourself in motion.

They faced each other. A breath of distance between them. The air between their palms held the weight of uncertainty, their postures half-shaped by caution. Cassia's stance carried sharp lines, precise angles. Jalil stood across from her, feet ready but eyes watching—measuring her timing, her rhythm.

Their first steps held tension. He advanced with a slow pace; she pivoted, fast and exact. Their movement echoed a duel more than a dance. Each gesture held purpose, but no unity yet—two rhythms overlapping, still searching for the same tempo.

Cassia's eyes flicked upward, catching his gaze. She adjusted her grip, easing her fingers around his wrist with intention. Her frame leaned toward him—just slightly. An invitation.

Jalil's breath deepened. He stepped forward again. This time, she moved with him.

He led. She responded.

She turned—controlled, sharp, her silhouette bending with practiced agility. Jalil caught the movement, rotating to follow her arc, and shifted their pattern into a spiral. The floor circled beneath them, boots sliding in smooth loops as they spun around a common center.

The flute picked up speed, darting between the drumbeats like wind between dunes.

Cassia flowed now. Her feet touched the ground like notes on parchment—clean, fast, deliberate. Each turn came with sharper grace, each step with greater certainty. Her arm lifted above her head, fingers tracing the air in a perfect arc before she dropped low and circled Jalil with predator-like control.

Jalil followed her lead without stumbling. His stance widened, feet sliding into a grounded stance as he twisted into the rhythm. His hand met hers again, firm and steady. Their palms clapped once between steps—a moment born from instinct rather than choreography. The crowd around them quieted.

Eyes turned. Conversations thinned.

Their dance no longer felt like practice. It carried momentum. Purpose. Heat.

Jalil spun her again, this time slower, deliberate—her cloak lifting behind her, hair sweeping past her neck. She emerged from the turn, eyes fixed on his, and advanced. He stepped back, matching her motion. Their hands stayed linked, their footwork synced.

Around them, other dancers gave space.

Tables leaned inward. Servers paused mid-step, pitchers tilted, forgotten. Even the musicians focused more on their rhythm, shaping the pace around what the dancers had become.

Cassia and Jalil moved as if the world had adjusted to them.

Their hands touched again—left to right—fingers clasped in brief tension before separating. Jalil dropped low, sweeping his foot in a wide circle as Cassia matched him, mirroring his descent. They rose together, eyes still locked, their faces steady, expressions unreadable.

Each movement carried unspoken language.

Cassia's sharp turns eased into flowing arcs. Jalil's weight shifted lighter, his presence rising to meet hers in midair. They moved with speed, then with stillness, weaving between fast-paced spins and the breathless silence that followed. Their spacing tightened—two silhouettes bound by rhythm, turning as one.

The song rose higher. The drums thundered. Every dancer on the floor stepped aside.

Now only two remained.

Their final movement unfolded in perfect silence—a slow inward spiral, Cassia circling Jalil with deliberate footwork, her boots brushing the stone in precise half-moons. He pivoted in place, matching her gaze with full attention. When she reached him, he extended both hands.

She placed hers there—softly, with certainty.

They moved together in a final turn, arms crossing, bodies close, feet landing in the same space as if the floor had waited for their arrival.

The flute held one last note. A single breath. Then the drums ended.

A hush filled the room.

Then came the clapping.

Heavy. Sudden. Real.

Hands met palms. Tables echoed with knuckles and boots. Voices rose. Cheers followed—sharp whistles, names called, laughter full of surprise and awe.

The entire tavern clapped for them.

But Cassia and Jalil saw no one.

They stood in the center of the floor, hands still touching, feet unmoving, eyes held in perfect silence.

Her chest rose and fell in slow rhythm.

His lips parted, though he said nothing.

Their foreheads stayed inches apart, close enough to feel breath.

Applause filled the hall like rain against stone. It poured over them.

But they remained inside a different sound entirely.

Something quiet.

Something full.

Something only they could hear.

Jalil and Cassia were both breathing deeply.

Not from exhaustion—but from something heavier. Something warmer. That kind of breath you take when the world fades away and your heart drums a rhythm that only attraction and love could summon. They stared into each other's eyes, unmoving, caught in the stillness that followed the last note of a perfect song.

Around them, the tavern came alive—clapping, cheering, boots hitting stone, knuckles on wood, laughter, and even a few whistles. But the two in the center stayed still. Their hands remained together, and their breathing stayed shallow and synchronized, like their lungs had forgotten to work separately.

Rashan clapped with the others, a low grin touching his face. Sadiaa, standing beside him, looked pleased—like a war camp commander who had just watched a flawless ambush unfold.

"You see that?" she said.

"I saw," Rashan replied. "You set the bait. They took it."

He cupped a hand around his mouth and shouted across the tavern: "About time, Jalil!"

That earned a small ripple of laughter and a few cheers. Jalil gave a crooked grin without looking away from Cassia. Her hand slipped to his chest, and he stayed perfectly still, letting her settle there like she belonged.

The music slowed.

The flute softened into a tender melody, the drums growing warm and low, paced like a heartbeat in fading firelight. Couples began pairing again—but the center belonged to only one.

Cassia and Jalil began to sway, slow and close. His hand rested at the small of her back. She leaned into his chest, her eyes finally closing. Their movement wasn't grand. Just real. Measured. Quiet.

Rashan stood and offered his hand to Sadiaa.

"One more?"

She gave a short nod and placed her hand in his. "Always one more."

They danced beside the others—not for show, but in shared rhythm. Sadiaa's movements were sharp, balanced. Rashan's held steady grace, the kind trained into a warrior's spine. They spoke little, just moved through the moment like two people who knew it mattered.

That's when he saw her.

Near the edge of the stone archway—a young woman in a dusk-colored shawl, hair swept over one shoulder, eyes on him. Beautiful in a quiet, striking way. Not noble. Not overdressed. Just elegant. She didn't look away when he caught her gaze. She held it.

Sadiaa followed his glance and smirked. "Well. She's clearly waiting."

Rashan kept dancing. "She'll be waiting a little longer."

His eyes drifted to Jalil and Cassia again. They had barely moved from center floor. Her head rested against his shoulder now, his hand rising and falling gently with each breath. They looked like they'd forgotten the tavern existed.

"I want to stay tonight," Rashan said.

Sadiaa's voice grew softer. "You sure?"

He looked at her, just briefly. "When the war starts, I don't know when I'll see you again."

She didn't answer for a long breath. Then she pulled him in a little closer. Their dance slowed even more.

Jalil and Cassia were still on the floor when the band stopped playing. They didn't seem to notice. Only when silence wrapped around them did they slowly break apart—reluctantly, as if movement might undo whatever had passed between them.

They walked back to the table.

As they passed, Rashan moved slightly, leaning in beside Jalil. Without breaking stride, he passed him a small, sealed glass vial—clear, faintly glowing, fitted with a cork and wax band. A discreet blend. Potent. Personal contraception. Something Rashan brewed himself.

Jalil took it with the subtlety of a practiced thief, slipped it into his belt, and kept walking.

He didn't say anything. Even though Jalil had never used it since he was still a virgin, Rashan had explained what it was. He didn't need little Jalil's running around when the time came.

Just gave Rashan a slow, knowing grin.

Outside, the woman from earlier now stood beneath one of the tall flamebowls flanking the tavern's entrance. Her face was lit with gold and shadow. She watched him again—still patient, still open.

Sadiaa saw the glance.

"Go have fun," she said, stepping away. "War is coming, little brother. But promise me—after it ends, you'll look for serious love. Something real."

Rashan met her eyes. "You know me. My only love is battle, martial training, and magicka."

Then, quieter: "And my family, of course."

She laughed and gave him a parting wave. "Of course."

She turned and began following Jalil and Cassia from a distance, her steps slower but her eyes watchful. Their silhouettes already drifted through the firelight ahead, close together, half in step.

Rashan turned toward the woman waiting for him.

She didn't speak as he approached. She simply smiled—and fell into stride beside him as they walked slowly into the night a different direction.