Perfect. Military types respect authority, and I can project that in spades.
"Evening." I let my voice drop to a purr, the kind that suggests secrets and promises in equal measure. "Quite the crowd tonight."
He looks up then, his gaze traveling from my face down to the burgundy dress that clings to my curves before hugging my thighs. The neckline shows just enough skin to be interesting without screaming desperation. His eyes linger on the bronze cuffs, cataloging their quality, their heat signature.
"Invitation?" His voice rumbles like distant thunder.
I tilt my head, letting my hair fall across one shoulder in a cascade of dark waves. "Do I look like someone who needs paper to prove her worth?"
The smile I give him is practiced, honed through years of survival. Not the desperate grin of someone begging for scraps, but the lazy confidence of someone who's used to getting whatshe wants. I let my fingers drift to the coins hidden in my bodice—not enough to buy my way in, but enough to suggest I have resources.
He hesitates, and I press the advantage.
"I've heard such interesting things about Vestige." I step closer, not quite close enough to touch, but near enough that he catches the subtle scent I'd stolen earlier—expensive perfume from a noble's dressing room, something that smells like midnight blooms and sin. "About how it caters to those with... refined tastes."
His nostrils flare slightly. Xaphan have enhanced senses, and the perfume tells a story of wealth, of access to the kind of luxuries only the upper castes can afford. Combined with the heat-signature cuffs and my carefully cultivated confidence, it paints a picture of someone who belongs here even if her specific identity remains mysterious.
"What's your name?" he asks, but his hand is already moving toward the rope.
"Does it matter?" I lean back just enough to be playful rather than evasive. "I'm not here to cause trouble. Just looking for somewhere to... forget the outside world exists."
The last part isn't even a lie. That's exactly what I want from places like Vestige—noise loud enough to drown out memory, chaos bright enough to burn away the past. He seems to recognize the hunger in my voice, something familiar and safe in a city built on people running from their histories.
The rope drops.
"Enjoy your evening," he rumbles, already turning his attention to the next patron.
The first rush of success floods through me as I step across the threshold. One hurdle down, countless opportunities ahead.
The heat hits immediately—not just temperature, but something deeper. Magic radiates from the enchanted sconceslining the walls, their flames dancing without fuel, casting everything in shades of amber and crimson. The air itself seems to pulse with energy, making my skin tingle where the dress leaves it bare.
And the noise. Oh, the glorious, overwhelming noise.
Music pounds up from the sunken dance floor, drums that match the rhythm of heartbeats, strings that wail like pleasure and pain given voice. Bodies move in the pit below, a sea of wings and skin and desperate motion. The upper levels buzz with conversation, laughter that edges toward hysteria, the sharp crack of magical discharge from the private rooms.
I pause just inside the entrance, letting it all wash over me. This is why I love the nights in New Solas, why I brave the risks of being discovered. In places like this, surrounded by sin and shadow and beautiful chaos, the whispers in my head can't find purchase. There's no room for Cordelia's poison when every sense is flooded with immediate, overwhelming sensation.
A server glides past, her tray loaded with drinks that glow like liquid starlight. Perfect.
I slip into the crowd, using the press of bodies to mask my movements. The burgundy dress helps—expensive enough to suggest I belong, revealing enough to distract from closer inspection. I catch fragments of conversation as I move, voices raised over the music.
"—told him if he wanted exclusive trading rights, he'd have to?—"
"—never seen wings that pure before, must be Praexa blood?—"
"—in the pain parlor on the second level, apparently she likes to?—"
The words wash over me without sticking. I'm focused on the server now, tracking her path through the crowd. She's young, probably new, her movements just uncertain enough to suggestinexperience. Her tray tilts slightly as she navigates around a group of silver-winged merchants, the glowing drinks sliding toward one edge.
I move in like water finding a crack.
"Careful there," I murmur, steadying the tray with one hand while my other plucks two glasses in a motion so smooth it looks like helping rather than stealing. "Busy night?"
She flashes me a grateful smile. "Completely mad. I've never seen it this crowded."
"Special occasion?" I ask, already backing away with my prizes, the glasses hidden against my body.
"Some sort of celebration upstairs. Private party for the Praexa." Her voice carries the awe typical of lower-caste xaphan when discussing their betters. "They've been ordering bottles of Amerinth all night."
