The last Cursewright

The music played—a soft, rhythmic pulse that echoed across the tightly packed hall. Bodies swayed, drunken murmurs rose like fog, and men stared at the center stage with wild eyes. But Azel wasn't watching the crowd. His eyes were locked onto her.

She was spinning again, light on her toes, her movement a mixture of grace and lethal precision. Her black hair flowed behind her like a silken veil, her waist-length strands catching the lantern light. Thin fabrics clung to her tall frame, tracing long, toned legs that stepped in perfect harmony with the traditional beat. Her face remained half-hidden behind a delicate shawl, but her eyes—those sharp black eyes—kept glancing at Azel as if searching his soul.

"She's noticed you."

Forbanna's voice hummed in his mind.

Azel didn't respond. His eyes narrowed. Something in her gaze told him she knew. Not about him specifically, but something. She sensed what others didn't—power, danger, defiance.

The music shifted slightly, and Azel knew it was now or never. As the dancer spun mid-air, he stepped forward into the open circle.

The crowd murmured, startled. Some laughed, some scoffed. One man spat out his drink.

"The hell is that kid doing?"

"Someone pull him back."

But Azel didn't hear them. His hand extended mid-spin, and caught hers—firm, not forceful. Anna's eyes widened for the first time during her entire performance. Her momentum slowed as she landed, and she instinctively tried to take the lead, guiding him into her rhythm.

She failed.

Azel's footwork mirrored hers for a moment—but then countered. His left arm circled around her waist in perfect timing, stopping her step cold, and reversed it into a spiral. The music—now a Dothract pulse mixed with Pulsar rhythm—set the tempo, but it was Azel who danced.

Anna stumbled inward, surprised. Her shawl fluttered, and her lips parted as she looked at him closely. A young man. Confident. His dark hair framed sharp cheekbones and a calm, unreadable expression.

He didn't smirk. He didn't leer.

He just danced.

'What… are you?'

Azel leaned in, their faces mere inches apart. 

Their bodies spun together, her trying to slip out of his hold with twists, hops, and feints, but every move she initiated, he answered—then reversed. The crowd erupted.

"Holy hell—"

"He touched her waist?!"

"HOW LONG HAS HE BEEN HOLDING HER?!"

"Who is this bastard?!"

Men around them burned with envy. None had ever lasted more than a step before being flung away. But Azel? He was dominating the floor.

'Dothract turn, Pulsar twist. Counter with cross-step and reset with elbow raise.'

Anna tried again, adding a leap to fake a pivot, but Azel saw it coming. He adjusted his center of gravity, caught her hand mid-air, and rotated her gently into a spin—then pulled her back, hand resting firmly on the small of her back.

"Let go."

She whispered, panting. But it wasn't a plea—it was a test.

"Not yet." 

Her heartbeat was audible now. He felt it. And she could feel his—calm, unshaken. Their feet danced like twin flames, flickering under starlight and oil lamps.

The music swelled, a thunderous rhythm building to its final crescendo.

Anna made her final move, a leap designed to fling her partner off balance. Azel caught her mid-air, held her effortlessly, and guided her back down with slow precision, never breaking eye contact.

She gasped.

When the music stopped, the silence was deafening.

Anna stood there, chest heaving, held close in Azel's arms. Her eyes remained locked on his face as her expression softened—not just in surprise, but in genuine awe.

"I…"

She swallowed, blinked twice, and whispered.

"Come see me later."

She slid a small slip of parchment into his palm. He didn't even look at it.

Then she turned and walked away through the gasping crowd, her hips swaying with residual grace, but her shoulders visibly trembling.

The moment she disappeared into the hallway, chaos erupted behind him.

"HEY! What did she give you?!"

"Let me see that!"

"Who the fuck ARE YOU?!"

One man lunged at Azel. Another tried to grab his shoulder. But the parchment—her address—was already tucked safely in his cloak.

Azel's eyes narrowed as another brute came toward him, a broken bottle in hand.

"I'll rip you apart, you—"

Before the man could finish, Azel's hand twitched. Not toward his sword. Not toward magic. Just… twitched.

Dark energy briefly rippled from his chest—an instinctive reaction. The man froze in place, mouth dry, pupils dilated.

Forbanna's voice slithered into his mind again.

"Calm down. Slaughtering fools in public will be troublesome."

Azel inhaled, shaking his head slowly.

"I know."

He turned his back on the stunned crowd and walked out as the murmurs turned into frightened whispers.

Once outside, the cold air felt refreshing. The night was silent, lit by lanterns and a distant moon, untouched by the heat and chaos of the dance bar.

Forbanna finally broke the silence.

"So… are you in love now?"

"..." 

"You enjoyed that huh?"

"She was strong. That's all."

He said, his voice as unreadable as his expression.

"She was waiting for someone to match her. You didn't just match—you owned that stage."

"I needed her attention."

"And now you have it. So, what now?"

Azel looked down at the folded slip of paper she'd given him. An address. A place where secrets waited.

"Now… we see who Anna really is."