The Golden Swan, the dance establishment Derek had gifted to Senna, was a riot of sound and light. The grand hall, which had been an empty, echoing space just weeks before, was now the pulsing, overcrowded heart of the city. A frantic, intoxicating music filled the air—the thrum of drums and the high, whining melody of lutes. The air was thick with the smells of expensive perfume, spilled wine, and the sweat of a hundred bodies packed together.
In a dimly lit corner, two wealthy merchants, their faces flushed with drink, laughed loudly as they watched the dancers on the main podium.
"Isn't that the new one?" one of the men shouted over the music, gesturing with his tankard. "The dancer who graced us with her steps last week?"
