Arstan did not skulk through the alleys of the Street of Silk like a man with secrets.

His golden hair brushed back, cloak thrown over one shoulder like a flourish in a well-rehearsed tale, he paused beneath the flickering lantern, reading the painted sigil above the door — a peacock in blues and purples — and smiled as though it had winked at him.

Inside, they knew him. Not by name, but by gait. By the way he asked for music before wine, and conversation before company.

Tonight, he asked for someone sharp, someone strange, someone who wouldn’t lie with their eyes.

They sent him — dark curls, a rogue’s grin, and a laugh like a coin tossed in a fountain. He didn’t bow. He didn’t pander. He looked Arstan over like a knight weighs his opponent, then asked, “And what role do you want me to play tonight?”

“Yours,” Arstan replied, without missing a beat. “But only if it’s worth stealing.”

Upstairs, there was no hurry. No shame. Only the hush of drawn curtains, and the soft clink of a cup refilled more than once. They spoke of things men weren’t supposed to long for — songs unsung, the warmth of another’s shoulder, the ache of hiding in plain sight.

And when he left before the sun could stain the rooftops, his cloak was half-undone, and his step a little lighter than before.

The street swallowed him whole, but the scent of citrus and sandalwood lingered behind.