SCARAMOUCHE || ANCIENT EGYPT AU || FEM POV

By the time the banquet began, the palace had transformed completely.

The quiet murmur of afternoon conversations had given way to music, laughter, and the clinking of golden goblets. Hundreds of oil lamps cast a warm glow throughout the Great Hall, their flames reflecting off polished stone and gilded decorations. Servants moved gracefully between tables laden with roasted meats, fresh fruit, honey cakes, and wine imported from distant lands. The scent of incense lingered in the air, mingling with the perfume of lotus blossoms woven into elaborate centerpieces.

It was exactly the sort of event Scaramouche dreaded.

The nobles were louder now.

The musicians had become more enthusiastic.

And the advisors, somehow, had not stopped discussing politics.

The prince sat beside his mother at the royal table, enduring the evening with the patience of a man being slowly poisoned.

Across the hall, a merchant's son was attempting to impress a noblewoman with a story that had grown increasingly unrealistic with every retelling. Nearby, two officials were debating trade routes with the intensity of men preparing for battle. The Pharaoh appeared considerably more entertained than his son, occasionally joining conversations and accepting greetings from guests passing by.

Scaramouche found none of it remotely interesting.

His attention drifted instead toward his goblet.

Then toward the musicians.

Then toward absolutely nothing in particular.

Anything was preferable to listening to the noble seated three tables away describe his latest hunting trip.

"...and then the beast charged directly at me—"

A likely story.

Scaramouche looked away before he could hear the rest.

That was when the music changed.

Not abruptly.

Gradually.

The lively background melodies softened into something slower, richer, more deliberate. Conversations throughout the hall began to quiet as guests recognized the shift. Heads turned toward the open space at the center of the room.

The evening's performance was beginning.

Scaramouche barely reacted.

He had seen countless performances throughout his life. Dancers, musicians, actors, storytellers—eventually they all blurred together.

A polite distraction.

Nothing more.

He rested his cheek against one hand and prepared to ignore this one as well.

The first notes echoed through the hall.

Silk brushed against stone.

And somewhere within his field of vision, a flash of gold caught the light.

His eyes shifted instinctively.

Only for a moment.

Just long enough to see her step into the center of the hall.

The dancer moved with the confidence of someone entirely accustomed to being watched.

Not arrogance.

Not vanity.

Simply certainty.

She carried herself with the ease of a woman who knew exactly where she belonged.

Golden jewelry glimmered against her skin as she moved beneath the lamplight. Fine fabrics flowed around her with every turn, catching the light in soft flashes of ivory and gold. Her hair had been intricately styled for the occasion, decorated with delicate ornaments that shimmered whenever she moved.

The performance began.

Scaramouche looked away.

Or at least, he intended to.

A few moments later he realized his gaze had drifted back.

Annoying.

He took a sip of wine.

Surely the performance would end soon.

Yet as the music continued, his attention kept returning to the center of the hall.

At first it was small things.

The trail of fabric sweeping across the floor.

The graceful movement of her hands.

The way gold bracelets chimed softly whenever she turned.

Then it became harder to identify exactly what he was watching.

Perhaps it was the confidence with which she carried herself.

Or the way every movement flowed naturally into the next without appearing rehearsed.

Perhaps it was because she looked less like a performer reciting memorized steps and more like someone telling a story only she could hear.

Whatever the reason, Scaramouche found himself following her movements before he consciously realized he was doing so.

Around the hall, she had captured everyone's attention.

Nobles who moments earlier had been absorbed in conversation now watched quietly. Even servants paused when they thought nobody was looking. Several musicians appeared just as invested in the performance as the audience itself.

The dancer smiled during one particularly lively section of the music, and a ripple of amusement passed through the crowd in response.

Not the forced politeness nobles often displayed.

A genuine reaction.

The kind earned rather than expected.

Scaramouche frowned slightly.

The court liked her.

That much was obvious.

But watching them now, he understood something he hadn't before.

They didn't admire her simply because she was talented.

They liked having her around.

The realization irritated him for reasons he couldn't explain.

The music swelled.

She spun gracefully, layers of fabric blooming around her like flower petals caught in a desert breeze. Gold flashed beneath the light of a hundred lamps.

The hall erupted into applause.

The performance wasn't even over.

Scaramouche glanced around.

Half the room looked completely enchanted.

Pathetic.

His gaze returned to the dancer.

Then remained there.

Also pathetic.

The realization arrived with immediate and unwelcome clarity.

At some point during the performance, he had stopped pretending not to watch.

And somehow, he hadn't noticed exactly when it happened.