His long dark hair glitters with embedded metal beads and fire-opal pins. His eyes burn under layers of serpent-scale makeup, shimmering in deep violet and molten gold. His midriff is bare, the fabric of his clothing draped low along his hips, revealing a tastefully toned belly and prominent V.
His robes are ink-black with red-gold underlayers, swaying like smoke around bare feet that glide across the stone.
"What the hell…" I whisper. I certainly don't remember this from the last gathering a few years ago…
Roan stops chewing mid-bite and Orien clasps his hands reverently.
Sylas lifts a lacquered fan in each hand—both shaped like serpent tails, ribbed with alchemical fire.
He snaps them open.
Blue flame explodes from the ribs, swirling around his arms in spirals of light, and then… he dances.
His body is sinuous, fluid, and controlled. Every motion ripples with intention—the sweep of his arms, the twist of his spine, the soft gliding of his feet. His hips roll with devastating grace while his fans cut arcs of shimmering fire that leave glowing trails in the air.
Gasps ripple through the audience, but he's not looking at them. His eyes find me in the crowd.
My breath stops and the world tightens until it's just us—him dancing, me watching, heat building in places of my body I didn't even know could feel heat until this morning.
My instincts pulse in recognition and my skin tingles.
Why is he looking at me like that?
No—worse—why the hell am I reacting like this?
He closes his fans, spins, and snaps them open behind his back—flames blooming around him like wings. His robes flare with the motion, revealing the pale lines of serpent-scale markings glimmering across his stomach.
Riven exhales, "Gods, he's showing off."
"He's enchanting," Orien breathes.
Ashen growls under his breath but doesn't look away.
Roan is red in the face, not because he is offended by it, but because it's unlike anything we see back home. "Why is he moving his hips like that?!"
I don't answer. I am rooted to the spot, pulse pounding, scent flaring in ways I can't control. The air feels thick.
My claws threaten to slip out and my breath comes shallow. My heart aches with a want so primal I don't have words for it.
The fire around him shifts—now blue-gold, now crimson, now violet. He threads through it like a serpent weaving through tall grass, guiding the flames with the flick of a wrist.
Every time his gaze sweeps to me (which is a lot), my thighs press together instinctively.
What is happening to me?! Fuck this shit. I should leave, but I can't force myself to move even an inch.
He dances closer to the edge of the stage, his fan trailing flame toward the crowd—but when the fire dissipates, those dark, hypnotic eyes land squarely on mine.
His lips curl into a smirk; his expression is soft and secretive, but most of all… seductive, like he knows exactly what he's doing to me. Fuck, he absolutely does.
The music shifts, deeper and heavier. Sylas turns, arching his back in a roll that is… obscene. My whole body jolts. The fire coils around his torso, cascading down his arms, licking the edges of his fan.
He twirls and the flames explode upward—then the entire stage becomes a serpent made of fire. The beast coils around him, twining in mimicry of his movements. Its head rises behind him, jaws open in a silent roar.
He steps into the center of its glow.
The serpent dissolves into sparks and he drops to one knee, fans extended to either side, head bowed.
Silence.
Then the audience erupts in shouts, cheers, whistles… but I don't hear any of it. All I hear is my heartbeat, raging in my ears.
My legs feel weak and my chest is tight. My lower belly aches with a heat I thought Ren suppressed this morning.
Sylas stands, then he walks offstage with lazy grace, not rushing, not acknowledging the applause… and he heads straight toward me.
The crowd parts instinctively, crushing silence falling over the pathways.
He stops in front of me.
Up close, the fire-opal dust on his skin sparkles like stars against night. His eyes catch the lantern light—gold ringed with violet.
He bows, but it's not a servant's bow or a performer's bow.
A ritual bow. The kind a serpent might give another… or one suitor might give a potential mate.
"Thank you for watching," he says softly, his voice smooth and gentle. He lifts his thin, green snake eyes to mine, "I felt your attention like heat on my skin, so I had to ensure it was my best performance."
My breath catches as I look back at him, my heart throbbing in my chest. He smiles faintly, a smile that makes me feel like he knew this would happen from the start.
Then he leans in, just enough that his lips brush my ear, and he whispers, "After all, fire always dances differently for a dragon."
My knees almost buckle. What the fuck is going on?!