The Festival of Lights

‘The Statue of the Dancing God’ – scene #9

We return once more to the story of Olyen the Nightrunner in the serial ‘The Statue of the Dancing God’. While we may be up to scene #9 it isn’t to late to start again at the beginning - link below!

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The Festival of Lights transforms Bayehren into a dream of fire and shadow, every window blazing against the night, every street alive with revelers bearing colored lanterns that trace their meandering paths with ribbons of afterglow. Olyen moves through this chaos like its opposite, a patch of perfect darkness, purpose-driven, invisible despite the illumination that threatens to expose him at every turn. Behind him, equally invisible, follow Valco and Karsh, their bodies relaxed with the ease of predators whose prey remains unaware of their approach. Together they drift toward the western wall of Dravos's estate, where marble and wealth rise against the night sky in a monument to excess, like a challenge they cannot refuse.

The Statue of the Dancing God had guided Olyen to the widow Marenthe, a beautiful woman twisted into old age by the wrongs done to her husband. Olyen shaved a sharp line at his jaw, and chose a robe of the finest quality, intended to indicate status to a woman who knew every gradation of it. There, amongst the magnolias, seated at a table of polished rosewood, sat a woman whose stillness spoke of grief worn into habit, alone in a teagarden at dawn, exactly where the Dancing God had promised she would be. Her back was straight despite her obvious age, her silver hair arranged with an elegance that suggested she maintained appearances as a matter of pride rather than vanity. Before her sat a teapot of jade-green ceramic and a single cup. She is more than intrigued by Olyen, drawn to the strangeness of the encounter as well as his obvious good looks, yet never feels the need to catch the attendant’s eye for a second cup. Old aristocracy. He likes her nevertheless.

Something in his words or manner must have struck a chord, for she gestured to the empty chair across from her with a hand adorned by a single ring - a heavy signet bearing a ship's design, her dead husband's symbol preserved on her ancient finger.

In careful and deniable phrases in which Olyen tiptoes ever closer to his meaning while gauging every flicker of reaction, he begins to broach what he needs from her, and living life as she does at a pitch of focused rage, she is quick to grasp his meaning. Marenthe's eyes narrow, the sharpness in them intensifying to something that might have frightened a lesser man. "You speak of Dravos," she said, not a question but a conclusion reached through swift calculation. "Why?"

Olyen met her gaze without flinching. "Because I have seen what he keeps in his gilded cage, and found it offensive to whatever gods still watch this city's decay."

"Torsa." She spoke the name so softly it might have been mistaken for a sigh. "The boy with eyes like summer night sky and spirit unbroken despite all attempts to crush it."

Surprise flickered across Olyen's face before he could master it. "You know him?"

"I know of him." Marenthe set her cup down with deliberate precision. "Dravos parades his possessions before selected audiences when the mood takes him. A demonstration of power, of untouchability. I was invited once, to witness my defeat embodied in his collection of beautiful things stolen from their rightful places." Her fingers tightened around the cup. "The boy was new then, still showing the bruises of initial resistance. I believe he is the son of one of the oldest families, brought low by debt just as I have been. I am sorry for him, though his father was admittedly a fool."

Anger heated Olyen's blood, but he kept his voice level. "And now I seek a way to end his captivity."

"Why?" The question came sharp as a blade. "What is this boy to you that you risk Dravos's considerable reach? He has friends in the Governor's palace, connections to the banking houses, influence in the courts."

Marenthe studied him for a long moment, something softening in her expression. "Ah. So it is not just justice that drives you, but recognition. Is it love, too? Dangerous waters, young man."

"All waters worth crossing hide dangers."

She laughed then, a sound rusty from disuse. "Well spoken. Very well - I will tell you what I know, though whether it helps your cause or merely hastens your destruction remains to be seen."

She leaned forward, voice dropping though no one sat near enough to overhear. "Dravos's wealth rests on three pillars - shipping, which he stole from my husband through manipulated debts and convenient assassination; banking, which he controls through the blackmail of two guild masters; and an art collection, which serves both his vanity and his money-laundering needs."

Olyen listened intently, filing away each detail with professional thoroughness.

"But his true vulnerability," Marenthe continued, "lies not in his business dealings but in his superstition. Beneath that facade of cultured rationality beats the heart of a peasant who still fears the old gods. Each new acquisition, be it artwork or human, must be 'purified' before it joins his collection. A ritual he performs in the basement chamber of his mansion, witnessed only by his most trusted servant."

"What form does this ritual take?" Olyen asked, mind already calculating possibilities.

"Blood sacrifice - small animals usually, though rumor suggests more significant offerings when the acquisition particularly pleases him." Marenthe's expression reflected disgust. "The boy would have undergone this 'purification' upon his arrival. And the centerpiece of Dravos's art collection - a ruby called the Heart of Savaya, allegedly containing the soul of an ancient queen - receives regular offerings to maintain its supposed power."

"This ruby," Olyen said carefully. "It holds significant value to him?"

"More than value. Identity." Marenthe's smile turned sharp and bitter. "Dravos believes it grants him protection against his enemies, ensures his continued prosperity. Were it to disappear..." She left the implication hanging.

"He would be vulnerable. Distracted. Perhaps even desperate enough to make mistakes."

"Precisely." She studied him over the rim of her cup. "Though I cannot imagine how one might separate Dravos from his precious Heart, given the guards, the locks, the paranoia that surrounds it."

Olyen merely smiled, neither confirming nor denying the thoughts forming behind his eyes. "You've been most helpful, Lady Marenthe. More than you know."

"Have I?" She regarded him with sudden intensity. "Then perhaps you might offer something in return. Not your name - I suspect that is a currency you spend rarely. But a promise."

"What promise would you ask of a stranger?"

"That when Dravos falls - if he falls - you will bring me word of it." Her fingers touched the ship's signet on her hand. "My husband's spirit has waited long enough for this small justice."

Olyen reached across the table, covering her aged hand with his own in a gesture more genuine than most he offered. "Upon whatever gods still listen, I swear it."

---

"Guards at the west gate," Valco murmurs, his handsome face momentarily illuminated by a passing lantern. "Two visible, likely two more within the gatehouse."

Karsh nods, boyish features hardening into the mask of the professional he truly is. "As expected. The service entrance remains our best option."

They circle the perimeter with unhurried precision, timing their movements to coincide with the rhythmic sweep of the guard patrols. The Festival has drawn half of Dravos's security detail away, accompanying their master to the Governor's celebration, but those remaining compensate with increased vigilance. Three shadows against stone wait for the precise moment when watchful eyes turn elsewhere.

"Now," Olyen breathes, and they move as one organism, flowing over the garden wall like liquid night.

They land in a crouch among ornamental shrubs sculpted into unnatural shapes - beasts and birds frozen in eternal stillness. The garden beyond presents a calculated display of wealth: imported flowers that have no business blooming in Bayehren's climate, fountains that waste water in a city where the poor pay copper pieces for each precious drop, paths of crushed marble that gleam unnaturally bright even in darkness.

Olyen leads them along the edge of this gilded paradise, keeping to the shadows cast by decorative trees whose placement seems designed specifically for infiltrators such as themselves. The mansion looms closer with each silent step - a sprawling edifice of white stone and gilt, windows dark except for the minimal illumination required by servants left behind during their master's absence. Olyen remembers the place, remembers the route over rooftops, though he understands that on the night of the festival too many witnesses would have seen them recreate that route.

A guard appears around a corner, lantern held high, face bored beneath his polished helm. His death comes without sound, Valco's garrote looping around his throat from behind, cutting off both breath and the possibility of alarm. They lower the body gently into the concealing embrace of an ornamental pond, water accepting this offering without complaint.

Olyen says nothing, but his fingers twitch slightly at his side. The mission requires this death, yes, but he takes no pleasure in it. Not tonight. Tonight he serves two masters - the Puppetmaster who demands the ruby within a second of hearing of it, and his own conscience that demands Torsa's freedom.

The service entrance yields to Karsh's expertise with locks, mechanisms surrendering their secrets to fingers that understand their design better than their creators. They slip inside, into the warm breath of a kitchen abandoned after evening meal preparation, embers still glowing in the massive hearth. Through this domestic space and into the mansion proper, each step bringing them closer to their twin objectives.

"We split here," Olyen reminding them of the plan as they reach a junction of corridors. Karsh's eyes narrow with the beginning of suspicion, but Valco merely nods. "Efficiency. Good. Meet back at this point in fifteen minutes. Anyone not returned is presumed compromised."

They separate, Olyen's heart accelerating slightly now that his personal mission diverges from the official one. The western corridor stretches before him, thick carpets absorbing his footfalls, walls adorned with paintings whose subjects, primarily young men in captivity, naked and hard, aroused by their plight and subservience, reveal Dravos's particular appetites with unsubtle clarity.

A door at the corridor's end stands closed but unguarded. Beyond it, if Olyen's information proves correct, lies the private collection of living artwork that includes Torsa. His fingers test the lock, more sophisticated than the service entrance, but still vulnerable to his specialized tools. The mechanism clicks open beneath his persuasion.

The chamber beyond steals his breath for an instant. Not through its opulence, though that aspect impresses - silk-draped walls, furniture inlaid with precious metals, ceiling painted with scenes of debauchery that would make even Bayehren's most jaded courtesans blush. No, what freezes Olyen in the doorway is the figure seated on a window ledge, moonlight silvering his dark hair, turning his profile into something that might have been carved by the same artisans who crafted the Dancing God in ages past.

Torsa. No longer naked as when Olyen first glimpsed him, but clothed in garments so sheer they serve more to accentuate than conceal his beauty. No visible bruises mark his skin, yet the way he holds himself speaks of recent pain, of dignity maintained despite it.

The young man turns at Olyen's entrance, wariness instantly replacing contemplation in those remarkable black eyes. Then recognition dawns - not of a name or title, but of a presence once glimpsed outside a window, a witness to his degradation who had somehow communicated silent promise despite that brief connection.

"You," Torsa says, voice lower and steadier than Olyen expected. "You came." Not a question but a statement of fact, as if confirming something long suspected.

"I promised I would," Olyen replies, though the promise had been made only to himself and the night air. "We have little time. Time for just one kiss. Dravos could return early from the festival."

Torsa rises from the window ledge with fluid grace that suggests training in dance or perhaps more martial arts. "I've been planning my escape for weeks. Tonight was to be my attempt, festival or no." His gaze hardens with determination, even as their lips meet. "I would rather die running than live another day as his possession."

"No one dies tonight except those who stand between us and freedom," Olyen promises, moving deeper into the room. "Can you move quickly? Silently?"

A smile touches Torsa's lips, transforming his face from merely beautiful to something that catches at Olyen's chest like a physical hook. "I was not always a captive. Before Dravos purchased my family's debt and claimed me as payment, I learned certain skills that would surprise my so-called master."

Olyen nods, newfound respect mingling with his initial attraction. "Then we go now. My companions have secured what we came for. They expect me back immediately."

"Wait." Torsa moves to a carved wooden box on a side table, opening it to reveal a simple knife with a bone handle. "This was my father's. Dravos keeps it nearby to remind me of what I've lost." He tucks it into his belt, beneath the filmy overshirt. "Now I'm ready."

They move into the corridor together, Olyen leading but aware of Torsa matching his pace without apparent effort. Down the main hall they travel, passing artwork worth more than most of Bayehren's citizens will earn in a lifetime. At the rendezvous point, Valco and Karsh wait in shadow, the tension in their postures easing slightly at Olyen's approach.

Valco's eyes move immediately to Torsa, understanding darkening his gaze. "An unplanned acquisition?" he asks, voice emotionless but loaded with subtext.

"Part of Dravos's collection," Olyen replies with equal neutrality. "Being liberated alongside the other item of value."

Karsh holds up a small velvet pouch, its contents creating a distinctive bulge. "Speaking of which, the Heart beats within our grasp." His gaze moves to Torsa, assessing rather than judgmental. "The Puppetmaster's instructions allowed for... collateral outcomes."

"Then let's not waste the opportunity," Olyen says, gently urging them toward the exit.

They have almost reached the service entrance when footsteps approach from an adjoining hallway, too heavy for those of servants, too purposeful to be drunken revelers. Guards returning early from patrol rotation.

"Alternative exit," Valco breathes, gesturing toward a window that opens onto a decorative balcony.

They move with silent urgency, Karsh first through the window, then Torsa who displays unexpected agility in the maneuver. Olyen follows, with Valco last, closing the window behind them just as the guards round the corner into the hallway they've vacated.

The balcony overlooks the eastern garden, a sheer drop of twenty feet to manicured lawn below. For ordinary men, a daunting prospect. For the Puppetmaster's elite agents, merely a moment's inconvenience.

"Follow my exact movements," Olyen instructs Torsa, then demonstrates, grasping the balcony's decorative stonework, swinging his body outward and down, finding precise handholds invisible to untrained eyes, descending the mansion's facade as easily as another might walk down stairs.

Torsa observes, then replicates the maneuver with only slight hesitation, confirming Olyen's suspicion that the young man's skills extend well beyond what his current role as beautiful possession might suggest. Karsh and Valco join them on the ground moments later, approval evident in their expressions.

"The boy has talent," Karsh murmurs as they melt into the deeper shadows of the garden's edge.

"I have a name," Torsa replies without heat. "And enough talent to end that guard's life without making a sound, if necessary." He nods toward a sentry approaching along the garden path, lantern held high.

"Unnecessary risk," Valco whispers. "An alternative route."

They divert through a stand of imported cypress trees, circling away from the patrol and toward the southern wall where festival noise spills over from the adjacent street. The sounds of celebration will cover their escape, the crowds provide anonymity once beyond the estate's confines.

At the wall, Karsh cups his hands to assist Torsa's ascent, a courtesy normally reserved only for wounded team members. Olyen notes this with quiet satisfaction. His brothers in shadow might question his judgment, but they respect his implied claim on the young man's welfare. And body.

Torsa reaches the top of the wall, balanced for a moment like a sculpture against the night sky, freedom mere inches away after months of captivity. He looks back at Olyen, blue eyes reflecting the distant festival lights, a silent question in his gaze.

"Go," Olyen urges. "We're right behind you."

Torsa disappears over the wall. The others follow in practiced sequence, emerging onto a street transformed by celebration, lanterns strung between buildings, revelers in masks and costumes, music competing with laughter in a symphony of momentary joy that provides perfect cover for four shadows slipping through darkness toward further purposes, further destinies.

"Now comes the difficult part," Valco says as they pause in a recessed doorway, calculating their extraction route. "Dravos will discover the theft long before morning. The hunt begins tonight."

"Then we'd best not be here when it starts," Olyen replies, his hand finding Torsa's arm in what begins as guidance but lingers as reassurance. "We have what we came for." He meets Valco's gaze, challenge implicit in his next words. "All that we came for."

Karsh pats the pouch containing the ruby. "Mission accomplished. The rest is merely... supplementary success."

They move deeper into the festival crowd, four shadows among thousands, carrying their stolen treasures - one for the Puppetmaster, one for Olyen himself - away from captivity and toward whatever consequences await such daring theft from a man powerful enough to command the Governor's friendship.

Behind them, Dravos's mansion stands momentarily peaceful, unaware that its master's most precious possessions have already slipped beyond his grasp like water through cupped palms.

---

The Festival of Lights offers magnificent concealment - ten thousand revelers in garish costume, ten thousand lanterns casting contradictory shadows, ten thousand voices raised in celebrations that mask the sound of pursuit. But such protection lasts only until the first shout of recognition cuts through the festive cacophony. Olyen hears it before the others: a sharp command in a distinctive accent that can only be Dravos's house guards, followed by the tell-tale sounds of men forcing their way through celebratory crowds. He exchanges a quick glance with Valco, whose face registers the same calculation - they've been discovered faster than anticipated. The night's dangers have only begun.

"Split," Valco hisses, his hand already moving to the knife concealed beneath his cloak. "Two directions. Divide their pursuit."

Karsh nods once, patting the pouch containing the Heart of Savaya. "We take the ruby east, toward the rendezvous point. You take the boy west, circle back when possible."

No time for debate or detailed planning. Olyen grips Torsa's arm, fingers pressing into firm muscle beneath the sheer fabric of his captivity clothes. "Stay with me," he commands, pulling them sideways into a narrow alley that branches from the main thoroughfare.

Behind them, the festival continues its luminous pageantry, but already dark silhouettes cut through the celebration - professionally built men moving with purpose rather than revelry, hands conspicuously near weapons. Dravos's private security, more numerous than intelligence had suggested. The merchant-prince has invested considerably in the protection of his treasures.

"They're not just looking for the ruby," Torsa observes as they sprint through the alley's darkness. "Dravos values me just as much. Not from affection - from pride. No possession has ever escaped him."

"Then you understand what failure means tonight," Olyen replies, guiding them through a sharp turn into an even narrower passage between buildings. "Capture is not an option."

Three quick rights and two lefts - Olyen navigates Bayehren's maze of backstreets with his customary precision, each choice calculated to confuse pursuit while bringing them closer to higher ground. The city's rooftops remain his domain, the elevated highway where he moves fastest and freest.

A shout from behind indicates their path has been discovered. Footsteps accelerate, heavy boots against cobblestone. Olyen pulls Torsa into an alcove, pressing them both against ancient stone while reaching for his knife.

His eyes flick upward to where a drainpipe offers vertical escape.

Torsa follows his gaze, then nods. "Lead. I'll follow."

The drainpipe groans under their combined assault but holds as they ascend with agile movements. They pull themselves onto the slate-tiled roof just as their pursuers round the corner below.

"Up!" one shouts, pointing to their silhouettes against the night sky. Another produces a small crossbow, its mechanism clicking as a bolt slides into firing position.

"Run," Olyen commands, pulling Torsa into motion across the rooftop's gentle slope.

The crossbow twangs. Something whistles past Olyen's ear, missing by inches before clattering against the chimney beyond. They sprint across the roof, leaping the narrow gap to the next building with the measured confidence of those for whom falling is not an option.

"They're calling for reinforcements," Torsa warns, his hearing evidently sharp as a blade. "More men converging from the east."

Olyen assesses their options as they run - the rooftops offer speed and a certain invisibility to those confined to street level, but also exposure to archers or crossbowmen positioned strategically. They need concealment, complexity, unpredictability.

"This way," he decides, leading them down a steep pitch toward a section where the buildings grow older, closer together, their roofs a chaotic jumble of heights and angles that only a fool or a professional would attempt to navigate at speed.

Torsa keeps pace admirably, his grace evident even in desperate flight. Whatever else Dravos used him for, the young man possesses physical training beyond ornamental existence. Another time, Olyen would ask about this unexpected skill - now, he merely offers a tight smile of approval as Torsa executes a particularly difficult leap between uneven surfaces.

"You move well for one recently imprisoned," he observes as they pause behind a chimney stack to assess pursuit.

Torsa's laugh holds no humor. "Dravos enjoyed the contradiction - keeping me in excellent physical condition while using me in ways meant to break my spirit." His eyes, even in darkness, flash with that same defiance Olyen had first observed. "I maintained both body and will, knowing opportunity would eventually present itself."

Below them, the street fills with Dravos's men - at least a dozen visible, coordinating their search with hand signals and sharp commands. Some point upward, having deduced their quarry's elevated path. Others disappear into buildings, presumably to gain roof access themselves.

"We need to change tactics," Olyen decides. "I could fight my way past a dozen, but whether you too would be alive at the end of that fight I don’t know. Return to ground level where we're just festival celebrants among thousands."

They descend via a different route, through an open attic window, down a servants' staircase in a wealthy merchant's home, out a kitchen door while the cook's back is turned. The festival engulfs them again, its chaotic energy both concealment and obstacle as they push through crowds whose only purpose tonight is pleasure.

A hand grips Olyen's shoulder from behind. He spins, knife half-drawn, to find familiar green eyes regarding him with grim amusement.

"Causing trouble again, Nightrunner?" Dariawen asks, her voice barely audible above the surrounding celebration. Her hair remains tightly braided against her scalp, but she has abandoned her apothecary's garb for the loose robes of a festival reveler, practical camouflage that nevertheless fails to disguise her essential self.

"Complications," Olyen replies carefully, uncertain how much she knows about the night's events.

Her eyes shift to Torsa, assessing him with the same precision she'd apply to an unknown chemical compound. "I know about the stone, Olyen. But a second acquisition? The Puppetmaster mentioned only one."

"The situation evolved." Olyen keeps his voice neutral. "Dravos has half his private army searching. We've separated from Karsh and Valco to divide pursuit."

Dariawen's smile thins with calculated decision. "Then you need a less predictable path. Follow me."

She leads them through the crowd with uncanny efficiency, her slight form somehow parting the sea of revelers as if she commands their movements. Three blocks east, then a sharp turn into what appears to be a dead-end alley but reveals, at its terminus, a metal grate half-hidden behind discarded festival decorations from previous years.

"The old water system," she explains, pulling the grate open with practiced ease. "Predates the current sewers by centuries. Only a few of us still remember its existence."

The passage beyond smells of centuries of darkness, of water untouched by light, of secrets preserved by neglect. Dariawen produces a small lantern from within her robes, its flame barely larger than a candle's but sufficient to reveal ancient stonework crafted with a precision modern architects would envy.

"This way," she directs, leading them into the tunnel. "The passage branches beneath the Temple District. From there, you can reach any part of the city undetected."

They descend into Bayehren's forgotten underbelly, the sounds of celebration fading behind them, replaced by the steady drip of water and the occasional scurry of creatures that have evolved to prefer darkness. The air grows cooler, damper, heavy with the weight of stone above.

"Dravos will not stop hunting," Dariawen observes as they navigate a particularly narrow section. "The ruby alone would ensure that. But the boy?" She glances at Torsa with something approaching sympathy. "A witness able to walk and talk and reveal his private appetites to the Governor's circle?"

"He'll find me gone and the ruby missing simultaneously," Torsa adds. "He'll assume collaboration, betrayal. His rage will be... considerable."

"Then we ensure he never finds either of you," Dariawen states with simple finality.

The tunnel branches, splits, rejoins itself in patterns that would confuse anyone without Dariawen's confident guidance. They pass chambers that might once have been storehouses, temples, meeting places for those who preferred their gatherings unseen by authority. Olyen recognizes certain markers from his own explorations of Bayehren's hidden geography, but even he would have struggled to navigate this labyrinth without assistance.

Their progress halts abruptly as voices echo from a passage ahead - rough men's voices, the clank of weapons against stone, the splash of booted feet through shallow water.

"Impossible," Dariawen whispers, genuine shock in her tone. "No one uses these tunnels but me and a handful of the society's oldest members."

"Dravos has resources we didn't anticipate," Olyen replies grimly. "Alternative route?"

Dariawen considers for only a moment before nodding toward a side passage barely wide enough for a man's shoulders. "Through there. It will take you beneath the old temple complex. Beyond that..." She hesitates, something like superstitious fear flickering across her face. "Beyond that lies the domain of older powers. I go no further."

Olyen understands immediately. "The Dancing God's territory."

Surprise registers in her eyes. "You know of it?"

"I've been there before." He turns to Torsa. "It's our best option now. A sanctuary even Dravos cannot violate."

Torsa nods, trust evident in his acceptance. "Then lead on."

Dariawen presses something into Olyen's hand - a small vial of liquid that gleams faintly in the lantern light. "If you're captured, three drops under the tongue. Quick, painless. Better than what Dravos would provide."

Olyen pockets the vial with a grim nod of thanks. "The Puppetmaster?"

"Will be informed of complications," she assures him. "But not of specific detours or sanctuaries sought." Her gaze moves meaningfully to Torsa. "Some details remain between us, Nightrunner. As they always have."

With that cryptic reassurance, she turns back toward the main tunnel, her figure quickly swallowed by darkness as she takes the lantern with her, not from cruelty but from necessity. She must find her own way out while they continue on a path she refuses to tread.

Olyen and Torsa press forward into the narrower passage, darkness enveloping them completely. Physical contact becomes their guide, Olyen's hand on the tunnel wall, Torsa's hand on Olyen's shoulder, connection their only certainty in the absolute blackness.

"Trust me," Olyen whispers, though the darkness makes the instruction almost unnecessary. Trust has become their only option.

They move slowly but steadily through the constricted space, the air growing warmer, drier, carrying a faint scent of incense and ancient stone. The passage widens gradually, the absolute darkness giving way to a faint ambient glow that seems to emanate from the walls themselves.

"What is this place?" Torsa asks, his voice hushed with instinctive reverence.

"Salvation," Olyen answers simply. "And possibly damnation. But definitely our best hope tonight."

The passage ends abruptly at a wall of solid stone that appears, to casual inspection, completely impassable. Olyen places his palm against it, closes his eyes in concentration, sends his silent petition to the entity that dwells beyond.

"I return with another who seeks sanctuary," he murmurs against the stone. "Open to us now, in our hour of need."

For a moment, nothing happens. Then the stone warms beneath his touch. Not gradually but with sudden heat that should burn flesh but somehow doesn't. The wall melts away like ice under flame, revealing the chamber beyond with its stone dais, and its bronze occupant frozen in eternal dance.

Olyen steps through the opening, drawing Torsa with him, into the temple of the Dancing God where pursuit cannot follow, where different rules apply, where new bargains wait to be struck between mortal need and divine caprice.

Behind them, the stone wall re-forms, sealing them inside with the ancient deity. The statue watches with metal eyes that somehow still manage to convey amusement at the predictable patterns of human desperation, human desire, human hope in the face of impossible odds. Flame flickers over the muscle of its body, glints into its eyes, and shimmers from its impossibly glistening erection.

Olyen sees that the beautiful boy is transfixed.

---

The final visit to Bayehren for this week! Thankyou once again for your support and guidance via your Comments and Shares telling me which of my stories you enjoy. If you’d like any of my work on your own timeline you’d be welcome to share.

With love

Zayq

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