4
With Zikr’s approval, his subordinates moved swiftly.
A grand banquet was arranged in the great hall of the city administration building, complete with an abundance of drinks, food, and women to attend to the guests. Naturally, an invitation was extended to the troupe of performers as well.
“…You will soon be treated to the beautiful queen of dance, a vision from beyond the Great Waterfalls. Lustrous black hair that has absorbed the light of the sun, radiant pale skin blessed by spirits—a supreme beauty, as if heaven itself had descended to earth. Tonight, she shall dance for you.”
With this grand introduction, the musician gestured, and the dancer slowly, captivatingly, lifted her veil.
The troupe, composed entirely of female performers, had already gained admiration in town for its enchanting dances. But the true spectacle was the veiled dancer, whose face had remained hidden—until now.
Zikr’s eyes widened the moment he saw her unveiled face.
“…”
Porcelain skin, long black hair cascading down her back, and a visage so breathtaking that it surpassed all expectations. The musician’s florid introduction had not done her justice—no words could.
Her striking black hair and fair skin, her body draped in thin, flowing garments, possessed a magnetic allure, enchanting all who beheld her. Yet those were merely surface elements of her beauty.
What struck Zikr most was her eyes. Almond-shaped, framed by long, delicate lashes, they were the focal point of her exquisitely proportioned face—the golden ratio in human form.
If she could captivate a crowd without even moving, then the moment she began to dance would surely be nothing short of mesmerizing.
Zikr longed to witness that magic unfold.
“—If we may now present our queen of dance’s performance…”
The musician with long black hair bowed deeply on behalf of the dancer.
Standing beside her was another performer, a blond woman, equally beautiful. Yet to Zikr—who had been utterly bewitched by the queen of dance—they were little more than accompaniments. It was a discourteous thought, one he ordinarily would never have indulged.
But Zikr was, after all, a skirt chaser. Faced with such extraordinary beauty, he could not remain composed. His heart burned with anticipation as the banquet began.
As the supreme commander, Zikr was seated at the head of the hall, surrounded by his subordinates. Every officer in attendance indulged in drink and food, but the true centerpiece of the evening was the performance.
Originally, the banquet had been planned as a way to lift morale and ease the frustrations of the men. But Zikr had long since forgotten that purpose. All that mattered now was witnessing the dance of the queen of the evening.
So captivated was he that he found his throat dry, which prompted him to lift his glass and sip, wetting his lips before exhaling in anticipation.
“…Tonight we present a dance from our lady’s distant homeland, far beyond the Great Waterfalls. From the very edges of the world, she brings you a vision of elegance. Please enjoy to your heart’s content.”
As the two musicians strummed their instruments, a delicate melody filled the hall—a tune foreign to all who heard it.
The once-boisterous officers, who had been chatting loudly moments before, fell silent, their flushed faces turning toward the stage. Not a single eye dared to stray, lest it miss a single moment of the dance about to unfold.
With an elegant step forward, the queen of dance began to move.
“…”
Everyone was speechless as she moved—her long arms and legs flowing with effortless grace, her black hair dancing through the air like silk caught in the wind.
Zikr forgot to breathe. He was captivated—no, enthralled.
How could anyone remain in full possession of their senses while witnessing a dance like this? Only a beast, incapable of comprehending the true majesty of the art, would remain unmoved.
And within the imperial army—the den of wolves—there were no such beasts. Every officer in the hall sat frozen, breathless, their words stolen by the sheer magnificence of the queen of dance.
All were enraptured.
Her pitch-black hair, her flawless porcelain skin, her face—so exquisite that an artist would surrender an arm just to capture it on canvas.
Yet none of those were what truly held Zikr’s gaze.
What consumed him—what stole his very soul—was her eyes.
He could not look away.
Those eyes, sharp and commanding, swept across the stage as she danced. They pierced through the crowd, locking on to Zikr as he sat at the far end of the hall. She never once broke her gaze, her eyes gripping his mind in an unshakable hold.
Then, as if guided by fate, the queen of dance slowly cut across the vast hall, her movements carrying her directly before him.
She knelt gracefully, extending both hands toward him.
She was asking for his sword.
Zikr knew this without needing to be told. It was an instinctive understanding, a truth as natural as breathing.
She continued dancing all the while, her movements intensifying. The energy of the room shifted. The very air itself seemed to vibrate with expectation. She held the world in the palm of her hand as she prepared to move to the next stage.
And she needed his sword.
A blade for the final act. A weapon to transform her performance into something even greater.
There was no refusing her.
No one in the hall—not Zikr, not his direct subordinates, and not the assembled officers—moved to stop what was happening.
It felt natural and inevitable.
And so…
“…It is your loss, Zikr Osman.”
The words were quiet, absolute.
The cold steel of a drawn blade pressed against his throat.
Even then, Zikr could not comprehend his own defeat.
He had lost—not as a soldier, not as a strategist—but simply because he was a skirt chaser.
“…”
Even in that final moment, at death’s doorstep, he could not look away from her eyes.
That cold, intoxicating charisma.
That gaze—vaguely familiar, yet impossible to place—etched itself into the mind of the defeated general, Zikr Osman.
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