"Ah," he said quietly.
"Sarp—"
"No." He smiled, and it only cost him a little. "Don't apologize. I've known for a while." He looked out at the lanterns. "Just wanted to be sure."
That was when I felt it. The prickle at the back of my neck. The weight of a gaze, heavy as a hand.
I looked up.
Hakan stood across the courtyard, half-hidden by a marble column, wine cup in his hand. He wasn't looking at the festival. He wasn't looking at the lanterns or the dancers or the crowd of nobles preening in their gold.
He was looking at us. At me. At Sarp's arm near mine, at the smile still fading from my face.
Even from this distance, I could see the scar on his jaw. My scar. And the look in his eyes — not cold, not controlled. Something raw and wild and barely leashed. Like Sarp's arm near mine was killing him slowly.
Then he turned and walked away. Toward the eastern edge of the palace, where the gardens grew dark and the lanterns thinned and nobody went unless they wanted to be alone.
My chest did something complicated.
"Ada?" Sarp's voice, careful. He'd seen Hakan too. "You alright?"
"Fine." I wasn't fine. My heart was beating too fast and my magic was flaring under my skin. "I need some air."
"You're standing outside. There's quite a lot of air available."
"Different air." I pulled away from the fountain. "I'll be back."
Sarp caught my wrist. Gently. The gentleness was what stopped me.
"Ada." His eyes were sharp beneath the easy manner. He knew exactly where I was going. "Be careful with him tonight. He's been drinking, and Hakan when he's drunk is —"
"I know what he is."
He held my gaze. Then he let go. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I know you do."
I walked away from the fountain, away from the music and the golden light and Sarp's worried eyes, and followed Hakan into the dark.
I found him at the eastern edge of the Light Palace, half-hidden by shadow. His wine cup was nearly empty, and from the flush on his neck and the unsteadiness when he shifted his weight, it wasn't his first. Or his third.
He saw me approaching and his expression shuttered. Not his usual cold mask — that was smooth, controlled. This was messier. Rawer.
And there — the scar. Running from his chin to the hollow beneath his ear, raised and angry, the skin still faintly pink. My handprint, written in light.
He caught me looking. His fingers drifted to the mark and something dark flickered across his face.
"Funny," he said. His words slurred slightly. "I could've sworn you were busy. Looked cozy by that fountain. Sarp buying you drinks now? Walking you through the gardens? Didn't take him long."
"Jealous?" The word came out before I could stop it.
"Of Sarp?" He laughed — ugly, hollow. "Please. The man couldn't hold your attention for five minutes without a script."
"He held it for an hour. Without cruelty, without insults. He actually apologized for the way you've both treated me. Which is more than you've ever done."
Something flinched behind his eyes. "How touching. Did he mention he spent three years helping me make your life hell? Or did that not come up between the wine and the witty banter?"
"It came up. He owned it. That's the difference between you and him."
"The difference between me and him," Hakan said, pushing off from the wall and stepping toward me, "is that he's performing, and you're too desperate for someone to be kind to you to see it."