“Don’t bother arguing. You’ve broken rules here tonight. Noise ordinances. Crowd ordinances. I see alcoholic beverages in the hands of underage drinkers.” He pretends to scan the crowd, but his eyes inevitably fix on me. We are not strangers, nor are we friends. Like most of the girls in our town, I’ve had to suffer the leering attention that Oxanos considers a part of his charm. “Exotic creatures, too? Do we have permits for the use of these?”

No one answers, because no one in the room’s ever needed a permit for dreamnots, or to throw a party, or to make noise in a bar. I realize the idea of us waking up Oxanos is just as laughable. Amaya’s bar is on the west end of town, almost a mile away from his cozy quarters above town hall. I’d bet ten legions he was passing by and was bored enough to try feeling important.

The rule of the Ashlords is unquestioned. We know better than to complain about our lives to them. They’ve never looked on us with mercy, but to see Oxanos trying to take these small joys builds fury in me like fire. I’m not alone. Half the room looks ready to breathe smoke.

“No permits,” he says, shaking his head. “Illegal activities. Arrests will have to be made.”

My mother stands. “Ashlord, please, it’s my daughter’s birthday.”

He ignores her. His eyes find me like Mother’s pronouncement has given him a right to stare. The entire room holds its breath. There’s not a man or woman in the bar who wouldn’t enjoy taking a swing at him, but striking an Ashlord isn’t an option. Defiance leads to death.

“Imelda Beru.” He tastes the name. “You’re to blame for all this, then?”

Father rises. The sight makes Oxanos smile, like he’s finally struck a chord of music he enjoys. Oxanos has probably heard stories of Ashlords inciting riots among the Dividian and getting killed for acting like fools. Those stories are rare, but every now and again it happens. Rare because rebellion has a cost. Battalions come, villages burn. The Ashlords always offer retribution, even for the lives of their most unlikeable exiles.

“A special occasion, but no excuse for illegalities.” Oxanos smiles. “I’ll pardon them, however, in exchange for a dance. Consider it a gift to you, Imelda.”

Murder is written on my father’s face. Uncles are sobering toward dark possibilities. Oxanos knows what he asks. A woman’s first dance belongs to her father, or her intended. I am old enough now to have a man who could ask that of my father, but it should never be someone like him. Oxanos is greedy and petty and undeserving.

I will not risk my father’s life on a man like him.

“I agree. One dance.”

Oxanos stares. “Of my choosing?”

“Of mine.”