The long, jet-black hair tied into an intricate braid, with a broad purple ribbon woven into it, stood out amidst the multiracial sea of faces crowding the little pub like a rose in a forest of bedstraw. Casia wondered why Kwan chose to wear it in a place like this. It was bound to attract unnecessary attention – some benevolent, some not so much. She shook her head. Well, Zainian aristocrats certainly weren’t known for their practicality, or subtlety for that matter. And it was not as if she had anything to complain about. She would probably not have heard of him quite as quickly as she had, had he chosen to be less ostentatious about his background and status.

From what little she could see of him in the dim crimson light of the pub, the unusual hairstyle appeared to be the most striking thing about him. He had his back to her, so she couldn’t see his face, but he seemed to have the pale complexion of most of his countrymen and was slightly built, no more than five-six, if that. He wore a rather ordinary grey frock-coat – out of fashion in Zaini for a few years at least, but not enough to be vintage – and loose black slacks that were folded at the hems and appeared to be a little too big for him. Apparently, his Lordship had made some concessions for the climate of his host country, and forgone the more conventional and elaborate outfits favoured by his compatriots.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Coming to a decision, Casia steadied herself with a deep breath and walked straight up to the object of her observations.

“Hello, my Lord. May I buy you a drink?” she asked with a winning smile, placing a friendly hand on Kwan’s shoulder and trying to make her voice as congenial and unthreatening as possible.