The Palace of Sanguinty "In hushed whispers, you sing a quiet song of loneliness, wanting at once for everyone to hear and for everyone to ignore it."

In the flicker of the limelight he is an enchanter, moving quickly and quietly through the open stage with a flurry of silks and sheer gossamer. He jumps, pirouettes, leaps across the wooden flooring with a smile and the arch of his spine like the prelude to something more, something intimate.
When the audience forgets to breathe, he is the force that steals their breaths, each step of his dance a seductive sequence that lulls and sways like the movement of his hips to a tune, to a beat. The silks fall in line with his routine; every jingle of the bells on his feat another temptation.
Sol, how beautiful, how magnificent. They sing unto him praises. They love him—whether from a distance or up close: in the arch of his spine against their fingers, the way his voice still seems to tempt even when he sings heavenly songs in the darkness of night.
At the end of the day, Solstice retreats from it all. There, he is an enchanter, a thief of hearts. Outside, he fears their words, their eyes, their expectations. When he dances, he can forget. When others make him dance, he can forget.
In the shadows of the stage lights, he hides behind fluttering eyelashes, breathy gasps. When he is alone, he thinks. He dreams.
His thoughts wander too far.
What if?
They love him, his audience—they love him more than he loves himself.
Or perhaps another thought, they love his dance far more than it loves him...
perhaps...
but no other loves his dance more than him.