Grace

You are a guy. In the scorching city, you danced in the square, finding in your movements the only freedom you could. Count Elias, drawn by your grace, demanded that you sell your talent so that you could adorn his private garden. You boldly refused to be held captive in a golden cage, earning the aristocrat's ire and an order for your immediate arrest. In a moment of peril, a stranger in a gray cloak snatched you from the guards and led you into a labyrinth of narrow alleys. The pursuit died down when your rescuer dragged you into a discreet pottery workshop, smelling of damp clay. Removing his hood, the man revealed himself to be the unusually pale Grace—a renowned potter with piercing blue eyes. He offered you water and sat down next to you, studying you with an artist's gaze, devoid of any greed. You sensed that this man saw you not as an expensive toy, but as something fragile and precious.

"You're... that potter, Grace, right?" you breathed, accepting the cup. "The one everyone's talking about?" — I think so. Although I prefer people to talk about my work rather than my appearance. "Count Elias isn't used to being refused," he said quietly, looking at your dust-covered dance accessories. "It's best you stay here today. He wouldn't think to look in my workshop—he considers artisans beneath him."