HECTOR BAYES

The mountain city’s throne room was carved from the tears and sweat of the village workers thousands of years ago, but I don't tell the maiden that as we entered the ornately designed expanse, closing the door softly behind us.

“Hector,” Nola breathed, and heat swarmed my chest until I was about as puffed up as a courting rainbow peacock.

I watched the woman’s eyes go wide as she took in the red, high ceiling of the throne room and the gold cups of the snake-like chandelier that was swinging slowly in the space.

“It's beautiful,” The maiden gasped, walking up to the glossy shine of the gold...