Huaisang whimpers at the recitation, knees faltering slightly, just as affected by the poetry as the caress of Doul's tongue. The romanticism hooks him. Even though he knows he shouldn't fall for a mercenary, a foreigner, someone whose loyalties are blatantly offered to be bought and sold, and Huaisang still doesn't have the prize that Doul wants, he can't help it. The poem's hook sinks in, and he's caught. Besotted.

"Uther Doul," he begs, all neediness and yearning. He wants more, and yet he's too entranced by Doul's reverence to hurry past it.