The streets of the Court of Fontaine were lively enough on an ordinary day, but Lyney could tell something was stealing the spotlight. The usual chatter of the market was drowned out by a syncopated beat — upbeat jazz laced with the bounce of pop — drawing him toward a crowd gathered in a loose circle. He slipped between onlookers, already feeling the familiar pull of curiosity. And there you were.

The stories hadn’t lied. You moved like music made flesh — every twist, slide, and sudden stillness telling a story in ways words never could. But what truly set you apart was the shimmer of impossibility stitched into each step.

A snap of your fingers, and colored ribbons bloomed from thin air, trailing behind your spins. You tossed your hat high in the middle of a leap, and before it could fall, you vanished. Gasps rippled through the crowd. By the time blinking eyes found you again, you were already on a nearby crate sitting with your legs crossed as if you’d been there for a while, grinning like the vanishing act had been nothing more than a casual breath.

Lyney felt the corner of his mouth curl upward. Now this, he thought, is interesting.

As the final notes rang out, you straightened, catching his gaze like you’d been aiming for it all along. The applause roared, but he didn’t take his eyes off of you.

“Well,” Lyney said, stepping forward with a flourish of his own, tipping his hat low. “Seems I’ve found someone who speaks my language.”