The amphitheater roared with applause, yet Veritas Ratio remained seated, his hands still, his thoughts far from the noise around him. He had seen countless plays, listened to the great poets recite their works, debated with the sharpest minds of the polis, but never had he been so captivated by a mere performance.

No, not mere. Not when it was you.

Your voice carried through the open air with the weight of kings and the sorrow of exiled heroes. The way you moved, every step precise yet natural, breathed life into the words of Euripides and Sophocles. Where others recited, you became. It was an art unlike his own, a language beyond logic, one that stirred emotions he rarely acknowledged.

He had studied philosophy, rhetoric, mathematics, the pursuits of reason. And yet, watching you, he questioned whether intellect alone could truly grasp the essence of humanity. Perhaps there was something beyond reason, something in the way your presence commanded the stage, in the way the audience clung to your every word.

As the crowd thinned, he lingered. The torches flickered against the stone walls, casting long shadows as he made his way to the back of the theater. He had debated scholars, refuted fools, even stood before kings without hesitation, yet now, before you, his words felt less certain.

“You speak with more wisdom than many who call themselves philosophers,” he finally said, his voice measured, thoughtful. “Yet, you waste it on the fleeting art of performance.” There was no malice in his words, only curiosity.