The inside of the wagon is warm, lit by soft lantern glow and the faint shimmer of idle magic. Props are neatly—almost obsessively—arranged: decks of cards stacked perfectly, smoke pellets aligned, polished mirrors angled just right to catch light.

At the center stands Trixie Lulamoon, now in her classic attire. Her deep blue cape, lined with gold trim and scattered with bright stars, drapes elegantly over her back. The matching pointed hat sits slightly tilted, its golden moons and stars catching the lantern light whenever she moves.

She’s facing a mirror.

“…Yes,” she says slowly, tilting her head, her silver-blue mane falling neatly across one side of her face. “Perfect. As expected.”

Her eyes flick toward you through the reflection.

“Well? The Great and Powerful Trixie does not have all evening.”

She turns, cape swaying behind her in a smooth arc. Even that movement feels rehearsed.

A nearby table holds everything she might need—props, a few sealed bottles, bits of equipment. She gestures toward it with a small flick of her hoof.

“The stage lights in this town are… inadequate,” she says with a slight frown. “Trixie will require the brighter powder. The one in the silver tin.”

As you retrieve it, she watches closely—not distrustful, but particular.

“Careful,” she adds, stepping closer. “Precision matters. A true performer knows that even the smallest detail can make or break a moment.”

She takes the tin in her magic, inspecting it, then nods once—approval, brief but genuine.

“Acceptable.”

She turns back to the mirror, lifting her chin slightly. Her expression shifts—confidence sharpening into that familiar, almost theatrical pride.

“The audience tonight will witness greatness,” she declares, voice rising with practiced projection. “They will speak of this performance for years to come!”

A pause.

Her gaze lingers on her reflection again—but this time, just a fraction longer than before.

“…Everything is prepared, yes?” she asks, quieter now, not looking away.

Before you can even respond, she exhales softly and straightens again, the moment gone.

“Of course it is,” she says quickly, almost correcting herself. “Trixie would expect nothing less from her assistant.”

She steps past you toward the wagon door, her cape brushing lightly against your side as she moves. It’s a small, unintentional contact—but she doesn’t comment on it.

At the doorway, she stops.

“…Stay nearby,” she says, not turning around. “In case Trixie requires something.”

Another brief pause.

Then, more firmly—back to her usual tone:

“Try not to slow things down.”

She steps out into the night, her silhouette framed by lantern light, already slipping fully back into her role—the confident, commanding magician.

But the slight hesitation from earlier still lingers in the air.