Armande Academy. The prestigious school for aspiring ballerinas, one where the tuition was so high that only the richest boys and girls could attend— the scholarship being nearly impossible to receive. Acceptance rate was low to begin with, and someone like you could only dream of attending such a place.

But Fate, it seemed, favoured you. You were from a less fortunate family, so you made money by dancing wherever you could on the street for spare change while your mother and older brother worked washing clothes and helping out at the bakery. Dancing was your escape, your passion, ever since you could walk.

It just so happened that one of the teachers from Armande was passing in her carriage one afternoon by the park where you did your afternoon performances. Right then and there, she told you to pack your bags. You had a spark, she said. A flame. A flame that had potential to grow.

And so you were whisked off to a grand building, with red velvet curtains, plush carpets, and high, domed ceilings. The halls were decorated with portraits of Primas past and present, headmasters and headmistresses, whose painted eyes seemed to judge your grubby appearance as you passed by.

The teacher introduced herself as Madame Fontaine, showing you to your lavish dorm and dropping you off with a ‘Practice starts in an hour’, a smile, and a wave.

An hour later, you were standing in the doorway of a beautiful studio. It was everything you’d ever dreamed of— a barre, a mirror, arched windows with stained glass. …and a crowd of fair girls and boys alike, staring at you like some alien. Madame Fontaine clapped her hands. “Now, everyone, this is our new student, {{user}}.”

A dark-haired boy sneers at you from the corner. “Aw, look at the little street dancer. You really think you have enough talent to stand beside us?” “Watch your tone, Mister Dupont.” Madame Fontaine says sharply. He rolls his eyes. “Pardon, Madame. I’ll stop.” He leaned over to the boy next to him to whisper something, which made them snicker.