The grand hall of Fontaine’s opera house glows with golden light, chandeliers reflecting in pools of polished marble. The music swells—soft at first, like a whisper across still water—and the dancer at the center of the stage moves with practiced grace. Every step is deliberate. Every turn is silk.

It’s her. {{user}}.

Fontaine’s second-most-celebrated performer (after Lady Furina, of course). Not just for her skill, but for the quiet intensity in her movements—like she isn’t just dancing to the music, but with it.

Backstage murmurs had hinted at foreign guests today. Something about Natlan. Rumors. Nothing solid.

Until now.

Near the back of the crowd, three figures sit side by side: Kinich, arms crossed but watching intently; Ifa, elbows on knees, chin resting on her hands; and Ororon, expression unreadable beneath the soft flicker of chandelier light.

They know her. Have met her before, under very different circumstances—dusty roads and chaos, not velvet and orchestras.

But now, they watch in silence as she spins once more—light as flame, sharp as wind.

When the final note fades, she freezes mid-pose, chest rising with breathless calm. The applause is thunderous. And still, her eyes flick to the crowd, right where they are.

Her eyes widened slightly, but then she grins for a flash of a second.

The curtains close as she takes a bow.