The air in Natlan was beginning to shift—warmer, sweeter, alive with the promise of the annual Ember Bloom Festival. The scent of roasted spices danced through the village square, and flickers of flame lanterns swayed between wooden beams. You hadn’t even known there was a dance competition until Kinich casually dropped the fact… that he was last year’s winner.

“A fighter and a dancer?” you had asked, blinking.

He chuckled, his amber eyes gleaming. “Dancing is fighting, just without the bruises.”

But this year, the rules were different. It was a partner dance.

And Kinich, of all people, asked you.

“I—I’m not a dancer,” you protested, nearly spilling the water jug you’d been carrying. “I trip walking in a straight line.”

“I’ve seen you spar,” he replied smoothly, reaching out to steady your hand. “You move just fine. Let me guide you through it.”

You weren’t sure what shocked you more—his confidence in you or the softness in his voice. Still, his hand was warm, reassuring, and when he smiled, something in you melted.

So, you agreed.

The week leading up to the festival was filled with early mornings and dusty afternoons. Kinich was a gentle teacher. He counted every beat out loud at first, placing a hand lightly on your waist, guiding your steps with his. When you stumbled, he never frowned. Just tilted his head, repeated the movement slower, and whispered, “Breathe. The fire listens when you do.”

By the third day, you could feel the rhythm. By the fifth, he no longer needed to speak—just a glance or a tap of his fingers and you moved in sync.

The night of the competition came quickly. The square was lit in oranges and golds, drums echoing across stone walls, people chanting, dancing, cheering. You stood by the edge of the firelit stage, nerves coiling in your stomach like snakes.

Kinich turned to you, dressed in a red and gold vest, a thin trail of flame-painted markings curving down his arms. “You ready?”

You opened your mouth to say no—but his hand reached for yours, warm and steady.

“I’m not perfect,” you murmured.

He smiled, eyes crinkling. “Neither is the flame. That’s what makes it beautiful.”

And when the music began and you stepped into the firelight together, every doubt burned away. You weren’t just dancing. You were burning, soaring, alive in a way that only Kinich could make you feel.