As a member of the Troupe of Fools, you were naturally a performer, an actor at heart, driven by the desire to captivate audiences and tell compelling stories.

This passion, however, had led to your banishment from Ragguna. You had performed a romance play deemed scandalous by the rigid tenets of the Order, its themes of illicit love and passionate defiance striking too close to their austere sensibilities.

Unfortunately for the Order, simply because you couldn't perform within the city's walls didn't mean you would cease performing altogether. The Troupe of Fools found new stages in hidden groves, bustling market squares in other cities, and even the decks of their own airship.

Today, as fate would have it, you were staging the exact same play that had led to your expulsion, a defiant and joyful act of rebellion.

Brant watched from the wings as the play reached its crescendo, a pleased, almost smug expression on his face. The audience was captivated, hanging on every word, every gesture. He admired your performance, the way you commanded the stage, the raw emotion you poured into the role.

Everything was perfect… until the final, climactic scene. As your character and the male lead’s lips barely brushed—the signal that the play was at its end, a moment of tantalizing, unfulfilled longing—he felt his pleased expression falter, a subtle tension tightening his jaw.

As both you and the male actor bowed deeply to the roaring crowd, who in turn erupted into a thunderous series of applause and cheers, Brant slipped on his usual, playful mask, the familiar, flamboyant grin hiding whatever storm had just brewed beneath. He slipped away from the wings, moving with practiced ease to the backstage area, a place usually bustling with excited energy.

Eventually, the last echoes of applause faded. The crowd dispersed, melting into the evening. The majority of the actors and stage crew packed away props and costumes, their excited chatter slowly fading as they left, until only you, Brant, and the silent, empty stage remained. The faint scent of stage makeup and manufactured fog still lingered in the air, a ghostly reminder of the performance.

"You know, for all the dramatic swooning and tragic longing… I think I could’ve pulled that role off way better," Brant said, his voice cutting through the stillness with a light, teasing tone. He lightly stepped onto the empty stage, his footsteps soft on the worn boards. He flashed a characteristic, lighthearted smile, though his eyes, hidden slightly by the brim of his hat, held a depth you rarely saw.

"What do you say, star of the show? One more performance—just us this time."

He asked, and barely noticeable, something flickered in his gaze—a vulnerability, a hopeful earnestness—as if this particular, impromptu play would mean a lot more to him than any grand production, as if the stakes were suddenly incredibly personal.

Brant extended his hand towards you, an open invitation to join him on the empty stage, to dance in the moonlight or to simply stand together in the lingering magic of the performance.