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The other dancers are getting frustrated. During the lift sequence, two of the boys hoist me into the air, their hands gripping my waist and thighs with coordinated strength. For a moment I’m suspended, the lights blurring above me, the music swelling. But when they bring me back down, my landing is slightly off-balance. A girl in the corps mutters under her breath, “Again?” while another rolls her eyes as we reset for the third time.

Madame Duval claps her hands sharply from the front of the stage. “Break! Five minutes. Arianette, come here.”

I wipe sweat from my brow and walk over to her, chest heaving. She’s a small woman with sharp features and an even sharper gaze, her silver hair pulled back into a severe bun. She’s been pushing us harder than ever this week.

“You’re holding back,” she says without preamble, tapping her finger against her chin.

“I’ve been practicing nonstop,” I reply, a little defensive. “Every day. In the studio I have at home. I know the choreography inside and out.”

“You know the movements,” she corrects, her eyes narrowing. “But there’s something else going on. Your body is here, but your spirit is somewhere else. What is it?”

I hesitate, glancing at the other dancers who are taking sips of water and whispering among themselves. “I think I just don’t understand the ending. Why would she do that? Why wouldn’t she fight? She’s dancing herself to death for the tribe. For Spring. For renewal. But she doesn’t resist. She accepts it. It feels… wrong.”

Madame Duval studies me for so long I’m sure she’s going to take away the part. That’s all I can think when she gestures for me to sit on the edge of the stage with her. The other dancers drift away, giving us space. The stage lights feel warm on my skin as I sit, legs dangling over the edge.

“The Rite of Spring is not about resistance in the way you think,” she says, her voice softening. “It’s about the cycle of renewal. The tribe believes that for Spring to truly return and the earth to be fertile, a human sacrifice is required. The Chosen One is selected by fate–isolated by the community, elevated by the ancestors. Rather than being portrayed as a victim, she is glorified. Her Sacrificial Dance is exhausting, frenetic, a complete surrender to something greater than herself. She dances herself to death to appease the gods of Spring. It’s not about fighting the inevitable. It’s about embracing it with power. With purpose.” She tilts her head. “As Baroness, I should think you would understand these themes, correct?”

I listen, the words sinking in deeper than I expected. The correlation with my own life hits me like a physical blow. I’ve been the Chosen One–hunted, taken, isolated, forced into a role I never asked for. But I didn’t fight the way I thought I would. I adapted. I survived. I chose to stay with Damon, with Hunter, with Timothy. I chose to become part of something larger than my own pain.

“I see the parallel,” I whisper. “I’ve been the sacrifice. But I’m not a victim anymore. I’m choosing this life. This role.”

Madame Duval’s eyes soften with understanding. “Exactly. That’s why I chose this ballet for you. Not just because of your dance skills, though you have them in abundance, but because you understand what it means to be part of the ritual. You know what it’s like to be elevated rather than destroyed. When you take control of the dance, you’re not surrendering to death. You’re becoming the force that brings renewal.”

I nod, the weight of her words settling over me like a warm cloak. “I think I’m starting to understand.”

She smiles and stands, brushing off her skirt. “You’ll get it by the time of the performance this weekend. I have no doubt.”

She reaches into her bag and hands me a small white envelope.

“For you, because you are our Chosen One.”

Madame Duval walks back over to the dance troupe and claps her hands, starting them at the beginning again. I open the envelope and stare down at the appointment card inside, a sense of understanding that Madame Duval doesn’t just want me to perform as the Chosen One–she wants me to transform.

I turn to say thank you, but the door swings open at the back of the theater with a heavy thud. Hunter steps in, eyes wild and urgent until they land on me.

“Grab your things,” he says, already walking over to where I keep my dance bag, his footsteps echoing across the stage.

I glance at Madame Duval, expecting her to make a scene about me leaving class early, but she takes one look at Hunter’s expression and nods at me to be excused.

“What’s going on?” I ask, unlacing my shoes with shaking fingers. “Did something happen?” I pause, heart pounding in my throat. “Did you find Stella?”

“No.” He takes my hand in his, grip firm and urgent. “But Timothy knows who the Guardian is.”

“Amber.”

There’s a murmur of yesses and head nods, while everyone stays in motion, the tension in the library thick enough to cut with a knife.

This time I look directly at Timothy. “Your former wife, Amber, is the Guardian.”

“I don’t have direct confirmation,” he says, voice heavy with exhaustion and the edge of something darker. “But the evidence is clear. Amber, with the help of the traitors she picked up along the way, is responsible for the kidnappings and murders in Forsyth.”

Hunter had told me everything he knew on the way home from campus, including the fact that Timothy suspects Graves of being involved.

“Do you think that’s true?” I asked him in the truck.

He removed his hand from the steering wheel and squeezed my thigh. “I think we can’t take any chances.”

Now we’re in the library, a fire crackling in the fireplace making the room feel deceptively cozy, but I can’t shake the chill that takes root in my bones. The tall bookshelves loom around us, the gothic mural on the far wall seeming to watch everything unfold. The four of us–Damon, Hunter, Timothy, and me–are gathered around the large oak table, maps and notes spread out like a war council.