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Maybe if I weren’t so distracted, checking the aisle for some kind of disruption, even though I know nobody's coming through it. If I weren’t checking my phone for phantom vibrations even though I know I silenced it the second the lights went down.

Sofia's somewhere out there playing prey and Amber's prowling through the tunnels, hunting her, and we're stuck in creaky, velvet seats watching maybe the longest ballet that has ever existed. Hunter's knee hasn't stopped bouncing since the lights went down.

I finally cut him a look, and mutter on an exhale, "Knock it off."

Hunter doesn't. So I drive an elbow into his ribs.

He grunts, and the bouncing stops. Not because either of us feels any better, because this is about her, not us. Ari's worked her ass off for this. Weeks of rehearsals both here and at the studio back at home. She’s put in late nights, iced her sore muscles, and spent way too much time doubting herself every other day until one of us talked her off the ledge. Sitting still for a couple hours isn't exactly asking a lot. She’s going to be crushed to find out Timothy bailed.

Still…

This shit is boring.

Or it feels that way until, up on the stage, everything changes.

The orchestra music turns harsh, all teeth and claws, until I swear I can feel it rumbling beneath my boots. The dancers who've been circling each other all night suddenly peel away, the lights drop until there's nothing left but a single circle of white, and she walks into it.

"Holy shit."

The words are out before I can stop them, loud enough that the people in front of us glance back.

I don't care.

On one side of me, Hunter lets out this rough sound that lands somewhere between a curse and a prayer.

Jesus Christ.

Arianette barely looks like herself.

Her hair's different.

Changed.

The dark locks are history. In their place are wild copper curls that catch every damn light in the theater until it looks like she's on fire. It should be weird, like looking at a stranger. It shouldn’t work.

But holy hell, it really fucking does.

Ari had explained to us that her role in The Rite of Spring is that of the Chosen One, a virgin selected by her tribe for sacrifice. She’s a gift to the Gods for rebirth and new life. She talked about it in the car to and from school, while she practiced, or over breakfast. I listened, but I didn’t really get it.

Not until now.

Because her face looks like the girl we found in the woods that first night. Covered in blood. Cornered. Ready to fight anybody stupid enough to come at her. I’d watched her rehearse this piece for weeks, but her hours of practice never looked anything like this. It didn't have an orchestra trying to tear the walls down, or a spotlight making her look like somebody's offering.

The first beat hits and she's already moving, her feet slamming the stage hard enough I swear I feel the vibration. There's nothing soft about the way her body moves. She spins, drops low, comes back up with her elbows driving through the air like weapons instead of limbs.

Her copper curls whip around her face every time she turns, catching the lights until she looks like she's burning from the inside out, and my pulse climbs right along with the music until the rest of the theater disappears.

Hell, we could be standing in the crypt, or back in those woods around the altar with the Shadows gathered around us, watching another ritual play out. That's what this feels like.

Not some twirly ballet. A sacrifice.

I've seen Ari survive more pain than anyone should have to. I've watched her fight, seen the blood rise from her flesh after being carved into. Listened to her beg for more pain from my needles. Even when she’s fallen apart and somehow put herself back together stronger than before, she’s never let go like this.

The orchestra keeps throwing punches, and she answers every one with her body. She sinks so low it looks like the stage is trying to swallow her whole before she explodes back to her feet. Her arms cut through the air like she's trying to carve something out of it.

Somehow it's like watching a fight in the Fury, the brutality impossible to look away from. Sweat glistens along her throat and collarbones. Damp curls cling to her temples, but she doesn't slow down for a second. Three nights ago she was sitting in our library begging Timothy to perform.

My chest feels too damn tight when she takes a leap that hangs in the air longer than it should. When she lands, I feel the impact all the way up my spine. The music keeps coming at her, louder every second, trying to break her.