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Then, halfway through the solo, she stops.
She stands perfectly still beneath the light, chest rising and falling, head tipped back, those copper curls catching the light until she looks like she's standing in flames.
Hunter’s fingers curl over the arm of the chair, and I don’t think he’s moved an inch since this started. All that nervous energy he had is no longer an issue. I have no fucking clue what the rest of the audience is doing. Don’t know. Don’t care.
This is where the Chosen One gives everything she has left until there's nothing left to give. It’s the one she’s struggled with–obsessed over. It’s no surprise that now that it’s here, Ari doesn't hold anything back.
The longer it goes, the heavier she moves. Every step looks harder than the last, every breath costing her something, but somehow she only gets stronger. She stumbles when she's supposed to, catches herself, and keeps going like stubbornness alone is enough to hold her upright.
It probably is.
Her curls stick to her damp neck and shoulders. Even from here I can see her chest heaving, her mouth open as she drags in one ragged breath after another, until she forces herself back up.
Without realizing it, I've dug my fingers into my own thighs hard enough to leave marks.
The orchestra throws everything it has at her until the music feels too big for the theater, and then she gives it one last piece of herself.
She folds into the final pose like her body has finally reached its limit. Knees bent. Spine curved. Arms stretched out in one last offering to gods that demand everything and never give anything back.
For a second she’s frozen in place, the sweat on her skin catching beneath the lights, her copper hair glowing like fire around her, and she looks less like a college student on a stage and more like something pulled straight out of the restricted section of the Barons library.
Then the music stops.
The silence hits just as hard.
She stays exactly where she is for three long heartbeats before slowly pushing herself upright. Most dancers would look relieved that it's over.
Ari doesn't.
She's still standing in that world, breathing hard as she stares out into the crowd like she's only just remembered we're here.
Then the applause starts. The whole theater erupts around us.
She bows once, slow and controlled, then a second time. Her curls spill over her shoulders before she straightens again, and when she lifts her head, her eyes find us.
Not the audience.
Us.
Just for a second.
The Chosen One disappears, and my girl is looking back at me. I swallow hard. Hunter's dead quiet beside me, but I don't have to look to know he's feeling the same thing I am.
Onstage, Ari slips back into line with the rest of the company as the lights begin to fade, but everyone in this theater is still looking at her.
They're not seeing the girl that was pulled out of the river, or handed over to men too cruel to understand that kindness isn't weakness. They're not seeing the bride who was traded away for power and information.
They're seeing exactly who she fought to become.
Our Chosen One.
36
Arianette
I’ve been on stage since I was five years old, starting when I was a child under my uncle’s watchful eye, but nothing has ever felt like this. The final notes of the orchestra still hum inside my bones.
Even now, tucked backstage among racks of costumes and discarded pointe shoes, I can still feel Stravinsky pulsing beneath my skin. My heartbeat refuses to adjust into anything resembling normal. It’s intoxicating, like I’m high on adrenaline and dopamine. I finally understand why dancers spend their entire lives chasing that feeling.
