A long pause. Then, surprisingly, she laughs—a small, rueful sound. “Honestly? I don’t know anymore. Before all this—“ She waves her hand at the fortress, at everything. “I would have said yes. Now?” She shrugs. “They wanted me to be someone I’m not. Maybe it’s better this way.”
“That’s sad.”
“That’s life.” She leans into my side, warm and solid. “I’ve found people who want me to be who I am. That’s more than they ever offered.”
“You mean Selene?”
“I mean everyone.” She tilts her head to look at me. “Including you.”
“I definitely want you to be who you are. The organized, terrifying, pillow-throwing version of you is very entertaining.”
She laughs and shoves at my shoulder. “You’re impossible.”
“You like it.”
“I’m starting to.” She says it quietly, like a confession. “More than I expected.”
The dancing is a secret I discover by accident.
I’m passing the training yard after midnight, restless, when I hear music drifting from one of the storage rooms. Traditional Irish, played on a fiddle recording.
She’s moving in the moonlight. Not the controlled, precise movements of combat training. Something wilder. Freer. Her feet know patterns her mind has forgotten, carrying her through steps that speak of pub nights and celebrations and joy.
She’s smiling. Eyes closed, arms moving through the air, completely lost in the rhythm.
I watch from the shadows. Don’t interrupt.
But when she finishes, breathing hard and laughing at herself, I step forward and applaud.
She spins, startled. “Rurik! How long have you been?—“
“Long enough.” I cross to her. “You’re good.”
“I’m rusty.” But she’s smiling, not embarrassed. “I haven’t danced in years.”
“Why not?”
“No time. No reason.” She shrugs. “Life got in the way.”
“Dance with me.”
“What?”
“Dance with me.” I hold out my hand. “I don’t know the steps, but I’m a fast learner.”
She stares at me for a long moment. Then she laughs—bright and surprised and real—and takes my hand.
“You’re going to be terrible at this.”
“Probably. Teach me anyway.”
She teaches me. I’m terrible. She laughs the entire time, guiding my feet through patterns I keep forgetting, catching me when I stumble.
“Left foot. Left foot. Rurik, that’s your right?—“
“All feet look the same from up here.”
“That’s not how anatomy works.”
