He certainly hadn’t tried to fit in with the sophisticated crowd, arriving in his utility pants and leather jacket, boots unlaced and hair unkempt.
They’d seated him down in front, dead center, Anaemos spare him. Displeased grunts sounded as he shuffled down the row, knocking knees and crushing toes, then pushed down the velvet cushion and plopped into his narrow chair. His massive body barely fit.
A scoff tickled the back of his neck—a patron annoyed by this mountain of a male blocking their view.
Ronin swiveled, flashing his fangs, and the thin male cowered, mouthingsorrybefore careful averting his eyes.
Ronin scanned the rows around him for any sign of Otto or his hulking bodyguard but they either hadn’t arrived yet or theywere seated elsewhere. Wrath of Vestan, Skanisse better not have been wrong about Otto’s attendance or this would all have been an enormous waste of Ronin’s time.
The orchestra began playing the first notes of the overture, a song he was surprised to recognize—one of Selene’s favorites. He hummed along, the melody seared into his brain.
The music faded and the curtain parted, revealing a painted backdrop of a farmhouse nestled atop rolling fields of gold and green.
A male dancer bounded onto the scene, dressed in what looked like peasant’s garb: a fitted brown tunic and black tights.
Ronin fought the urge to fall asleep as the male leapt and twirled across the stage. He was joined moments later by four female dancers in flowing purple skirts and green tights.
Were they supposed to be flowers? Ronin chuckled out loud, earning a few sidelong glances from his seatmates.
Ronin had no idea what the fuck was going on. He thought the male was supposed to be a farmer, maybe? But he kept having poor luck with his animals and his crops. Despite his efforts, everything he touched was failing. Ronin had to bite his lip to keep from snickering at the dramaticdeathsof first the flowers, then wheat, then, to Ronin’s near uproarious laughter, cows.
As the act drew to a close, the male lead was at his wit’s end. He performed an aggressive solo full of pretend shirt-rending and fist-raising, then fell to the floor in supplication, his knees cracking the boards.
The entire stage went dark, save for a single spotlight up by the rafters.
Gasps rippled through the audience as a pair of crimson pointe shoes dipped below the top curtain.
As much as he hated to admit it, Ronin would recognize those legs anywhere.
A stiff red tutu came into view, followed by a bejeweled bodice, a delicate, exposed collarbone, a long neck, and then…
There she was.
Mireille floated down to the stage, the combination of her poised legs, fluttering arms, and beatific face mesmerizing.
Alighting upon the boards, she raised an arm, and Ronin noted a long, silver scar trailing down her right forearm. He hadn’t noticed it before, wondered where she’d gotten it. Scars on Fae were quite rare.
She approached the kneeling male, her feet moving so quickly she appeared to be floating, then bent gracefully at the waist and touched his shoulder. He reared back, his mouth wide with rapture.
The stage went entirely dark, the curtain fell, and the auditorium lights flared to life.
“What’s happening right now?” Ronin growled to the male seated next to him, a small rodent Beastrunner with buck teeth.
The male shrank from Ronin’s glare and stuttered, “In-intermission. A fifteen-minute break before the second act begins.”
Ronin crossed his arms, annoyed. He didn’t want to wait even fifteen minutes to watch more of Mireille. So far, she was the only interesting part of this show.
The audience filed out of their seats and Ronin rose with a huff, figured he might as well grab a Delirium during the break.
He purchased a glowing bottle at the refreshment stand, then leaned against the wall to drink it as he awaited the end of intermission.
Many sidelong glances were cast his way, along with murmured speculations about what the Butcher of Aethalia was doing at the ballet. A few brave souls tossed a snarky remark or two about his attire. An even braver Windrider male with tucked black wings came over to congratulate him on his win the othernight. And to chat about tomorrow’s championship bout. Ronin nearly snarled at the pity he found on the male’s face as he not-so-subtly studied Ronin’s tattoos.
The flickering lobby lights mercifully ended both the conversation and Ronin’s discomfort, and the crowd streamed back into the auditorium.
As he retook his seat, his head loose and woolly from the Delirium, he noted a pair of pale yellow eyes staring down at him from a box close to the stage.
Jurgev Otto dipped his chin in greeting, Julius Kosera a bulging shadow behind him. The Greyhorn looked even more bored than Ronin. Otto refocused his piercing gaze on the stage as if he could force the curtain to rise through sheer will.
