Kai is looking at me like I've just proven something he wasn't sure he believed.
Admiration.
Respect.
Maybe something more.
The judges huddle at their table, heads bent together, voices too low to carry. I can see Martinez at the center—that silver head nodding occasionally, her stylus moving across a tablet as she takes notes or records decisions.
What are they saying?
Is it good?
Is it enough?
My toe taps against the stage floor.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
Four times.
One-two-three-four.
I can't stop the counting—the nervous energy has to go somewhere, and my body has decided that rhythmic movement is the answer.
Minutes pass.
Long ones.
The kind of minutes that stretch into eternities, that make you question every choice you've ever made, that turn confidence into doubt and doubt into panic.
What if they didn't like it?
What if the blades were too much?
What if they saw crazy instead of art?
What if?—
Martinez stands.
The movement silences my spiraling thoughts, draws every eye in the room—mine, my pack's, the few stragglers still gathering their belongings near the exits.
She approaches the stage.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Her heels click against the floor with the measured precision of someone who's spent a lifetime commanding attention. When she reaches the edge of the stage, she looks up at me with an expression I can't quite read.
"Miss Eastman."
Her voice carries—clear and cultured, the voice of someone who's addressed audiences far larger than this.
"Yes, ma'am."
"That was..." She pauses. Considers. "It's been a long while since we've seen such unique talent. Not just in dance, but in sword work, which would be an honor to continue and excel."
