Stejraa traced her fingers along the ancient reliefs as she walked by a timeworn spire near the South Gate. The engraved bas-reliefs showed the Shadow King surrounded by young Aspara dancers, figures frozen mid-gesture, their postures speaking to her in a language she knew in her bones before she knew it in her mind.

She pulled her bright yellow krama tighter around her face as she navigated the narrow vaulted streets. It was dawn, and the streets were still asleep. The color and checkerboard pattern marked her as a villager, easy to ignore, which was precisely what she needed for this day. Her loose linen skirt and shirt were deliberately chosen: a dancer fallen on hard times, seeking work at noble houses.

A number of Sky Singer elves were arranging wares in their market by the edge of the ancient ruined palace nicknamed the Hill. Stejraa moved past them toward a clay-brick dwelling that leaned against the compound’s crumbling walls. An inconspicuous elf standing by the door nodded her toward the entrance. Inside, the room was sparse: a sleeping mat, a wooden screen decorated with stylized forest imagery, and a small mirror.

And the vial.

She lifted it from where it lay hidden beneath the mat. Big enough for two doses. It was a clear liquid that caught the dawn’s light filtering through the gaps in the wall. The Alliance contact had been explicit: “One for the target. One failsafe, if the templars take you.”

Stejraa smiled bitterly. A failsafe. Yes.

She set the vial down and began her morning practice, her body moving through the stilted postures of liaka-ih - the dramatic and tragic style of Nibenese dance. Her movements were sharp, controlled; each gesture part of the complex code that let Nibenese communicate through precise dance movements - pain, loss, and vengeance. Her fingers shaped the signs as naturally as breathing.

Stop, she told herself. Focus.

But the memories came anyway, as they always did in this city.

She recalled how, years ago, she had watched from the Aspara galleries, her face hidden behind the ceremonial veil all templar-wives-to-be were made to wear. Below her, the game turned brutal as a half-giant clashed with two gladiators, one of them a human wielding a bone longsword and moving like a whirlwind.

He fought with desperate grace, each movement economical, efficient. When he struck the final blow and the crowd erupted, she found herself on her feet, her heart pounding. The gladiator looked up at the galleries. For a moment, she was certain he saw her.

Stejraa pressed her palm against her waist, where once a long scarf had bound her to that man, Kael. The marriage ceremony was simple: bound by the waist to her beloved gladiator for a week, an official sign of commitment for all to see in the Naggaramakam. For this to happen, she turned down the Shadow King, which was highly uncommon, and probably an unbelievable tale for those outside the walls of the city-state, but it wasn’t unheard of. The Shadow King didn’t have a jealous heart.

She shook her head, dispelling the memory. Today was not the day for mourning.

A soft knock at her door. One tap, pause, three taps. Alliance signal.

“Enter,” she said, keeping her Nibenese accent subtle.

The man who slipped through the door was unremarkable by design - middle-aged, dressed as a laborer, his face forgettable. Only his eyes betrayed him: alert and watchful. “We do it tonight,” he said without preamble. “House Jedelkam is hosting a celebration for the new moon. Yalambu will be there; the defiler we discussed. He’s been on a rampage in the disputed territories of the forest, killing and defiling indiscriminately.”

Stejraa nodded.

“You’ll perform as part of the entertainment. The poison should be administered during the final dance, when you offer him wine.” He placed a small pouch on the mat with her payment, and a performer’s token. “This is important. Yalambu has powerful friends in the Chamber of Air. His death must look like natural causes.”

“Who else will be attending?” she asked.

The contact consulted a scroll filled with strange symbols. “The usual noble families. All the elders of House Jedelkam, obviously. Temmnya Shom, Bistrilhm the stable owner, and some other minor sycophants.”

Her heart stopped. “Bistrilhm?”

“Yes, Bistrilhm. You heard of Agu the gladiator who won the last tournament? Well, he owns him. He rarely attends social functions anymore, but apparently he’s an old friend of the host.” The contact looked up. “Is that a problem?”

Stejraa forced herself to breathe normally. “No. No problem. I knew the name from… before. When I was in the Naggaramakam.”

“Ah.” The contact’s expression hardened slightly with a judgmental frown. “Were you one of those foolish young wives that suddenly got cabin fever in Naggaramakam? That must have been difficult.”

“I never married Nibenay,” she bluntly answered.

After he left, Stejraa sat very still, staring at the vial. Bistrilhm the stable owner, Bistrilhm the enslaver, Bistrilhm the waster of lifes. The man who had owned Kael. The man who had watched him win fight after fight in the arena, raking in ceramic pieces from the wagers. The man who had sold him to the Shadow King when the Dragon’s levy came due.

Midday - Sage’s Square

The blackened square was exactly as the stories described: a wound in the heart of the merchant district. Agafari trees had once provided shade for scholars and philosophers, but now, only scorched stone remained, and a thin trickle of water ran from the fountain in the center. The trees had been destroyed by a rogue defiler, and the Shadow King had ordered the ground to remain barren as a warning to the citizens.

Stejraa stood at the edge of the square, watching templars in their various states of undress patrol the perimeter. The highest-ranking wore nothing at all, their bare skin a declaration of power. Mid-level priestesses wore only skirts, their blue-stained teeth visible when they smiled - stained from the years of chewing betel nut. The lowliest templars, clad in full saramis and armor, stood guard at the merchant house emporiums that ringed the blackened space.

She needed to move. Otherwise, standing still will draw attention.

Stejraa crossed toward the High Road, the enormous elevated causeway that ran from the Naggaramakam’s south wall to the Reservoir Gate. She could see the top of the reservoir garden from here. A place accessible only to templars and those with special permission.

She had danced there once, during a Starlight Pageant. Before everything changed.

Flashes of memories brought her back four years ago at the Reservoir Garden.

The Apsara moved in perfect synchronization, dozens of young women flowing from the Naggaramakam down the High Road in the pre-dawn darkness.

The king’s defilers wove illusions through the performance, colorful phantasms that danced alongside them. Fire that didn’t burn. Water that flowed upward. Light that painted the carved spires in impossible hues.

She had felt nothing but duty then. The apsara performed for the glory of Nibenay, for the city, for the Shadow King who could claim them all.

But in the crowd, watching from the upper galleries reserved for victorious gladiators and their sponsors, she saw him. Kael. His owner, Lord Bistrilhm, sat beside him, pointing out the dancers with lecherous eyes. Thanks to his wealth and status, he felt entitled to comment openly on their bodies.

Kael’s eyes found hers across the distance, and smiled at her.

“Move along, traveler.”

Stejraa jerked back to reality. A mid-level templar, bare-chested, with a bone dagger at her hip, was watching her with suspicion.

“Apologies, honored one.” Stejraa said quickly, bowing to the traditional Nibenese manner. “I was admiring the architecture. We have nothing like this in my village.”

The templar’s expression softened slightly. “Where do you hail from?”

“The scrublands beyond the Verdant Belt. My family trades in cotton.” The lie came easily. She’d rehearsed it a hundred times. “I’m a dancer, seeking work in the noble houses.”

“Can you prove your skill?”

Stejraa’s hands moved before the templar finished speaking, flowing through a brief sequence in priytu-ih: the joyful dance style. It was comic, light and unthreatening. The gestures spelled out: Greeting, honored one. This humble performer seeks only to bring beauty to your magnificent city.

The templar laughed, genuinely pleased. “Well executed. You know the old codes.” She gestured toward the emporiums. “The merchant houses hire entertainers regularly. Or try the bard’s quarter in the Hill, though I’d recommend you avoid the inner wards after dark.”

“Thank you, honored one.” Stejraa bowed again with relief.

Afternoon - The Arena

The gladiatorial arena of Nibenay was carved into the earth itself: an inverse pyramid where the highest seats sat at street level and the tiers descended toward the fighting floor below. Stejraa stood at the rim, looking down into the empty pit.

In a few hours, it would fill with spectators for the evening games. Slaves were already raking the sand and checking the mechanism of the portcullis that led to the holding cells beneath. Somewhere down there, in the network of tunnels the Shadow King maintained, prisoners fought for their lives against creatures captured in the forest wilderness or the salt desert.

Kael had told her about those tunnels, late at night. How he’d been thrown into the maze as punishment once, armed only with a bone short sword, and fought his way to the surface. How he’d killed a gith with his bare hands when his blade shattered. How he’d emerged covered in blood only for his owner to laugh and place a larger wager on his next fight.

Later that same evening he told her: “They’re taking fifty gladiators,” he paused as he couldn’t look her in the eyes, “for the Dragon’s levy. Bistrilhm is offering me to fulfill his obligation.”

Stejraa had felt the world tilt. “No. He can’t. You’ve won every fight, you’ve made him rich—”

“He’s bored of me. And the Shadow King pays well for arena champions.” Kael’s voice was steady, but she could see the fear in his eyes. “Once they take me to the salt flats, I’ll never come back.”

“Then let’s run. I know the forest paths, I can—”

“They’ll hunt us. You know they will. And when they catch us, they’ll make examples of us both.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “I won’t let you die for me.” “Then what?” Her voice broke. “I’m supposed to just watch them take you to the Dragon?”

He said nothing for a long moment. She wasn’t sure, but she thought he swallowed some tears before letting out, “Sorry it has to be like that. For us, there’s no world outside these walls.”

But she had tried. Three days later, when the templars came to collect the levy, she had gone to Lord Bistrilhm herself. She came veiled, anonymous, speaking through an intermediary as was proper for a low-ranking apsara. She had offered everything: ceramic pieces she’d saved, favors she could call in, even a promise to spy for him within the Naggaramakam.

Bistrilhm had laughed. “Tell your mistress that the gladiator is mine to dispose of as I see fit. The Dragon’s levy is an honor, not a punishment. Her concern is noted and dismissed.”

Three months later, a death-token arrived at the temple: a wooden disc with Kael’s arena name etched into it. Dead in service to the Shadow King. No body would be returned. She had fled that night, abandoning everything. The Alliance found her in the Plain of Burning Water, saved by the Zwuun, half-starved and hollow-eyed. They gave her purpose: fight the Sorcerer King and strike against tyranny wherever it took root.

A shout startled her out of her dream. “Oi! You lost?”

Stejraa turned. A large bald guard, wearing the tabard of House Jedelkam, was approaching. His hand rested casually on his obsidian short sword.

“Just admiring the arena,” she said, infusing her voice with wonder. “I’ve heard stories about Nibenay’s games since I was a child. Is it true that champions sometimes earn their freedom?”

The guard’s eyes beamed with pride. “Aye, sometimes. Rare, though. Most die in the sand.” He looked her up and down, noting the performer’s token hanging from her belt. “You’re here for tonight’s games?”

“No, I’m performing at your master house actually. A private celebration.” she said as she pointed at the heraldry on his tabard.

“Oh! Then you’ll want to head to the compound soon. They’ll need you for rehearsals.” He pointed nearby, toward where the noble compounds overlooked the city. “Take the Snake Tower route, it’s faster than the street level.”

Evening - House Jedelkam

Stejraa climbed the heavy sandstone stairs, passing other performers: musicians with their drums and flutes, a fire-eater, a juggler. The other dancers ignored her, competition was fierce, and outsiders were rarely welcomed.

A walkway led to House Jedelkam’s entrance: a doorway carved to look like a fabled monster’s mouth. Guards checked her performer’s token and waved her through.

Inside, the compound was alive with activities. Murals covered every wall, depicting House Jedelkam’s history in vibrant colors. Intricately woven carpets lined the floors, and decorative screens separated various chambers. The scent of incense hung thick in the air.

Slaves directed the performers to a preparation chamber where the house steward - an older woman in a fine linen skirt - reviewed the evening’s entertainment. No krama covered her head, a slave confident enough in her own power to go bare-headed, and look almost noble for it.

“You,” the steward said, pointing at Stejraa. “What style do you perform?”

“Liaka-ih, honored one. The dramatic style.”

The woman’s eyebrows rose. “Ambitious. And bloody, I hope.”

Stejraa nodded. She showed her prized mask depicting a mystical beast, a sharp obsidian knife and executed some moves, as she quickly threw some red paint to impress. The tragic style traditionally used red paint to symbolize blood. The old house steward nodded at the blood, pleased with the quick introduction.

“Good. We’ll have you perform during the third course. Lord Yalambu appreciates the… visceral arts.” The woman consulted a nervous looking advisor. “You’ll dance for approximately five minutes, then offer wine to the guests. Standard performance compensation: three ceramic pieces and a meal. Acceptable?”

“Most generous, honored one.”

“Excellent. The slaves will show you where to prepare.”

As Stejraa was led away, she glimpsed the main dining hall through a parted curtain. Nobles were already arriving, dressed in traditional garb of extraordinary quality. She studied the faces, searching for Yalambu.

No where to be seen yet. However, there, she saw him, Bistrilhm the enslaver.

He looked older than she remembered, his face more lined, his hair greying. But the eyes were the same: cold, calculating, utterly indifferent to anything beyond his own interests. He wore nothing but a simple linen skirt and sandals - the mark of a stable owner who had inherited his position young enough, and held it far too long, to no longer care about formalities.

Stejraa’s hands began to shake. She forced them still.

The vial hung from a cord around her neck, hidden beneath her robe. Two doses.

She rehearsed the movements in her mind: the dance, the approach, the moment of revelation. It had to be perfect. She would only get one chance.

A gong sounded. Time.

Night - The Performance

The dining hall was magnificent. Murals depicted great battles from Nibenay’s history, and the ceiling was carved to look like a canopy of agafari branches. Nobles reclined on cushions around low tables laden with food: rice, erdlu meat, exotic fruits from the forest, nut pastes - delicacies from across the Tablelands.

Lord Yalambu sat at the head table, laughing at some joke. He was young, perhaps thirty, carrying himself with the particular ease of a man who had never been hungry. Her target played casually with his long slick black hair as he spoke to some young impressed noble, yet her focus kept drifting to another part of the hall.

Lord Bistrilhm sat three tables away, speaking quietly with some noble. He looked bored. Stejraa pinched herself, she couldn’t let Bistrilhm make her lose focus. There was too much at stake now.

The musicians began to play: drums and flutes creating the hypnotic rhythm that set the foundation for all Nibenese dance. Stejraa stepped into the center of the hall, and the nobles fell silent.

She began to move.

Liaka-ih was a language of tragedy, each gesture laden with meaning. Her body told a story: a warrior going to battle… a lover left behind… death approaching… grief. The stilted postures flowed into passages of stamping feet, her body spinning and striking the air.

The nobles watched, entranced. Some understood the deeper meaning in her movements. Others simply appreciated the visceral beauty of a woman painted blood-red, dancing like she was fighting invisible enemies.

Stejraa let herself fall into the rhythm. For these long minutes, she wasn’t a spy or an assassin or a grieving widow. She was a simple dancer telling a story as old as the city’s wall.

Then as the drums thundered, Stejraa’s spin carried her gaze across the hall - past Yalambu’s soft, laughing face, onto Bistrilhm’s cold bored eyes. The same eyes that had dismissed her veiled pleas like dust. He didn’t recognize her. Why would he? Years had passed and Stejraa had been careful to change her appearance: her hair was cut shorter now, her skin darkened by years in the sun, her body lean from hard travel. Today, she was just another performer in a city full of them.

She stared at him as she kept dancing.

The man who had owned Kael like property. Who had grown rich off his blood, as well as countless others. Who had sold him to the Shadow King without a second thought, laughing off her desperate pleas like they were nothing.

Her postures sharpened, fingers curling into signs no longer scripted: Vengeance. Reckoning. Death. Murmurs rippled through the nobles; the steward frowned but waved the guards back, mistaking it for dramatic flair. Stejraa closed the distance, her feet stamping a path of reckoning.

The ancestors’ own shit could deal with that defiler, Yalambu. She owed nothing to no one. The world only had ever taken from her.

Bistrilhm raised an eyebrow as Stejraa danced closer. Amused, perhaps. Or simply curious why this strange dancer was focusing on him instead of the guest of honor.

Stejraa’s final movements brought her within arm’s reach. She sank into a deep posture, a gesture of submission and offering, and reached for the wine cup on his table.

“An unexpected honor,” Bistrilhm said dryly. “Though I believe you were hired to entertain Lord Yalambu.”

Stejraa looked up at him, and for the first time, let him see her eyes. Really see them.

Recognition flickered across his face. Brief, uncertain. He couldn’t place her, but something…

“You cannot remember me,” Stejraa said softly, her voice carrying only to him. The music was loud enough to cover her words. “I was nothing. Just one wife pleading for her husband’s life.”

Bistrilhm’s expression shifted to wariness. “Who—”

“Kael, you remember him.” Her hand moved to the vial at her neck, pulling it free.

Understanding dawned in Bistrilhm’s eyes, followed immediately by calculation. His hand moved toward his belt, where his steel dagger hung…

But Stejraa was faster. The sharp dagger she’d concealed beneath her sleeve appeared in her left hand, the blade pushed against his ribs before he could move. She shoved the blade up, between his ribs, angling toward his heart. Bistrilhm gasped, his eyes going wide with shock and pain.

The dining hall erupted into chaos. Nobles screamed. Guards surged forward. Templars shouted orders.

Stejraa didn’t attempt to run. There was nowhere to go, and no reason to try.

Instead, she straightened, the bloody dagger falling from her hand, and raised the vial to her lips. The guards were only steps away, weapons drawn, but she was already drinking…

The poison was bitter. Cold.

“In our marriage ceremony,” she said, her voice carrying through the chaos, “we bound our waists with a single scarf. When you tore him away, you only cut it in half.” Bistrilhm slumped forward, blood pooling on the carved floor. His mouth moved, but no sound emerged.

Stejraa’s legs buckled. The poison worked fast, she had taken both doses. She collapsed beside Bistrilhm’s body.

The guards surrounded her, but no one touched her. She was already dying.

Stejraa’s vision began to blur. The carved walls seemed to move, to dance, the ancient figures swirling in patterns that spoke of endings and beginnings. She could hear music, not the panicked shouts, but the distant sound of drums and flutes from the Dancing Gates, that hypnotic rhythm that had welcomed her back to the city.

She smiled.

Now I can dance with him again.

Her last thought was of the Starlight Pageant, of dancing down the High Road in the pre-dawn darkness, of looking into the crowd and seeing him watching. Just watching, with that impossible smile, as if he could see through the veil and all the walls between them to the person she really was.

The music faded.

The walls stopped dancing.