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They threw me to the beasts for sport, no crime, just a vizier's jealousy. But you don't fight an avalanche; you outrun it, and a dancer's whole art is changing direction without losing momentum. Claws taught me to fall. Fangs taught me stillness. Flying death taught me that what holds you will loosen its grip the moment you stop struggling. In every trial, I survived the same way I'd survived a thousand stages: reading the moment, counting the rhythm, never running straight, never looking back twice, never falling. The belt I wore is battered now, half its gold gone to claw and surf and stone. I keep it anyway. Every missing coin is a debt the world owes me, and I intend to collect. They wanted a dancer to die for their amusement. The dance survived, but at what cost?
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