The marble in Roland’s hand warmed, pulsing once — a heartbeat trying to steady itself.

  Light swelled inside the small glass sphere, painting thin gold reflections across the polished black floor. Then the sound awakened, spilling softly into the room — the opening chords trembling like a breath held too long finally released.

  Anastasia stepped into the center of the chamber, the chandelier’s fire-orange glow catching the white threads in her hair. She glanced back at Roland — just once — as if to make sure he was still watching.

  Then she closed her eyes.

  The music unfurled, slow and tender, brushing the air like fingertips across still water. She moved with it, not like a dancer trained in halls or taught by tutors, but like someone learning what her own body meant for the first time. Her steps were small, uneven, almost foolish — a sway, a spin too wide, a hand lifted too high.

  It should have looked childish.

  But it didn’t.

  Because there was nothing guarded in it.

  No fear of looking absurd.

  No weight of judgment or perfection.

  Only motion — unrestrained, unashamed.

  A girl refusing to let silence win.

  The chandelier light pooled beneath her feet, her shadow soft and barely held to the floor. And as the music curved into the first swell, she opened her eyes.

  The moment struck like a shift in gravity.

  Her movements slowed into something gentler, more deliberate — the ghost of a ballroom pattern, the kind meant for two partners standing close enough to share breath. She traced the outline of the dance as if someone should be there guiding her steps — but there was no one.

  A shape missing its other half.

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  The invitation was silent but unmistakable.

  Roland’s breath hitched, something sharp and aching caving inward. His fingers tightened around the glowing marble as though it was the only thing keeping him upright. The chandelier’s light fractured in his eyes — reflections trembling like something on the verge of breaking.

  The chorus bloomed.

  Anastasia lifted her hand toward him, palm open, a gesture so gentle it felt like touch. Roland’s hands rose instinctively, then froze — stopping short, refusal trembling in the space between them.

  She stepped forward.

  Her fingers brushed his wrist, then closed around it — soft but unwavering — and she pulled him into the dance.

  The second chorus opened like a sunrise.

  They moved together, slow enough to feel every heartbeat between them. Roland kept his head down, shoulders tense, feet clumsy and unsteady. Twice he stepped on her toes. The third time he winced hard enough that his breath stuttered.

  She only smiled — wide and bright and absolutely sincere — as if the missteps were the point, not the failure.

  The chandelier above them blurred into a soft halo as they turned, bodies circling the firelit floor.

  His steps softened.

  His shoulders loosened.

  The weight he carried without knowing it slipped, inch by inch, into the space between one heartbeat and the next.

  He looked up.

  Their eyes locked — and suddenly the world shrank to the distance between them. The marble’s light shimmered around them, scattering gold across their hair, their hands, the thin space where fingers met.

  Roland’s face changed — not dramatically, not visibly to the outside world — but subtly, like ice cracking beneath sunlight. Something long frozen inside him shifted, softened.

  He stepped on her foot again.

  Deliberately.

  She blinked, startled — then grinned with fierce delight and stomped down on his boot, breaking their grip. Then she darted away across the chamber floor, laughing so hard she nearly tripped on her own feet.

  Roland stared, stunned — then laughter tore out of him, raw and unguarded.

  He chased her.

  Two children running beneath the burning chandelier, feathers erupting into the air when a pillow burst under impact, drifting upward like snow. They swung wildly, stumbling through clouds of white and gold, too breathless to notice the world beyond the room.

  For a moment, there was no Inferna.

  No judgment.

  No execution waiting at the door.

  Only the sound of music and laughter filling a chamber built for silence.

  Anastasia collapsed backward against the window, swallowed by dawn-light as it cracked across the glass — sun breaking around her like a halo, feathers turning gold as they hung suspended in the air. She looked like a sunrise wearing a smile.

  Roland stopped in front of her.

  The marble pulsed once in his palm.

  The music swelled into its final ascent.

  He looked at her — really looked — and the realization struck without warning, without permission, without defense.

  The world outside that window was burning.

  But right here, right now —

  He was alive.

  And he was falling.

  In the Kingdom of Reina, there is a tradition called the Adventurer’s Welcome.

  When someone returns from a journey, their partner performs a dance to greet them. It begins as a solo — a reflection of waiting, distance, and time spent apart — and slowly becomes a duet, as both learn how to move together again.

  The dance isn’t about perfection or ceremony. It’s about reunion, change, and rediscovering rhythm after absence. In Reina’s culture, adventure is honored, love is something that adapts, and returning home is a moment worth celebrating.