Music drifts in the wine and pipesmoke-filled air.

  It flutters and echoes, the notes soar high and low until slowing and fading away.

  As Dyndra looks over the crowd of wealthy elites, the room is silent.

  Then the silence is filled by appuse.

  Dyndra finds a seat while a man in a fine ornamented silk robe steps on stage. He cps his ringed fingers over a shifting bundle of pulsating flesh.

  He cps again and again. The sound echoes throughout the club. As the music rises once more, he whispers, “Is it a good night, Terra-Draxus?”

  The drummer begins to beat a pelt in tune with the cpping. The cello pyers send out a high note. The flute pyers whistle along.

  Then the violinists join in.

  Dyndra narrows her eyes on one of them. A girl in a purple dress with short bck hair and dark bags beneath her eyes.

  It can’t be her, can it? Dyndra leans forward as the music pys.

  The violinist seems strained in her pying, as if she’s holding back somehow. Dyndra keeps her eyes on her until the song is over.

  Once it is done, the singer bows. “Thank you, my Mori folk, and thank you, Terra-Draxus,” he rises with a smile, “I have been Ryomen Kaga. These past few days have been… troubling for me. So I think it’s best if we end tonight’s performance with a dance.”

  He cps again, and the band begins to py a softer tune.

  Dyndra continues to study the bck-haired violinist with a careful eye. Her hair isn’t the right length, and there appears to be a scar on her face, but she’s the right age and the right build.

  Dyndra still can’t tell if it’s Cassandra, though…

  She needs to get a closer look.

  A hawk flies down from the rafters and nds on Ryomen’s arm. He ughs along with his patrons.

  Dyndra recalls the note, hawks watch and listen.

  She chews on her lip, in thought. Her thoughts lead her to a decision she fears may be reckless.

  She clenches a fist as she rises from her seat and walks across the crowded dancefloor.

  “Mr. Kaga, was it?” Dyndra taps Ryomen’s shoulder, dragging him away from a gathering of businessmen drunk on wine. His hawk flies back to the rafters as he folds his ringed fingers over each other. “That is I,” he grins, “And who may you be?”

  “Joan,” Dyndra confidently states the name of one of the heroes from the storybooks of her childhood. “Joan O-arch.”

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Joan O-arch.” Ryomen takes Dyndra’s hand and kisses it with his slimy, moustached lip. Dyndra does her best to hide her revulsion at the gesture as Ryomen waves away the drunken businessman and asks her, “What is it that brings you to my fine establishment on this ever-so lovely night, Ms. O-arch?”

  “The music,” Dyndra feigns enthusiasm the way that the academy taught her to, with a wide smile and a passionate voice. “I have loved music ever since I was a girl. My Mother would take me and my brothers and sisters to the concerts in the citadel on the first region’s third pnet every other weekend.”

  “Extravagant affairs,” Ryomen nods with a growing smile.

  Dyndra had recalled Jylon telling her about the nobles on that pnet who distributed food under the Division’s economic system. “Only they were allowed into the concerts,” he had said.

  Dyndra couldn’t believe the dreadful facts when she first heard them, but is now gd to have the information proven correct. What she is about to do may depend on the truth of it.

  “My dear Mother was especially fond of the violins. She tried to learn how to py in her youth, but as, fate was a cruel mistress, and her studies never allowed her the time. My poor Mother is sick now, and when one of my eldest friends told me of your establishment’s performances, I simply had to pay a visit. And after having listened to your lovely music. I do believe that I would like to pay more than just that…”

  Ryomen folds his arms, yet rests one hand on his chin. His index finger curls around his cheek as his eyes narrow. “Ms. Joan O-arch,” he chuckles, “Come to think of it. I do not believe that the O-archs are among the wealthy families in the first region. Are you lying to me, my dear?”Dyndra grows tense but hides it as best as she can.

  I’m an idiot, she tells herself. If I wanted to py the part of a rich noble, I should have put more effort into looking like one! The bastard sees right through me!

  “I…” Think quickly now, “I am. Forgive me, Mr. Kaga. I should have been honest with you. I am not among your… shall we say… elite patrons. I am an enthusiast, however. And my poor Mother is indeed very sick.”

  Ryomen wrests his hand from his chin and snatches up a wine gss from a wandering server, “It would seem there is a truth to every lie, then.”

  “It would seem so,” Dyndra says as Kaga hands the gss to her.

  He’s testing me as much as I’m testing him, she tells herself as she swirls the wine in the gss. It would be best not to drink this…

  I need to push him and get close to that girl to see if she really is Cassandra.

  “I would be grateful if you let me speak to your band.”

  Ryomen ughs at her. “I don’t let just anyone speak to my performers, my dear Joan O-arch, if that is your real name.”

  Dyndra is beginning to wonder what will happen if she simply cracks the winegss over Ryomen’s head and runs to the girl on stage.

  “It is my real name if it pleases you, sir.”

  Ryomen grows more serious, “Do not call me sir,” He states, oddly stern.

  Dyndra smirks, “Whatever you say, sir.”

  Ryomen gives her a scowl that is less than elegant. “You cannot see my performers.”

  Dyndra gnces at the dancefloor behind her as the music slows. “Can I dance with them?” She asks as she sets the winegss on the table beside her. One of the drunk businessmen reaches for it. Ryomen sps his hand away from the liquid.

  “Ms. O-arch, I am tempted to show you the door.”

  Dyndra grins, “Careful, Mr. Kaga, you wouldn’t want to cause a scene.”

  Ryomen gres at her as she carefully steps away from him, “I’m going to assume that I don’t need your permission to dance.”

  The hawk flies back down from the rafters and nds on Ryomen’s shoulder as Dyndra reaches the side of the stage.

  It's wide, tall, and the only thing in the club that isn’t purple. Dyndra gazes up at the performers, yet is unable to get a good look at their faces.

  The music swells again, this time right over her head.

  Dyndra is tall, but the stage puts the performer’s knees well above her. She doesn’t want to look too suspicious, but she’s well past the point of caution now.

  Dyndra hears the violinists over her and darts her eyes between them until spotting her target.

  Bck hair, but it’s too short, scars that shouldn’t be there, but your age is right, your height is right, you're skinny and have that eternally tired expression on your face…

  Yeah, you're dancing with me, Ms. Soryu.

  Dyndra taps the girl’s leg.

  She ignores her.

  Dyndra rolls her eyes and taps her again, several times.

  The violinist stops her pying and kneels down, “What’s your prob—”

  “May I have this dance?”

  Dyndra snatches the girl by the hand and pulls her off the stage.

  Her violin is left behind as the band continues to py.

  Dyndra spins Cassandra around, forcing her onto the dance floor. Her eyes widen on the face she’s been after all this time. It’s her. It’s really her.

  Cassandra struggles against Dyndra’s grasp. She tightens her grip and begins to lead her in the dance.

  “Who are you?”

  Dyndra doesn’t want to show her hand yet and doesn’t know if Kaga’s listening. For a split second, she’s unsure how to answer. Then she recalls the note and the bag of coins that mysteriously appeared at her feet.

  “Your secret admirer sent me,” Dyndra smiles before adding, “They were a lot younger than I thought they’d be.”

  Cassandra seems to get the message. “They may be young to some, but they’re old enough to have white hair.”

  Dyndra nods. Cassandra smirks.

  Her hands accept Dyndra’s as she begins to follow her lead in the dance.

  The hawk soars over the patron’s heads.

  “I have the oddest feeling that we're being watched.”

  Cassandra confirms Dyndra’s suspicions. “You’re right.”

  The pair twirls, passing an elderly couple. “There are eyes and ears everywhere,” Cassandra states, her fingers intertwining with Dyndra’s.

  “Are you used to attention?”

  Cassandra looks away from her, “I have to be.”

  That settles it then. Dyndra runs through it all in her head. Ryomen is keeping Cassandra here and watching her every move. His Hawks can do that for him, just like Galihend’s.

  Why, though?

  And more importantly, how do I get her out and back to the Madam president?

  “Do you feel you deserve attention?”

  “No,” Cassandra mutters, still looking to her side. “I don’t.” Her gaze comes back to Dyndra. Her nails nearly dig into her hands.

  “Sometimes I wish I had never picked up a violin. Be sure to tell my admirer that.” Cassandra says it all with a sad look in her eye. Her fingers begin to slip from Dyndra’s hands.

  “I don’t see the need for that,” Dyndra tells her, “You’re an excellent performer.”

  Cassandra turns away from her again, as if threatening to run off now that her hands are loose. “You’re just saying that.”

  Dyndra can’t lose her now; she’s come too far. She says what she needs to. “No,” she clutches Cassandra’s hand again, but slides the other onto her waist. “I mean it.”

  Cassandra looks back at Dyndra. She freezes for a moment, her lips quivering before she stumbles over her feet.

  Dyndra catches her.

  Cassandra’s face goes red.

  Dyndra leads her back into the dance. “Two left feet?”

  “No,” Cassandra forces out the word in a nervous chuckle. Her eyes remain locked on Dyndra’s as she expins, “I’ve just never done this before.”

  “Dancing?”

  Cassandra nods.

  Dyndra can’t help but smirk, “You're good, though.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Fair enough, but you're serviceable.”

  Cassandra chuckles again.

  The Madam president didn’t tell me how strange you are, Dyndra thinks with a smile, not even your Father mentioned that.

  “So you’re my knight in shining armor?” She asks in a whisper.

  Dyndra blushes, “I’m no knight.”

  Cassandra persists. “What are you then?”

  The music slows further, ready to fade off and end. Some of those on the dancefloor begin to disperse, returning to their drinks and gossip.

  The hawk circles the club for a final time.

  “I’m just a soldier,” Dyndra states, her closely trimmed ashen hair now cshing against Cassandra’s short bck cut. To her surprise, she pushes her, but doesn’t shove her away. Not yet, at least.

  “What type of soldier?”

  Without knowing why Cassandra is so armed, Dyndra simply smiles again.

  “A white and red one,” She says.

  Cassandra sps her.

  The music stops.

  The patrons all turn to Dyndra, who has her hand pressed against her bruised, red cheek.

  “Mr. Kaga!” Cassandra shouts. “You let a red one in here!”

  Before Dyndra can question Cassandra’s odd behavior, the hawk swoops down at her. Talons spread wide.

  Dyndra leaps over a table. She snatches a pte from it to sm into the hawk’s beak as she nds.

  On the other side of the club, Ryomen’s nose erupts with blood, his eyes dark and hollow. As Dyndra pushes the pte further up the animal’s beak, its wings beat furiously. It cries out a piercing screech that makes Dyndra’s ears ring loud enough for her to not hear the gaggle of patrons ganging up on her.

  One of those patrons smashes a gss against Dyndra’s head. She drops the pte, and the hawk retreats.

  Another patron shoves her into the crowd, which is soon sent aback by a shocking wail of musical fervor.

  Atop the stage, Cassandra grips her violin. She holds her bow above the strings, poised to strike.

  As Dyndra stumbles, Cassandra draws out another targeted note that knocks her off her feet and sends her flying into the bar.

  Gss shards cut her skin, and liquor drenches her, soaking her dress and meeting her blood. Dyndra somehow only focuses on rubbing the bruised cheek Cassandra spped as she walks over to her, violin in hand.

  “Why did you—”

  Cassandra doesn’t let her finish, “How many?”

  “I don’t—”

  “How many?” Cassandra demands.

  Dyndra looks into her eyes. I was going to pull you from the rubble, she thinks, before giving in.

  “Your Mother sent my troop here. I lead twenty in total.”

  Cassandra’s eyes go red.

  “She’s not my mother,” she states, leaving the guardsman to deal with Dyndra.