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Chapter Eighteen

C allie

The crowd’s angry murmur fills the ceremonial amphitheater, a sharp contrast to the serene flute music meant to set the mood for the Unity Dance we’re here to perform.

We’ve been practicing the exacting steps for days, knowing that one wrong move in the intricate routine could cause Aries’ death.

I’ve never felt this much pressure in my life.

Days have passed since the storm that changed everything between us, and now, through the gauzy curtain separating the waiting area from the exhibition hall, I catch glimpses of protest signs: “Justice Not Romance” and “Killers Can’t Buy Love.”

At the front of the crowd stands a woman with graying hair and a face carved by grief. She holds a holographic image of a young man, her son, killed in the same arena where Aries once fought. She’s become the unofficial spokesperson for the opposition, her loss giving weight to their anger.

“My name is Mira Thessian. My boy died screaming on the sands of an arena,” she calls out, her voice carrying over the murmur. “While killers like him lived to fight another day. Where’s the justice in that? ”

But as she speaks, I notice something else in the crowd—a small group holding different signs: “Redemption Over Vengeance” and “Breaking the Cycle.” A middle-aged Sanctorii male steps forward.

“My daughter was a gladiator,” he says, his blue skin pale with emotion. “She died in the same system that created him. But killing him won’t bring her back. Maybe changing him will prevent the next death.”

Mira’s face contorts with fury. “Easy words from someone whose child chose that life!”

“No one chooses slavery,” the male responds quietly. “That’s the point.”

“Bigger turnout than expected,” one of the Committee members interrupts, their crystalline form reflecting the arena’s harsh lights. “We have doubled security, but you must maintain absolute focus on the dance. Any mistake—”

“Means a mark,” Aries finishes quietly beside me. “We know.”

His massive frame radiates tension, though his face remains carefully neutral.

The ceremonial garments—embroidered flowing silver fabric that will catch the light during our dance—make him look otherworldly.

His horns juxtaposed against the formal styling look like gleaming bronze sculptures, but I can’t reach out to touch them as I ache to do.

A commotion erupts in the crowd. Through the curtain, I see security wrestling with someone who tried to climb the barrier separating spectators from the dance floor. The protester’s shouts echo through the space: “Murderers don’t deserve second chances! Justice for victims!”

Aries’ hands clench at his sides. Without thinking, I step closer—not touching, but near enough that he can feel my presence and support.

“They don’t know you,” I murmur. “Don’t know what really happened. ”

“Don’t they?” His voice holds a bitter edge. “A life was taken by these hands. Their anger isn’t wrong. It isn’t misdirected.”

Before I can respond, the ceremonial gong sounds. Our turn to dance—to prove our connection worthy of redemption as a crowd that wants Aries dead watches with condemning eyes.

The curtain parts. Walking onto the polished obsidian floor feels like entering an arena. In many ways, it is—one wrong move could bring Aries one step closer to death, just as surely as any gladiator match.

We take our positions as the music shifts to the haunting melody that will guide our dance. The first pose—arms reaching without touching—draws jeers from some in the crowd.

“Fraud!” someone shouts. “How much did he pay you?”

Focus, I tell myself. The dance is everything. Each movement must be perfect.

We begin the first spiral, arms weaving the ancient patterns that symbolize separation and yearning. Aries moves with his natural grace, matching me step for step. Just like in practice, but now with hundreds of hostile eyes watching for any mistake.

The Lament sequence brings us back-to-back, arms reaching up and out while maintaining that crucial inch of space. A stone arcs through the air, missing us by inches. Security moves to intercept the thrower, but we can’t react. Can’t let anything break our focus.

“Keep your eyes on me,” Aries murmurs as we turn to face each other again. “Nothing else exists.”

The dance flows into the Bridge—geometric poses that require perfect synchronization. Each held position feels like an eternity under the crowd’s scrutiny. The protest signs wave like angry flags in my peripheral vision .

Someone starts a chant: “Justice! Justice! Justice!”

But we move through the windmill turns, our arms spinning in opposite directions like interlocking gears. The silver fabric of our garments catches the light, creating illusions of connection where none can exist.

The Supplication sequence looms—those complex kneeling patterns that gave us so much trouble in practice. As we begin the first kneel, I hear it: a distinctive click-whine of a charging energy weapon.

Aries hears it, too. His eyes flick toward the sound, but he maintains the dance. We can’t stop. Can’t react. Can’t do anything but trust security to handle the threat while we move through the patterns that will either save or doom us.

The weapon discharges with a crack. Something sizzles past my ear, close enough that I smell ozone. Still, we dance. Still, we maintain that crucial distance while demonstrating the magnetic pull between us.

“Almost there,” I breathe as we enter the final spiral. Sweat makes the fabric cling to my skin, but our movements remain precise. The crowd’s chaos feels distant now—nothing exists but us, this dance, this moment.

The last sequence brings us full circle—every pattern we’ve learned flowing together in one continuous movement. Despite the threats and jeers and flying objects, we maintain perfect synchronization. Our bodies mirror each other exactly, connected by something deeper than physical touch.

The final pose approaches—that reaching stance where we began. As we extend our arms toward each other, time seems to slow. In Aries’ eyes, I see everything he can’t say aloud—fear and hope and something much deeper.

The music ends. We hold the pose, breathing hard, as the Committee members materialize around us.

“The dance is complete,” they announce, their layered voices rising above the crowd’s angry buzz. “The connection has been proven genuine through maintained perfection despite extreme duress.”

Only then do I notice the chaos in the arena. Security guards wrestle with multiple protesters who tried to breach the barriers. The remains of thrown objects litter the surrounding floor. Someone screams about justice denied.

But none of it matters. We did it. We proved our connection under the harshest scrutiny possible.

As we’re escorted from the arena, the protesters’ shouts follow us: “Killer! Fraud! Justice!”

“They’re right about one thing,” Aries says quietly once we’re in the relative safety of the waiting area. “I am a killer.”

The simple truth of it hangs between us. I can’t deny it. He admitted as much at the beginning of all this. But maybe that’s not the whole truth.

“Yes,” I say finally, maintaining the bounds that keep him alive, though every instinct screams to touch him.

“You are. But that’s not all you are. And whatever drove you to it…

” I pause, remembering the anguish of his nightmare mumblings.

“I believe there’s more to that story than anyone out there knows. ”

His eyes hold mine for a long moment, something vulnerable flickering in their depths. “Soon,” he says. “Soon I’ll tell you everything. Just… not yet.”

“I’ll be here when you’re ready.” The words come straight from my heart.

The ghost of a smile touches his lips as we’re led back to our cottage. I’m feeling not quite happiness, but perhaps something like hope.