Alyssara fell without moving.
Her body sat against a scorched rib of brass on the tower roof, lashes still, breath steady. Inward, she dropped through velvet and knives into a place she had been building for years: a narrow stage lit by one stubborn spotlight, floor of black lacquer, red curtain drawn.
The curtain breathed.
Perfume rolled through it like a tide. Threads glimmered in the dark—infinite hair-fine lines drifting down, each a promise with a hand behind it. When the first thread touched the stage, the wood shivered as if remembering an older owner.
"How rude," Alyssara said, and her voice made the spotlight brighter.
Lysantra pressed without a body. Silk, then steel. Commands came the way thunderstorms come: unhurried, sure, ancient.
"Open."
The single word folded into the curtain and pushed toward Alyssara's chest like a gloved hand searching for a latch.
'Later,' Alyssara thought. 'You knocked wrong.'
