«Мир может судить, но танец не лжёт.»
-Anna Pavlova (Russian Prima Ballerina)
["The world may judge, but the dance doesn't lie."]
There is a truth to dance that terrifies those who would rather hide.
In ballet, the moment the curtain sweeps aside, every practiced step and poised breath becomes confession. The stage devours secrets. The movement unmasks the heart.
That's precisely how it felt when the thin curtain in the Maharaj's chamber fluttered open, and she-stepped into the wavering lamplight.
Four years I'd carved her out of myself, buried her in frost, convinced myself she was gone, irrelevant. I told myself time would turn her into dust-just a memory to spit out when the ghosts came calling.
But she hasn't faded. She's become blade. She stood there-jaw tighter, eyes sharper, forged by something darker than love. The softness I knew was gone, and what remained... what remained was steel. A queen in exile, unyielding, untouchable-and still mine in ways no force on this earth could unmake.
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