Page 33 of Aries

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 connectionhas 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 notallyou 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.

Chapter Nineteen

Callie

The Committee’s latest assignment seemed simple enough—purchase specific ingredients for a ceremonial meal we’re required to prepare together. What they didn’t mention was that our required public appearances have become a spectacle, drawing crowds of both supporters and protesters to whatever location we visit.

The Sanctorii Central Market bustles with afternoon shoppers, but I can feel their scrutiny as we navigate between stalls with our Committee escort trailing discretely behind. Someone’s organized this—the way people position themselves to block our path, the coordinated stares, the subtle herding toward less populated areas where confrontation would be easier.

“Freshdrassahbeans,” I murmur, consulting our list. “Then spices for that ceremonial dish you mentioned.”

People certainly aren’t subtle, as evidenced by their snide chatter and pointed fingers as they follow us through the throng. My shoulders tighten when people stare too long, recognizing us from the news feeds.

The protests have grown more organized since our public Unity Dance. What started as scattered objections hasbecome coordinated resistance, with security reporting planned disruptions at every appearance.

“Murderer’s whore,” someone hisses as we pass. Aries’ hands clench involuntarily, but I shoot him a warning look.

“Not worth it,” I say quietly. “Let’s just get what we need.”

Thedrassahmerchant eyes us warily as we approach his stall. “We don’t serve killers here.”

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