“This is hell,” Momo said quietly, reflectively. “This is genuinely hell.”

“You have no idea,” Trent said.

When Momo strolled into town three hours earlier, she had expected a normal campaign event. People huddled around town square. A couple decorations. Locals either applauding her or trying to stab her guts out. You know the drill. What she got instead was a personal invitation to something called Bruda’s Deadly Dance Recital, a new tradition in the mountaintop city – hosted and suggested by you can guess who – that happened every 19th day of each of season.

Today just so happened to be that day.

Momo was provided the invitation by none other than an old frenemy, Trent Magelegs. The boy had aged considerably since they last saw each other – grown a few inches, made the awful mistake of keeping the puberty mustache, experimented with vests.

Momo kept her feedback on his new unfortunate appearance to herself, because she’s a kind person at heart - and more importantly, a coward.

Trent had led her into the New School of Dance, an organically-built four-story building made of wood and rock. It stood out like a sore thumb in the traditionalist town, but if people minded, they didn’t complain. Momo got the sense that whatever protests Bruda's citizens might have had months ago, they had grown too tired to voice. Devola had that effect on people.

“Momo, I said first position, not third,” Devola corrected. “Heels together, toes turned out. Create a straight line with your feet, straighter than a ruler.”

Momo grimaced and altered her position for the fourth time. It wasn’t her flexibility or coordination that was the problem – she had way too much Dexterity for that to be an excuse – it was her innate lack of... Dance Confidence. Performance, to put it more politically.

See, she had never taken a dance class in her life. Too embarrassing. All those people watching. Terrifying, really. Her only exposure to the act came from the dance tapes her mom bought on VHS and left playing on loop when she went out in the garden. Momo's greatest experience with rhythm was her mimicking Jane Fonda, throwing her nine-year-old hips around until her mom caught her through the window.

Momo straightened her back instinctively.

“Wonderful form,” Devola said, teleporting behind her and putting her hands over Momo’s shoulders. “Now, relax the tension here…” she pinched her neck, and Momo felt a sharp pain run down her spine. “Perfect. You’re a natural, Momo. Just so perfectly rigid.”

Trent looked at her jealously. Momo wanted to throw herself out of the closest window.

“Your friend here, however, needs quite a bit of work,” Devola said, looking askance at Grimli, who was failing to even reach his toes. “He’s no taller than a stepping stool but can barely touch his knees. A tragedy.”

“I don’t take kindly to your jokes,” Grimli said.

“You misunderstand me. That was not a joke," she huffed. "And I don’t take kindly to your lack of flexibility.”

“Alright, Devola, that’s enough,” Momo mumbled, exiting first position with a sigh. “I did your warmups. Now I’m really going to need you to tell me what a Deadly Dance Recital is,” Momo stretched her arms, breathing out as the tension left her. “And what it has to do with me.”

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

“Oh, dear, not everything is about you,” Devola laughed, beckoning for a skeleton in the corner of the room. He was dressed in a pink flamingo tank top and booty shorts, as if he had just fled the pages of Undead Idol Magazine. “In fact, it was your dear Sumire that decided to have you come on this specific day despite my warnings.”

Momo blushed at Devola’s usage of your.

The blush quickly left her as she realized Sumire had set her up.

“What do you mean, warnings?” Momo said dryly.

The Ken-looking skeleton skirted around Momo to Trent. Momo gawked as the two began to do a choreographed pair dance – the skeleton bouncing off the floor with spins and cartwheels, Trent following along with his own succession of flips. It was like watching a Halloween edition of a breakdance competition.

My brain can’t handle this, Momo thought.

“My warning was very clear. Everyone who is in town for the recital must compete,” Devola said flatly. “You’re in town, so you will have to compete, too.”

“I – what?” Momo’s eyes went as large as saucers. “I can’t dance. I’m not winning an entire city’s respect through dance.”

“Those are the rules, Momo. You can’t simply ignore the rules.”

Rules you invented, Momo thought bleakly.

“But I’m sure there are plenty of people who live here who don’t compete,” Momo said. “What about them?”

“They had to purchase an Early Bird Get Out Of Recital Card, which are now all sold out, sorry,” Devola shrugged, putting out the hopeful glint in Momo’s eye. “Everyone who didn’t get one – or couldn’t afford one, they’re quite an expensive luxury – took holiday down in Kalendale.”

Momo shook her head, sighing quietly. Of course they are.

“I don’t get why Sumire would send me here now then,” she said, squinting. “My goal is to convert as many people as possible in each town to our side. I can’t exactly do that if all the locals went on an escape-cation.”

“Mm, perhaps,” Devola said, tapping thoughtfully at her chin. “But I’d give your lovely advisor some more credit than that. Check the window.”

Momo turned around. The papery window shades were fully extended, allowing light to stream in while fully blocking their view of the outdoors. Momo yanked the thread holding them in place, and the blinds zipped upwards, revealing the town square below.

And – oh.

People. Hundreds of people. Streaming in from the hills, snaking around the mountain. When Momo arrived early in the morning, there was barely a soul in town. Just empty streets smelling of cardamom and horses and getaway cars. Now the city was full to the brim, dozens of fans feverishly packing themselves around a central stage, which was busily being constructed by skeletal hands.

When the hell did that happen? Momo said, blinking dumbly.

“Non-competitors and tourists aren’t allowed to start journeying up the mountain until three in the afternoon,” Devola answered, as if reading Momo’s mind – but more likely her face. “They started filing in while we were warming up. Quite the turnout, isn’t it? It gets bigger every season. I’ve made this event a continent-wide sensation. You might have even seen me interviewed in the papers,” she winked. “Kelly at the Mekna Gazette is a big fan.”

Momo kept blinking, completely unwilling to believe what she was seeing and hearing. “The Kraken woman?” she said. Momo did recall reading that interview a few months prior, when the Oblivion Event was just brewing. It had shocked her to read Devola’s name then, but nothing could have prepared her for the intercontinental clout she’d gained in the meantime.

“That’s her. But I just call her Kare-Bear,” Devola said, giggling. “She’s devastated she couldn’t make it this season. Something about a high-profile piece with a Knight of the Sun. Nearly killed me to hear she was interviewing one of those hags – but she promised it would be only the most negative of stories. A complete anti-puff piece.”

That must be the other Holy Resistance woman, Momo thought. Slythorn’s counterpart.

“I…” Momo trailed off, watching as more and more people piled into the tiny town. “And just what kind of turnout do you expect, exactly?”

“Fifteen thousand,” Devola grinned. “So you better dance your socks off, my dear. Or you can kiss that reputation of yours goodbye.”

She blew a kiss to Momo, and then stalked out of the room.

“Trent, honey, come,” she beckoned. “The competition just got interesting. We have a queen to beat.”