Velli

The night’s ruined. Dream consoles me the best she can. It’s all lies, niceties, and pity. She could never love pity. We sit in our seats, one of those auditorium boxes separated from everybody and high up. Six seats occupy our box, three in the front and three more in the back.

We sit in the back with a couple in front of us, and to the right of that couple—by pure, unadulterated misfortune—is Ivan. The man beside Ivan almost sits on his girlfriend’s lap to avoid contact with him. Ivan leans forward against the chestnut railing, his focus on the show. I want to push him over. He’s ruined everything I’ve built with Dream. I won’t let this go.

Dream has again been forced to look at me like a pathetic thing. However, I don’t have to feel pathetic. I defeated Wulf. I can get revenge.

That thought is the only thing that allows me to relax, and I manage to semi-enjoy the environment for what it is. Despite the packed house of five thousand or so, the performance is exclusive and supposed to be secret, but I make it my business to know about these things. Tickets and performances are rare, and about half the time, tickets are given to someone in an attempt to kill them. Other times, tickets are given out for the wealthy and self-disciplined because the women’s performance is actually spectacular. The ladies call themselves LWLL, but it’s pronounced “Lill.”

In the front rows, people throw their wallets as a tribute to the women. Watches, necklaces, and pieces of themselves. Freshly pulled fingernails, toenails, and a tongue smack the stage floor.

In a row beneath us on the floor, a man’s skeleton pulls itself out from his body. Blood leaks down, and a few organs still pump as it walks down to the stage. The walk is awkward, dripping, and reminds me of bad Claymation. Once below the stage, it swears to serve LWLL for the rest of its life. However long that is for a skeleton. The old body lies there lifeless like a snake’s skin except with eyes, a mouth, and friends that will miss him next time they gather. Only a few in his row notice his absence.

Some think the L in LWLL is for the legendary Lilith of Jewish legend and call the girls such. They’re incorrect. Their real name is based on another Hebrew legend—Lot’s wife. Their real name is Lot’s Wife’s Last Look. Referencing the last look Lot’s wife had on Sodom and Gomorrah before she was turned into a pillar of salt. The name suits them.

To avoid this gaze, there’s one rule. Don’t look directly at them; look through binoculars or glasses. Any sort of surface obscuring their details to even the most minor of degrees would allow you to resist their charms and enjoy their music, which is unbelievably legendary. It lives up to the hype now. A powerful tune, inspiring, it makes me want to plot my revenge.

They don’t use instruments. They only use their feet to make the sounds they want. Right now, it’s a thumping beat that sounds like heavy 808s. They mourn in a beautiful chorus about their heartbreak. The ladies switch between lead singer and backup with flawless precision. If the soul-punching lyrics don’t get the listener, the delivery will. It’s a perfect, melodic variety, dragging words like soul music then speeding through it like rap. Beautiful describes everything about them. I peek over at Dream occasionally to give her a reassuring touch that she is still the best part of my night.

I refocus on the dancing girls and their music. Both women are curvy, with dark hair, one about six foot two, the other five foot three. They never stand still. Their bright bodysuits paint the all-black backdrop of the stage. Badi’s in vibrant pink. Nage is in sunlike yellow.

The song ends. No one applauds because the new one begins in a flawless transition.

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Badi drops into a squat and sings into the faces of those who journeyed closer to the stage, including the skeleton. Everyone near the stage left their binoculars to see the purity of LWLL up close. I’m far enough away, if I drop my binoculars and—I shake my head and look anywhere but the stage for a minute.

LWLL is the perfect trap to set for an arrogant young person that could be a potential rival. Tell them it’s a peace offering or a show of good faith, or make it a challenge. It’s dangerous to back down from a challenge in Division’s Hand. They come and enjoy the show, knowing of the LWLL’s legend. They want to test themselves to see if they’re one of the chosen to resist. They’re curious. “What is so great about them that it makes men and women give up their lives? What kind of beauty is to die for?” They discover the answer.

Dream isn’t learning the answer. She’s only horrified by the result.

She twists in her chair. I want to comfort her, but again—

She wouldn’t care. She pities you. She’s embarrassed by you.

Besides, this is all part of the plan. Dream will be furious and go down to break this up. It will cause a fight. LWLL may be decent entertainers, but a public display of striking Dream in front of so many witnesses…? Yeah, the Heirs will come down hard on LWLL, ending this destructive nonsense once and for all, and I’ll slip in at the last minute to protect LWLL from the Heirs, which Dream will ensure, then LWLL will owe me. And further, the concertgoers of varying degrees of power will be upset that their performances will be no more. They will want to know how Dream “Bleeding Heart” Tower even got in. That’s when I will blackmail Carreon and make him swear by his name to serve me as my next sacrifice to get to the Island of Tselem.

Ivan enjoys the show with a wicked smile. His binoculars are special. They have tubes covering each eye. His necklace rests on the rail, covered by a simple handkerchief.

He can see through the eyes of his necklace.

Well, what if I just knock the cloth off by accident? A simple tap on my way to the bathroom, and he’ll be transfixed. Going past the eyes is the only way out. Dream has her eye on me. She always does. So when I knock it off, he’ll be exposed for a couple of seconds before Dream comes rushing down to save him. Who knows what he’ll give up in that time?

And he won’t kill me, either. He may strike me again, but I got revenge on someone Heir adjacent. No other living being can say that.

I stand and pardon myself to pass Dream. One small step for me and one giant pain for all who I step on. She touches my hand as I leave her. One stair separates my row from the one in front of me. The boyfriend is still pressed into the lap of his beloved, frightened of Ivan.

Ivan doesn’t even see me coming. His necklace hangs right by the door. In fact, it would be hard to not knock it off.

A loud metal clang sounds on stage as the beat switches. I take a peek. The spotlight widens as the girls spin away from each other. They move so fast, their dresses look like spinning flowers. I fumble for my binoculars. I don’t have them. My heart drops.

I don’t need them. My heart races.

As the girls dance, they switch dresses in a blink and never stop spinning. I don’t care about the dresses. I don’t care about the girls. They’re just bags of flesh. We are all bags of flesh. Their bags of flesh give me euphoria and rapture.

This isn’t art they’re making. It’s better. I will never read another book, watch another movie, or look at another painting if it means I can stay here. Stay with them in this communion. I grab the railing. I want to get closer. Ten-foot drop… I’ll live.

Everything makes so much sense. This is reality. This is what matters. Not the girls. I don’t care about them but their dance. It’s revealing, raw, and real. I leap on top of the railing. It makes sense to serve them, to worship them. They wouldn’t be complicated like Dream. I only need to be in their presence to be happy, simply their presence. They won’t speak to me. I won’t speak to them. They won’t seek to know me, and I won’t have to lie to them. And where is Fate? He’s silent, finally silent. Listen to the silence in your head. Do you hear it? Only the sound of your ears thumping. Imagine for me, what if that thumping gave you bliss?

The pain in my cheek is gone. The girls don’t care. Ivan smacked me around. They don’t care that I secretly don’t believe in myself or can barely afford to live. They actually don’t care. Not like Dream, not like my crush, because LWLL doesn’t care about me—they are only here for elation. I’m not at the bottom anymore, and I don’t care about the top. Ivan, Rose, and the other Heirs don’t exist around here. I leap off the railing, and the bliss of their presence enraptures me.

I’m flying. I’m crashing.