Sticky sweet with nervous sweat, the backstage was charged with magic. Rolling her shoulders, Wyck stretched down. Feet akimbo and hands flat on the cool stone tiles, Wyck allowed her head to hang loose. Her long dark covered her face. A dancer pointed.

“Oh my Gods, do you see what she’s wearing? She’s looks like a drunken troll,” Grimelba stage whispered.

“Maybe she is a troll because she certainly is a poor excuse for a witch,” Belladone said. “Why she would even try to audition for a spot in the Seers is redick? It’s bad enough that we have a race traitor as President Prietress but now we have to suffer mongrels.”

“Grim, dear, you have a loose thread at your hem and Bel, adjust your collar,” Royal Page Malis said. “It cannot help what it is. Focus on performances. Your dance of magic must be the epitome of grace.”

Facing the ceiling, Wyck stretched up, hands splayed wide. Barefoot, she was clad in a simple unbleached tunic. The Moonlit twins snickered at naked toes. Around her the other candidates were embroidered and beaded, silky and bejeweled. Smiling to herself, Wyck pretended she was a pen hen surrounded by peacocks.

“I hear her father makes her carry heavy rocks and chop wood by hand,” Trixelle said.

“No not by hand like an unmagic,” Belladone said with mock shock.

“Maybe her magic is so unstable has to use her hands,” Grimelba said. “Or she’s too stupid.”

“Well her father is big on muscles and small on brains,” Belladone cracked.

The candidates tittered with laughter. Snorting his own laughter, Malis clapped for silence. Backstage magic was forbidden before an audition, but not bull talk. Wyck sat cross legged and tented her fingers. With each breath she sank deeper into calmness. Since Wyck was old enough to stand her father, Stark the Strong, had her practice the warrior’s way. Non-combatants thought knights were simple fighters, too dumb to know fear.

Sittting with her eyes closed, Wyck knew only fools are fearless. Mom and her mother kin taught her to dance with nature and twist her magic into intricate swirls, but dad taught her to kick ass respect your fear and let everything you are fuel where you want to go.

“Wyck, you’re up, dear,” Malis called. “Wyck, Wyck!”

One of the Moonlit twins kicked Wyck’s side. Her eyes flew open. Removing her eye plugs, Wyck stood and walked to center stage.