Chapter 29: Stage Light and Backstage Shadows

Returning to Sweetdance City felt like stepping back into the rhythm of a song they both knew by heart, only now the melody had changed. Married life gave their days a new cadence, their nights a softer comfort. Yet the city, ever hungry for brilliance, still demanded the fire of its idols.

Magali embraced the stage with renewed energy. Every performance she gave now carried more weight, every note danced with more light. The marriage had only magnified her presence; audiences swore she glowed when she sang, shimmering with a joy they hadn't seen before. And when she bowed at the end of a set, she always extended her hand toward Conrad—her husband, her partner—as if tethering his name to her own applause.

Conrad stood faithfully in the front rows, his heart a complicated mix of pride and quiet ache. The truth was undeniable: he missed the stage. The energy of the crowd, the adrenaline of the lights, the freedom of movement—he could still feel it in his body like phantom pain. But watching Magali, radiant and strong, he found solace. If he could no longer command the spotlight, then he would at least bask in hers.

And Magali never let him fade. She spoke of him during interviews, laughed about their late-night rehearsals, and during her shows, she would gesture toward him with her signature smile. "None of this would be possible without my husband, Conrad," she'd say. And the spotlight—quite literally—would shift, illuminating him in the crowd. The roar of the Dance Hall would swell not just for her, but for them.

The cheers would roll through him like thunder, a bittersweet reminder of what was lost and what was gained. And though the applause could never replace the stage, it soothed him in ways he hadn't expected. They weren't just cheering for the idol anymore. They were cheering for the couple, for the life Conrad and Magali had built together.

Conrad's days had changed. No longer measured by the pulse of stage lights or the roar of crowds, they now unfolded beneath the hum of fluorescents and the soft chime of the doorbell at a corner convenience shop in the Shopping District. It wasn't glamorous—not by a long shot. Stocking shelves, running the register, sweeping the floor before closing. For anyone else, it might have felt like a comedown. For Conrad, though, there was a strange dignity in it.

He worked with quiet pride, treating the job with the same focus he once gave to choreography and rehearsal drills. Each customer got a smile, every task was done cleanly, and he carried himself with a steadiness that didn't go unnoticed. The truth was, Conrad didn't need the job financially. But the routine anchored him. It gave him purpose, something tangible to hold on to when the ache of the stage threatened to hollow him out.

And though he no longer stood on the stage, the idols hadn't forgotten him. Young performers often stopped in on their way to or from practice, sweat from hours of rehearsal or jittery before auditions. They'd buy energy drinks or instant noodles, and Conrad would lean on the counter, swapping stories with them.

"Don't kill yourself over one bad performance," he'd say, sliding back their change. "Even legends trip on stage. What matters is what you do after."

Or, with a soft laugh, he'd recall his own mistakes—the botched routines, the moments he cracked under pressure, the nights he thought he'd never make it to the next show. The younger idols listened with wide eyes, nodding eagerly, grateful for advice from someone who had stood exactly where they stood now. Conrad hoped that if nothing else, they'd avoid the same scars he carried.

And then there were the fans. They came in quietly at first, whispering to one another as they spotted him behind the counter. Sometimes they just wanted an autograph on a receipt, other times they nervously asked for selfies. Conrad always obliged, flashing that familiar crooked smile. He posed with energy drinks in hand, or leaning against the counter, making them laugh as if they were still in the crowd.

For them, it was surreal: their idol, once bathed in starlight, now ringing up snacks and bottled water. But for Conrad, it wasn't humiliation—it was connection. They still remembered him. They still cared. And if he could make even one fan walk away with a little joy, then the job was worth more than the paycheck.

The bell above the shop door jingled as Conrad stepped out into the evening air, his apron already folded under his arm. Magali was waiting for him just across the street, her yellow headband catching the last hints of sunlight like a crown. She waved, the kind of wave that made even the most ordinary day feel worth something, and together they began the walk home.

Between them, Conrad carried a modest bag of groceries—vegetables, spices, and a loaf of fresh bread. It wasn't much, but it was his way of contributing, of keeping their home stocked and their kitchen warm. Magali, looping her arm through his, peeked into the bag.

"So," she asked, blue eyes glinting with mischief, "what are we making tonight, chef?"

Conrad smirked, adjusting the strap on his shoulder. "That depends. You in the mood for something safe… or something that could burn the kitchen down?"

She rolled her eyes with a laugh. "Conrad, you know I'm no Zoila. I can't make those twelve-hour Spanish roasts. But…" Her voice softened, thoughtful. "I can whip up something from Italy. Or maybe Moroccan—remember that lamb stew I made last time?"

Conrad's stomach rumbled at the memory. "You had me at 'stew.'"

By the time they reached their home, the windows glowed with the soft orange of twilight. Shoes kicked off at the door, they carried the groceries into the kitchen where Magali quickly tied her apron around her waist, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Conrad set the bag down, already pulling out the cutting board and knife. He wasn't much of a cook himself, but he was a functional assistant.

He sliced vegetables while she worked at the stove, filling the air with the sizzle of garlic and onions. Every so often, Conrad leaned over her shoulder, slipping an arm around her waist, planting a kiss at the edge of her temple.

"Conrad," she laughed, stirring the pot, "you're going to make me spill this."

"Worth it," he whispered against her cheek, tightening his embrace before pulling away with that boyish grin of his.

They worked like that most nights—two halves of a whole, the rhythm of their kitchen not unlike a duet they'd once performed on stage. Chop, stir, taste, laugh. Each dish was a small victory, a reminder that life could still be delicious, even if the spotlight no longer shone on both of them.

Some nights, their table grew a little louder, a little fuller. Ryu would stop by, Tarlya perched on his hip, the baby's tiny hands flailing in happy chaos the moment she saw her aunt and uncle.

"Ahhh, there she is," Conrad said warmly, scooping her up as soon as Ryu stepped inside. Tarlya squealed, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as if she had been waiting all day just for him.

Magali's heart softened every time. She leaned closer, brushing a strand of Tarlya's dark hair aside. The older she got, the more she looked like Khefner. The curve of her cheeks, the shape of her eyes—it was like seeing a piece of Khefner again, alive in her smile.

Dinner became a shared ritual. Ryu sat across from them, weary but proud, trading stories while Magali and Conrad passed bowls of food around.

"So there I was," Ryu said between bites, "trying to lead music time for the toddlers at the nursery. And what does your niece decide to do? Steals my guitar pick and crawls right under the piano. Whole room of kids laughing at me."

Magali laughed so hard she had to cover her mouth. "She's already an idol in the making—stealing the spotlight from her own dad."

"More like a troublemaker," Ryu muttered, though his grin betrayed the pride he felt.

Conrad, still bouncing Tarlya on his knee, shot him a teasing look. "Sounds familiar. I remember a certain young idol who once got himself banned from three rehearsal halls for sneaking in food."

"Low blow," Ryu said, shaking his head. "But fair."

The laughter spilled over the table, warm and genuine. Magali leaned back, her gaze lingering on the two men and the baby girl who giggled at every silly face Conrad made. In moments like this, their home didn't feel too big or too quiet—it felt alive.

When the meal was done and dishes stacked in the sink, Ryu would tuck Tarlya against his shoulder, humming a soft lullaby while she drifted to sleep. And as he slipped back into the night, Conrad and Magali would exchange a glance that said everything: this was their family. Maybe not complete, maybe not perfect—but theirs.

As the days slipped by in their cozy home, Conrad and Magali found themselves standing side by side in the kitchen, staring at the calendar tacked to the wall. Magali's finger rested on the date circled in pink ink.

"Tarlya's first birthday," she whispered.

For a long moment, the weight of those words lingered between them. Conrad glanced at her, reading the same unspoken thought in her eyes. It wasn't just a birthday. It was the anniversary of Khefner's passing—the shadow of grief that still clung to Ryu, and to all of them.

"We should do something," Magali said at last. Her voice was soft but firm, threaded with conviction. "She deserves more than silence. More than sadness. It's her first birthday—we only get one of those."

Conrad nodded slowly, a small smile tugging at his lips. "You're right. She deserves laughter. She deserves a family celebration." He pulled out his phone, scrolling to Ryu's number.

When Ryu answered, his hesitation was immediate. His voice carried the weight of the day. "I don't know, guys… celebrating that day feels wrong."

Magali leaned in, her voice warm as if Ryu could feel her presence through the line. "It doesn't erase the loss, Ryu. But this isn't about grief—it's about Tarlya. About giving her joy, about making sure her first birthday is a happy memory."

There was silence on the other end, then the sound of Ryu's breath catching. Finally, his voice softened. "…If you're sure."

"We're sure," Conrad said firmly. "Let us host it. Not just for her—but for all of us." And so the decision was made. Not to mourn the day, but to reclaim it—to honor the past while celebrating the future.

The house was dressed in warmth that day. Paper streamers and pastel balloons lined the walls, a little banner over the dining room that read Happy First Birthday, Tarlya! in bright, playful letters. The smell of vanilla cake and sugared frosting drifted from the kitchen, and the table was crowded with plates of simple finger foods, more for the adults than the baby who sat giggling in her high chair.

Magali fussed over the cake, a small round one just big enough for tiny hands to dig into. She had decorated it with white icing and little pink flowers. "It's perfect," Conrad said, kissing her cheek as he set paper plates on the table. "Mags, you've outdone yourself."

But Magali only smiled faintly. Her heart felt heavy under the cheer of balloons and laughter. She knew this day wasn't just a birthday—it was also a reminder. A year since Khefner had passed. A year since Ryu lost the woman he loved.

Ryu arrived quietly to pick her up, Tarlya tucked against his shoulder, wearing a tiny dress patterned with yellow daisies. Her wide eyes lit up when she saw Conrad and Magali, and she reached her little arms out to them with a squeal. Magali took her, spinning the baby gently as Tarlya shrieked with laughter.

The celebration was simple, just the four of them gathered in the living room. They sang softly as Conrad lit a single candle, Tarlya's chubby fists clapping with excitement though she didn't understand why everyone was smiling at her. When the candle was blown out with Ryu's gentle help, Magali felt her throat tighten.

Later, as Tarlya smeared icing across her cheeks, Magali caught Ryu's expression—the way he smiled, but his eyes shimmered with unshed tears. Conrad noticed too. He placed a hand on Ryu's shoulder.

"She looks so much like her," Magali whispered.

Ryu nodded, swallowing hard. His voice cracked when he finally spoke. "Khefner would've loved this. She would've… she would've loved seeing her like this. Laughing. Growing."

The room grew quiet, only the sound of Tarlya's giggles filling the space. For a moment, grief and joy twined together, inseparable.

Magali reached across the table, gently placing her hand over Ryu's. "She's here, in Tarlya. Every smile, every laugh—Khefner is still with us. We'll make sure she always is."

Ryu closed his eyes and nodded, pressing a kiss to the top of his daughter's head. And as Tarlya clapped her frosting-covered hands and Conrad laughed softly, the heaviness in the room lifted just a little.

This birthday wasn't just for Tarlya. It was for Khefner too. A celebration of what she left behind—and the promise that her memory would never fade.

The evening wound down with quiet laughter and the soft rustle of Tarlya's blanket as Ryu gathered her into his arms. Standing at the door, his eyes lingered on Conrad and Magali with a rare softness.

"Thank you," he said, his voice low and sincere. "For today—for reminding me that joy still has a place."

Magali reached out, brushing her hand lightly over Tarlya's head. "You're never alone in this, Ryu. Neither of you are."

With one last grateful smile, Ryu stepped into the night, the door closing gently behind him. The house grew still, the warmth of family lingering like a fading melody.

Elsewhere, in the heart of Sweetdance City, warmth had no place. Scorpio leaned back in his leather chair, the faint scratching of his pen against paper filling the otherwise quiet chamber. Stacks of reports from every corner of Sweetdance City lined his desk, each one demanding answers, demanding solutions. His brow furrowed, the weight of leadership pressing heavily across his shoulders.

The intercom crackled, Roberta's voice breaking the silence. "Sir, you have a visitor. Code name: Scarlet Nexus."

Scorpio set the pen down and exhaled through his nose. "Send her in."

The heavy double doors swung open, and she entered. Scarlet Nexus stepped inside with her signature, unshakable poise. She was tall, her presence commanding even before a word left her mouth. Her long crimson hair spilled down her back like a banner of flame, catching the low light of the chamber lamps. Business-casual attire fit her frame with precise tailoring: dark slacks, a pale blouse beneath a fitted jacket, a matching blazer, and low heels that clicked firmly against the marble floor. She carried herself like a blade hidden in velvet, her striking green eyes cutting forward beneath a face locked in perpetual severity. Even here, among the highest seats of power, her aura carried intimidation.

She approached the desk and slid a folder across the polished surface. Her voice, calm yet edged with steel, broke the stillness.

"I'm afraid I bring bad news."

Scorpio regarded her, the shadows of the chamber sharpening around his face. He folded his hands together, his rings catching the dim light. "Then don't keep me waiting, Scarlet Nexus. Speak."

Scarlet Nexus rested a hand on her hip, unsure how to deliver the news. "One of our idols are gone."

Scorpio's hand froze over the papers in front of him "Another disappearance?" He let out a long, tired sigh. "It's been years since we've lost track of an idol, but I've feared it was only a matter of time. Very well. Begin the search protocols."

Scarlet Nexus shook her head, her expression unreadable. "No. You don't understand." She slid the folder closer to him, her green eyes steady. "An idol hasn't gone missing. An idol has been killed."

The words struck the room like a thunderclap. Scorpio stiffened, then snatched the folder, flipping it open. The image inside stole the breath from his chest. A photograph—grainy, but clear enough—showed a bloodstained floor, the lifeless body of an older man sprawled across it. His face was one Scorpio recognized instantly.

"Scuti…" His voice was nearly a whisper. "Scuti Delmare of the Darkness Eyes Trainee."

Scarlet Nexus nodded once, her tone steady though her eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. "An instructor in the Trainee Building. Found shot dead at the scene."

Robert's fingers tightened on the edge of the photograph, his knuckles pale. "Where?"

Scarlet Nexus let out a slow breath, her arms folding across her chest. "Miami."

The single word landed heavy. Robert's eyes narrowed. Miami was nowhere near Sweetdance City. Scuti had crossed the city boundaries without permission, sending a message far more dangerous than a disappearance.

For the first time in a long while, Robert Highland—Scorpio—felt the cold weight of dread settle in his chest.

Scarlet Nexus remained standing, her posture straight and deliberate, as Scorpio let the photo of Scuti's corpse fall back into the folder. His fingers tapped against the desk in thought, the silence in the chamber broken only by the faint hum of the city beyond the window.

"The Twin Stars and myself already went to Miami to examine the scene," Scarlet Nexus continued, her voice steady, clinical. "Local law enforcement is treating it as a robbery gone wrong." She paused, letting her green eyes lock onto his. "But I don't buy that for a second."

Robert raised his gaze sharply. "Explain."

"The evidence doesn't line up. The shots were too precise—close range, deliberate. Not wild or panicked like you'd expect from a thief. Scuti wasn't just killed. He was executed, and it looks personal." Her words cut through the air like a blade. "Whoever did this wanted him dead. The robbery? Most likely to hide the identity of the killer. The rest—it was staged."

Scorpio's face paled, the color draining from his cheeks. His hand came up to rub his jaw, the weight of the revelation pressing down. Firearms. The word itself carried weight these days. Few outside of sanctioned circles had access to them—military, law enforcement, or the select few civilians wealthy enough to secure the rare license. Even smugglers of firearms were rare and wouldn't commit petty robbery. For someone to use a firearm so cleanly, so decisively was suspicious at least.

"Then why was he there?" Scorpio muttered to himself, leaning back in his chair. His thoughts ran wild, circling the implications. "And more importantly… who did this?"

Scarlet Nexus shifted her weight, then reached into the inner pocket of her blazer. "One more thing." She slid a sealed envelope across the polished desk. The thick paper bore no markings, no return address.

Robert's brows furrowed. "What is this?"

"Black Star told me to deliver it to you. Personally. And he was insistent…" Her voice trailed off as she straightened her jacket. "…that you read it alone."

For the first time, her composure cracked—if only slightly—her eyes flicking toward the envelope as though she'd rather not know what lay inside.

She gave a curt nod, then turned on her heel, heels echoing against the marble floor. The great chamber doors closed behind her, leaving Robert alone with the folder, the photo, and the unmarked envelope. His hand hovered over it, the weight of dread settling heavier with each passing second.

Scorpio broke the seal with careful fingers, the parchment tearing in a way that felt far too loud in the silence of his chambers. He unfolded the letter slowly, the familiar scrawl of Black Star's hand meeting his eyes.

Scorpio,

We finished combing through the crime scene. Local law enforcement missed something, or perhaps ignored it. In the corner of Scuti's motel room, half-hidden beneath a layer of overturned clothes, we found a suitcase. It was empty, but its design was unmistakable—reinforced casing, lined with specialized padding. Padding made for one purpose. To cradle something fragile. Something alive.

I know what you're thinking. And yes—you're right. It wasn't just a suitcase. The kind designed to house and transport a large egg that hatches into elves. Very similar to the one Amalthea hatched from.

Whatever Scuti was doing in Miami, he wasn't there to visit family or friends. He smuggled an egg out of Sweetdance City. From where, and for whom, I can't yet tell. But what is certain is this: the egg is gone. Stolen during Scuti's killing. Which means the person who killed him knows about the elves—and intends to use one.

Amalthea was proof enough of what they can become. Whoever holds this egg now, they have in their hands a weapon unlike anything the world has seen since the Great War.

We must assume the worst. And prepare.

—Black Star

Scorpio's hand tightened around the letter, the paper trembling ever so slightly between his fingers. For a moment, he simply stared, his mind frozen, as though his veins had been injected with ice. An elf egg—stolen. Loose. Out there in the hands of someone willing to kill for it.

He leaned back heavily in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. Memories of Amalthea, radiant and terrifying, filled his mind. He could still remember the report of her horn splitting light, her breath that had burned a dragon to dust. That was one elf. Just one.

And now… another was in the wind.

Robert swallowed hard, staring past the envelope toward the glass window of his chamber, where the city glittered under the night. Sweetdance—brilliant, vibrant, and utterly fragile—suddenly felt like a tinderbox waiting for a match.

"God help us," he muttered. He looked up at the ceiling where the stars of the Scorpio constallation decorated his office. "I hope that there is a god up there at least."

Scorpio pressed the intercom, his voice low and rough, "Roberta… you're in charge until further notice. Hold all calls. Don't let anyone disturb me."

"Yes, sir," came her crisp reply, but he didn't wait to hear more. He closed the line, gathered his coat, and left the council building behind.

The drive back to his estate blurred into a haze of streetlamps and shadows. By the time he stepped through the carved oak doors of his mansion, the mask of Scorpio—the leader, the tactician, the man who never faltered—was already peeling away. Robert Highland now exists in Scorpio's place. He ascended the marble staircase with heavy steps, his body moving on instinct until he reached the sanctuary of his bedroom.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows braced on his knees, hands folded so tightly they turned white. His heart hammered against his ribs, his mind repeating the words over and over like a curse: Whoever holds this egg now, they have in their hands a weapon unlike anything the world has seen since the Great War.

The soft sound of the bathroom door opening pulled him back. Rose emerged, her robe cinched at the waist, damp towel cradling her long, blonde hair. Her yellow eyes caught the sight of him—her husband, her pillar—looking as if the weight of the world had finally broken through his armor.

"Robert," she said gently, crossing the room. She lowered herself beside him, her hand resting lightly between his shoulder blades. "What is it? What's wrong?"

He stared at the floor, unable to meet her gaze at first. Finally, his voice escaped, a harsh whisper. "One of the Elves… it's gone. Out there. In the hands of God knows who."

Her hand moved in slow circles on his back, warmth and comfort grounding him in the storm. "Oh, love…" she murmured. "What happens now?"

Robert leaned forward, his hands tightening into a trembling knot. "I don't know. First Trevor… now Scuti. The bodies are piling up, and every time I reach for answers, all I find is blood. I'm supposed to lead this city, Rose. I'm supposed to keep it safe." His voice cracked, low and raw. "But I can't stop any of it."

Rose leaned against him, wrapping her arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. "You don't have to carry it alone," she whispered, pressing her forehead against his temple. "You're not just Scorpio. You're my Robert. And whatever happens… we'll face it together."