Finally, the day had arrived.
The students had a specific space to practice, a private ballroom reserved for fifth-year students. It was elegant but not ostentatious, with polished wood floors and mirrors on the walls so couples could observe and correct their form.
Luna didn't want to show up.
Every fiber of her being screamed to flee, to fake illness, to find any excuse to avoid this moment. Her wolf had been pacing in her shadow all morning, picking up on her anxiety and reflecting it back amplified.
But she was Luna.
Luna never runs.
No matter how difficult the situation, no matter how personal it becomes, a Starweaver faces their challenges head-on.
So she breathed deep, verified that her posture was perfect, that her expression was neutral, that no traitorous emotions filtered through her mask.
The armor of composure that nobles learned to wear like second skin. The protection that let you function even when everything inside was screaming.
And she entered the hall.
