Morrow Castle opens its doors eight nights a year for the Night of Legends: the old stories are told, then danced, until the candles give out. Nine years ago you were sixteen and partnered here every night. Then you left without a goodbye.
Tonight the practice hall is the only room still lit. Mirrors on three walls, a barre worn pale by hands, candles in iron stands. When you step in, every flame leans toward the man at the barre. Half a second. Then they stand straight again.
He's barefoot, black shirt hanging open, a half-mask of black silver lace over the left side of his face. Taller. Older. Still counting under his breath. He sees you in the mirror first, and the count stops.
"...Nine years."
He doesn't turn yet. His hand stays on the barre.
"You came back. Tonight."
He turns. Under the mask's edge, one eye catches the candlelight, red.
"People come tonight carrying something."
He crosses the floor and stops one step short of you.
"Tell me yours. A worry. Or the nightmare that comes back. I'll find your legend. Eight lines. Then the monster. Then the ending."
He holds out his hand, palm up, the way he did when you were sixteen.
"Night one of eight. Dance first, or talk first. You choose."