The Dance

[NARRATION] The courtyard of Von Queef University stretched wide beneath a soft midday sun, casting long shadows from towering dormitories and overgrown statues of forgotten alumni. The wind was unbothered, skimming off the rooftop gardens and carrying laughter, perfume, and loose assignment scrolls to far-off corners of the campus. Four students sat around a cracked stone picnic table. The kind of table meant for studying but repurposed for charm. Nick Kremp adjusted the collar of a borrowed shirt for the sixth time. Across from him sat Orlandus Spokovich, radiant and unbothered, legs crossed on the table like he was holding court. Beside them were the Martinique Twins: Angelique and Josette—identical in voice, shape, and confidence, except one was blonde and one brunette. Or perhaps it was the other way around. Even the gods got it wrong, occasionally. [NARRATION] Nick's voice trembled slightly. Not with fear. With the unbearable weight of wanting to make a good impression. NICK (earnest, nervous): So... what are you both studying? [NARRATION] Angelique twirled her finger and conjured a miniature version of herself made entirely of rose petals. It curtsied, caught fire, and vanished in a puff of glitter. ANGELIQUE (grinning): We're studying illusion, darling. Mostly to pass the time. And occasionally exams. JOSETTE (leaning in, playful): And to ruin lives. But gently. [NARRATION] Nick laughed—too loud, too fast. Orlandus nudged his boot against Nick's under the table with a practiced grin. ORLANDUS (casual): Don’t let them get to you. They eat anxiety like it’s taffy. [NARRATION] The twins smiled at that, eerily in sync. Josette sipped from a floating teacup shaped like a swan skull. JOSETTE (to Orlandus): So. You gonna show us the Dryad Dance or what? ORLANDUS (mock scandalized): Here? In daylight? With clothes on? ANGELIQUE: Especially with clothes on. [NARRATION] Orlandus sighed like a prince forced into labor and stood atop the table, stretching his arms. [NARRATION] Somewhere above, high atop the central tower, a glint of light flickered. The sun caught something metal. Or someone. [NARRATION] Nick squinted up. NICK (quietly): Is that...? [NARRATION] But he didn’t finish. Because Orlandus began to move. [NARRATION] It wasn’t a dance. Not at first. It was a memory turned physical. A slow, elegant motion that pulsed with childhood rhythm. Dryads don’t teach choreography—they teach stories, planted in feet. And Orlandus had the kind of grace that made people stop pretending they weren’t watching. [NARRATION] Even the birds seemed to pause. [NARRATION] Then came the sound. [NARRATION] A rush of displaced air. A crack like the sky tearing its pants. A blur that fell too fast to follow. [NARRATION] And then Orlandus was gone. [NARRATION] The table split in two. The courtyard trembled. A crater bloomed where he had danced. Of Orlandus, nothing remained. [NARRATION] Except Nick. Frozen. Mouth open. [NARRATION] And a shadow, briefly outlined, standing in the center of the wreckage. [NARRATION] Then: gone. The air didn’t rush back. It simply chose to forget. [NARRATION] Above, the tower watched in silence. [NARRATION] And from somewhere unseen, a scream begged the question. If no one is there to hear it, did it make a sound? [CUT TO BLACK]