The Arts District (Short Story)
The Long Walk Up the Street
To become a legend in Castle Crete, one had to walk the street. It was a literal and metaphorical climb.
Elara stood outside the heavy oak doors of The Outpost, her breath misting in the cool night air. To her right, the tavern sign creaked in the wind—the starting line for every dreamer with a song in their heart or a dance in their step. Far ahead, at the very end of the cobblestone avenue, the massive, illuminated dome of the Quil Theatre rose like a second moon against the night sky.
Between where she stood and that golden dome lay a gauntlet of other venues, including the respectable Arien Theatre—named for the beloved Queen Arien—and the bustling shops of Tregier Square. Elara knew Tregier Square well; her mother, the Duchess, exclusively bought her silks and jewelry there.
"Stop staring at the dome, girl," a gruff voice grunted. Barnaby, the manager of The Outpost, leaned against the doorframe. "You want the Quil? You survive the Outpost first. Get inside. Costume fitting."
Elara swallowed hard and stepped into the dressing room. It smelled of stale ale, sawdust, and ambition.
Barnaby tossed a bundle of shimmering emerald fabric onto the table. "The patrons are bored of the peasant skirts. Tonight, we give them something sleek. Something that shows them what they're paying for."
Elara picked up the garment. It was a leotard, cut from stretchy velvet. It was high at the neck but cut aggressively high on the hips, designed to be worn over sheer, ankle-length hose.
"Barnaby," Elara whispered, clutching the scrap of fabric. "This... this is underwear."
"It's a costume," Barnaby corrected. "Wear it."
Beside her, Mina—the troupe's veteran dancer—was already stripping off her tunic. Mina was the undisputed queen of The Outpost. She was a woman of lush, imposing beauty, with a heavy bosom, a narrow waist, and wide, powerful hips that flared out dramatically.
Mina stepped into the emerald leotard with practiced ease. On her, it was a weapon. The velvet clung tight to her large breasts, emphasizing her cleavage without the need for laces. The high cut of the leotard sat perfectly on her curved hips, and the tight fabric smoothed over her large derriere, highlighting the hourglass silhouette that the rowdy patrons of The Outpost adored.
Mina caught Elara staring and smirked, running a hand down her side. "It fits," she purred. "If you have the womanhood to fill it."
Elara felt the heat rise to her face. In Manor Valley, modesty was a currency. No man had ever seen her unclothed. Pulling on this leotard felt dangerously close to being naked in front of strangers.
She shimmied into it behind the screen, and her heart sank. The bodice was cut for Mina’s proportions. On Elara’s slender, athletic frame, the chest area gaped awkwardly, threatening to expose her if she leaned forward. The leg openings rode up high on her thighs, making her feel small, stick-like, and terribly vulnerable.
She stepped out, arms crossed over her chest.
"Oh, dear," Mina laughed, applying a layer of red rouge. "You look like a boy playing dress-up. Perhaps you should stick to juggling? You need curves to work the bottom of the street, darling. The Quil is for artists; The Outpost is for... scenery."
Elara straightened her spine. She looked at the gap in her bodice, then at Mina’s confident reflection. "I don't need to be scenery, Mina. I’m going to be the show."
The roar of The Outpost was deafening. The musicians struck up a heavy, rhythmic beat.
As soon as the stage lights hit them, the difference was stark. Mina moved with a slow, languid sensuality, letting the patrons admire the way the emerald velvet hugged her curves. The men in the front row cheered, raising their tankards to her.
Elara tried to focus on her choreography, launching into a series of spins. But as she moved, the ill-fitting costume betrayed her. During a high kick, the loose bodice slipped sideways.
Elara gasped, breaking her form to grab the fabric and yank it back into place before she flashed the entire room. She stumbled, missing a beat.
"Go home, little stick!" a soldier jeered from the front row.
Mina capitalized on the moment, shimmying past Elara to steal center stage, rolling her hips in a way that sent the crowd into a frenzy. Elara stood frozen, clutching her chest, tears pricking her eyes. She imagined her parents shopping in Tregier Square, just up the street. If they saw her now—fumbling, exposed, losing a battle of beauty to a barroom dancer—they would die of shame.
No, she thought. I am not going home.
She spotted a discarded length of gold ribbon on the floor. In a split second, Elara improvised. She grabbed the ribbon and, with a quick, fluid motion, tied the loose shoulder straps of her leotard together behind her neck, cinching the fabric tight against her chest. It wasn't perfect, but it was secure.
The drum beat picked up tempo. Mina was busy winking at a merchant.
Elara didn't try to out-curve Mina. She sprinted.
She ran toward the edge of the stage, vaulted off a sturdy oak support beam, and launched herself into a high, gravity-defying backflip over Mina’s head.
The crowd went silent.
Elara landed silently in a crouch, then immediately sprang up into a dizzying pirouette, spinning faster than the eye could follow. The leotard, now secured, allowed her to move with a freedom Mina’s heavy curves couldn't match. Elara was light, she was air, she was fire. She ended the routine with a splits leap that spanned the width of the stage, landing perfectly on the final beat.
For a second, there was silence. Then, the applause exploded. It wasn't the lewd whistling Mina had garnered; it was the thunderous approval of skill.
As they walked off stage, Barnaby was waiting with a pouch of coins. He looked from Mina, who was panting and sweating, to Elara, who looked ready to go another round.
"That backflip," Barnaby said. "That's not an Outpost move. that's an Arien move. Maybe even a Quil move."
Elara took the coins. She looked out the stage door, up the cobblestone street. Past the rowdy tavern, past the Arien Theatre, all the way to the glowing dome of the Quil rising above the high-end shops of Tregier Square.
"I'm just working my way up the street, Barnaby," Elara smiled, wiping sweat from her brow. "One step at a time."