He’s surprised by that little defiance, but it just brings out a nastier smirk. My eyes drift back to my father. He knows what I’m doing and why, but it doesn’t make the burden of his anger any lighter. It’s unfair that he has to shoulder this shame just to keep us alive. He looks away. It’s the closest I’ll get to approval. The room is silent as I cross to the center. The Ashlord’s eyes flick around the room before settling on me. He looks delighted by it all.

My cousin Luca watches with clenched fists. His guitar’s been abandoned to a corner. I call over to him and smile. “The Contested, Luca. Play the Contested.”

Oxanos looks surprised again, but he crosses over and takes his position diagonal from me. It’s a dance he should know, if he’s had any formal training at all. The Ashlords have their traditional dances, but the Contested is something they created just for us.

Our people sailed to their land centuries ago, intending to conquer. Only, we failed. With the help of their gods, the Ashlords defeated our ancestors. We were stranded on foreign soil, and the Ashlords forced us to bow to them. Most Ashlord dances tell a story. The Contested is a dance that’s meant to show our role in the Empire, not as rulers, but as subjects. The longer strides and gliding turns are intended to favor them. Each year the dance is performed to remind every Dividian that our ancestors came and failed. It is a reminder that we live at their mercy.

But I will dance a new dance.

The music begins fast, but it’s the Contested, which means it will only get faster. When Oxanos reaches for my hand, I give it to him freely. His skin is nearly burning, each palm furious with heat as he turns me twice. The steps of the dance have us circling, darting forward only to dart back again. Oxanos is a fine dancer, a graceful thing. He matches my rhythm easily as we reach the first chorus. Then I spin away, and clap twice.

The signal surprises Oxanos. The Contested is a competition, a battle of wills. Traditionally, the Ashlord will clap to the players, asking for a feverish pace the Dividian dancer struggles to match. My cousin sees the signal and the speed of his strumming doubles. I spin back into the Ashlord’s arms as the rhythm of our steps and hips races to match the music.