“Magnificent,” a silken voice purred from the shadows of the console. Maestro Zolok emerged, his hands clasped behind his back, a slow, appreciative clap echoing across the stone deck. “Truly magnificent. But one of you is hiding a fatal flaw in your pitch.” The Maestro’s words, though directed at both of them, seemed to scorch Daska’s skin alone. A fatal flaw. How could a legend like Daska Fane possess such a thing? She had been a soprano of unmatched purity, a siren on the grandest stages of the Harmonic Imperium. Now, trapped in this ‘Dask’ persona, forced to mimic a tenor, every note felt like a betrayal. But she would sooner perish than admit to struggling. Especially not to Zolok, whose gaze seemed to dissect her, or to Lekhan, who was still fuming, a storm cloud of competitive rage. “Both of you, to the Vanguard Voices practice hall. Immediately,” Zolok commanded, his tone turning crisp. “The Debut Ensemble will be formed by week’s end. Your ‘magnificent’ squabble will not delay my timeline.” The practice hall was a cavernous space, its polished obsidian floor reflecting the shimmering aura of projected choreographic sequences. Daska, still buzzing from the simulator, felt a familiar thrill. Music, even this brutish boyband fare, was her domain. She could sing it, yes, but dance? That was a different beast altogether. Her past life had involved graceful, operatic choreography, not the sharp, aggressive, perfectly synchronized lunges and spins demanded of a Vanguard Voices member. “Alright, cadets!” a wiry instructor with a voice like grinding gears barked. “Phase Gamma-7! Tempo up by twenty-five percent! Voda, show them how it’s done!” Lekhan, whose lithe frame seemed designed for such intricate footwork, moved with a fluid, predatory grace. He whipped through the motions, each twist and stomp infused with a barely contained ferocity. Daska, meanwhile, found herself a beat behind, her mind translating the unfamiliar patterns into muscle memory that simply wasn’t there. Her left arm, meant to sweep high, clipped the shoulder of the cadet beside her. Her right foot, intended for a precise pivot, landed clumsily, nearly tripping her. “Dask! Keep your spacing!” the instructor yelled, his voice echoing. “You’re throwing off the whole line!” Daska’s face, already flushed from exertion, burned hotter. Her vanity, a core component of her very being, screamed in protest. She, Daska Fane, the epitome of elegance, reduced to a clumsy trainee. It was an insult to the very concept of artistry. As the tempo increased, so did the chaos. Daska’s carefully cultivated aloofness chipped away with each misstep. She bumped into a lanky cadet named Brio, who shot her a venomous glare. Then, an aggressive hip-thrust step sent her careening sideways, directly into Lekhan’s path. His arm, poised for a dramatic flourish, was knocked askew. “Watch it, Dask!” Lekhan snarled, his eyes flashing. “Are you trying to dislocate my shoulder?” “Perhaps you should expand your spatial awareness, Voda,” Daska shot back, her voice tight, refusing to apologize. “The hall is quite large. You need not occupy every square meter.” Their sharp exchange only intensified the friction. Moments later, during a complex four-man block, Daska misjudged a spin, her elbow colliding squarely with Lekhan’s ribs. He grunted, a sound of genuine pain escaping him. “That’s it!” Lekhan roared, breaking ranks and shoving Daska back a step. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? Trying to sideline me before the audition?!” “Don’t flatter yourself,” Daska retorted, catching her breath. “My focus is on perfecting *my* performance, not sabotaging yours. Though, by your current showing, it seems you’re quite capable of managing that on your own.” The instructor blew his whistle, cutting short their escalating argument. “Enough! Both of you! Your vocal cords must be shredded. To the Resonant Springs! Now! Perhaps a soak will cool your tempers!” The Resonant Springs were less a tranquil pool and more a cavernous grotto carved from luminous rock. Steam billowed from the mineral-rich waters, curling around towering stalagmites that pulsed with soft, bioluminescent light. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and the faint, sweet tang of restorative elixirs. As the other trainees stripped down to their standard-issue bathing trunks, Daska clutched a heavy, oversized towel, making a beeline for a secluded alcove. The magical corset, her constant tormentor, was a secret she couldn’t risk exposing. Its binding pressure had become a dull ache beneath her ribs, a persistent reminder of her predicament. She had chosen a thick, dark-blue towel, far heavier than necessary, and wrapped it around herself like a shroud. If anyone asked, she would cite 'extreme modesty,' a trait considered unusual for a male trainee, but she hoped, not entirely unheard of. “Dask, are you entering a modesty contest?” Lekhan’s voice, a low rumble, cut through the steam. He had slipped into the waters, his athletic build shimmering under the diffused light. He gestured to her towel. “We’re not in a public square. The waters are meant to heal, not to be avoided.” “Some of us prefer a modicum of privacy, Voda,” Daska replied, her voice strained as she carefully lowered herself into the steaming water, ensuring the towel remained securely cinched around her chest and waist. The warmth was immediate, seeping into her aching muscles, but the corset, designed for durability, merely felt damp, not diminished. “Privacy in a communal healing spring?” Lekhan scoffed, wading closer, his strides carving gentle ripples through the luminescent water. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those who believes a singer’s harmonics are somehow tied to the exposure of his— ” He paused, a smirk playing on his lips. “—er, upper body.” “My ‘resonance,’ as you so eloquently put it, is unaffected by such trivialities,” Daska snapped, angling her body away slightly. “Unlike yours, which seems to crumble under the slightest pressure.” “Pressure?” Lekhan’s smirk vanished, replaced by a competitive glint. “My tenor holds true under a Dissonance barrage. Yours, however… interesting how it pitched up in the simulator, wasn’t it? Almost as if it was… coerced.” His gaze sharpened, suspicion stirring beneath his arrogance. Cold sweat pricked behind Daska's collarbone. He was too close. Too perceptive. “It was a momentary surge of raw power, Voda. A technique you clearly lack.” She tried to sound dismissive, but her vocal cords, still recovering, produced a slightly reedy quality. “A surge of power?” Lekhan scoffed again, moving closer, until the gentle current from his kick brushed Daska’s leg. “Or a desperate attempt to compensate for a fundamental instability in your vocal core?” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a near whisper, laden with challenge. “Tell me, Dask, does your ‘raw power’ also explain why you refuse to project with your full diaphragm during warm-ups? Or why your breath control, while adequate, lacks the sustained power of a true tenor?” The argument, fueled by their mutual antagonism, escalated into a breathless, heated exchange about vocal technique, Daska defending her ‘unique’ methods while Lekhan dissected every perceived flaw. The steam, heavy with minerals, seemed to cling to their skin, making Daska’s face feel flushed and damp. She could feel Lekhan’s eyes on her, assessing, scrutinizing. He was so close she could almost feel the heat radiating from him, the subtle scent of the spring’s elixirs mixed with something uniquely Lekhan – a clean, sharp scent of ambition and sweat. In his intensity, Lekhan gestured emphatically, losing his footing on the slick, mossy stone beneath the water. He lost purchase, an awkward stumble sending him sprawling. Instinctively, Daska reached out, her hands shooting forward to prevent his fall. Her bare palms struck his collarbone and chest, wet skin meeting skin. For an instant, his weight pressed her back against the ledge, his mouth inches from hers, pupils huge. Heat flared across Daska's neck. The raw friction disoriented her, every nerve firing at the unyielding muscle beneath her fingers. Lekhan, however, reacted with a soundless explosion of panic. His eyes, initially wide with shock, snapped to a frantic, almost horrified intensity. He scrambled backward with panicked urgency, churning the water, a furious blush rushing to his temples. He bumped clumsily into the rock wall, his gaze fixed on Daska with an expression of absolute, wide-eyed gay panic. He couldn’t have pulled away faster if he’d been burned. “What in the— don’t touch me!” Lekhan gasped, sounding genuinely appalled, as if Daska had just tried to infect him with some dreadful plague. He glowered, then quickly averted his gaze, splashing away from her as if she were actively contagious. Daska stared, bewildered. His reaction was so extreme, so utterly disproportionate. It was almost… funny, in a deranged sort of way, if she hadn’t been so unnerved by the contact herself. A broader shadow eclipsed the mineral pool. “Still clutching that towel, Dask?” Brio’s voice, laced with suspicion, cut through the tense quiet. He had been quietly soaking nearby, but now stood over her, his eyes narrowed. “You’re awfully particular. Most of us don’t mind a little… camaraderie.” He reached out, his fingers surprisingly quick, aiming straight for the knot of her towel. Before Daska could even react, a flash of movement. Lekhan, having overcome his momentary panic, launched himself from the other side of the spring with a guttural roar. “Leave him alone, Brio!” he bellowed, surging through the water. He intercepted Brio’s hand with violent force, twisting his wrist away from Daska. The brutal collision threw a wall of water arcing toward the vault above. The cascade slammed into the overhead stalactite clusters, drenching the sensitive glow-crystals. There was a sharp crackle, a shower of blue sparks, and then – absolute, suffocating darkness. The cavern plunged into an inky void, total blindness stripping away her balance and sharpening every sound. And in the dead hush of the blackout, a distinct, metallic *SNICK* sheared through the air. The clasp of her magical corset, strained by the impact, had just snapped open.

Steam and Sabotage