AN: Obviously, this is just a story I thought up following the life of someone that's not real. You may just decide to read it because it's awesome, but I would hope that you recognize the symbolism in the story, and as if it actually happened. This is fantasy in a could-be sense. Like the tales of old, there is a point to its creation.

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Amershka Shahr, recognized as the 263rd master of the Dance of Crimson Steel, was quite possibly the greatest woman that ever lived. She practiced no martial art, though some might consider the dance akin to this. No, it is best described as an art form, one that used to be beautiful and honorable. Nowadays, most argue that it is. But, for those of us that lived during the end of Amershka’s reign as the master of the dance, those of us that came so close to surpassing her, and suffered through our youth at the Rose School, we know what it is. The point for those now ‘learning’ the dance is not to achieve perfection or beauty of the art; it is to gain political power, a rich husband, and an entire country that will fall to its feet for the one woman chosen to gain the title of Fene. While a good incentive to draw in competitors, this is not what the dance is about.

I was once a young girl entering the school in high hopes to achieve the glory that Amershka, my idol, had gained. That was the time of glory and elegance and art and literature, the defining aspects of any civilization. Rashiz is different now, occupied with war and corruption. The Rose School no longer breeds capable women of good character. The institution breeds mere girls taught to be more servile than ever, taught to be of no more use than bearing children and looking pretty. It makes me sick, and I have not even the advantage of dying soon. I am no old woman, thus destined to see my great country fall to ruin.

Who am I? I am a patron of the tale, a storyteller that was present in the making of her yarn. Listen now to my life, the life of Dazsk Cadenca, and learn what the Dance of Crimson Steel really is.

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I was five years old when I first beheld the Dance of Crimson Steel. Amershka was performing for the royal court, and I, as the daughter of nobility, went that day with my parents. My length of black hair was tied up in the five folds of Youth, and I wore the typical frash; a light-blue sleeveless robe of silk with white embroidery, an ankle-length skirt of matching color, a pale gold sash bound around my waist, delicate tie-on sleeves of dried grasses on my arms just above the elbow, and gold slippers upon my feet. My mother’s frash was white with orange accents, a fresh green grass hov, a thick choker, about her neck. Her chocolate hair was cut at her shoulders, a silvery mesh veil about her face. My father wore a sherk, a manly frash that made him look officious in midnight blue.

We had done much standing around in the throne room, a great chamber with a ceiling that could shelter a school. The floor was of white marble with gold flecks, and golden pillars were sunk into the walls for decoration. Silks of every color hung like tapestries along the walls – this was the domain of King Garde and his wife, Queen Rahlaou. They sat at the opposite end of the room, across from the great front doors on a raised dais where their gilt thrones sat.

My limbs were trembling from excitement; I’d heard stories about the Fene and her sacred dance, but I’d never before been able to see her. She was a beacon of hope to all girls, someone who’d gained equality and power. In Rashese society, that was as good as it got. I couldn’t wait to see the spectacle for myself.

At last, Garde stood and clapped his hands twice, silencing the chatter immediately.

“Fene Amershka Shahr has waited long enough to perform for us. Clear the floor.”

He was never one for grand speaking, though his presence, as I discovered even then, demanded immense respect.

The torches dimmed and the other nobles shuffled to the side; my parents made sure that we were close to the front line of people, and my father slung me up in his strong arms. Even though he was a politician, as all nobles were, he was a competent fighter, too, ready to serve our King in war.

Musicians beat out a pattern on sets of drums, while reed flutists twittered along like a march. A figure clad in a rich red cloak of embossed velvet, tasseled with gold, strode elegantly to the center of the clearing, the bands of gold around the centers of her feet glittering in the depleted light. To say that she walked was too garish to describe the movement. The Fene glided. The sight of her movement convinced me that she merely made it look as if her feet touched the ground to appease jealous spectators. Her face was hidden beneath the cloth, but I was sure that she must have been sharing a private grin to herself, becoming, in that moment, a god.

“Look closely, Cadenca. You’ll be her one day.” My father whispered. My little face glowed with pleasure at the thought, not even having to witness the Fene’s dance before I knew that I wanted to be her.

A sudden, harsh note echoed around the room without any to follow, and Amershka tossed off the velvet behind her shoulder, looking back at it, straying in that pose while the music had paused. Her gold cloth top exposed her midriff, golden clasps holding the red silk that served as decorative sleeves to her shoulders, and she wore dusted red grass sleeves on her arms. Red silk swirled loosely about her legs, held up by a golden belt. The top half of her brown hair was braided in cornrows, the top of her face and ears covered by an expressionless red mask adorned with two strings of gold beads.

The music started again, slowly at first, and then speeding up. Amershka swayed accordingly. The gold bands about her feet kept her on her toes, insinuating that it took great balance to perform what she did on the balls of her feet. The mask hid her eyes, her expression, as her mouth gave away no hints. The strings of beads attached to her mask flickered in the little light there was, flashing like fire. She seemed to be a spirit, the red silk floating around her as her movements sped up, becoming more erratic and complex. From thin air, seemingly, she drew a dagger. True to the dance, it was stained with what I was sure were rose petals, as it did not look like actual blood.

She leapt and twirling in midair, becoming something of legend. Surely, I thought, she wasn’t human. No mortal woman could move as she did, command the extended attention of even the King, cause absolute silence from her audience.

She was fluid, and also like air, with a sort of delicateness that hinted at strength at the same time. She was a rare creature, I’d thought. Just as my father said, I would one day take her place as Fene. That was the only goal my young mind had ever homed in on, and I promised myself that I would one day catch her eye.

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On my sixth birthday, seven months after witnessing Amershka at the palace, my parents took me to the Rose School. This was the only institution that taught the Dance of Crimson Steel. If you learned it somewhere else, you could not ever be accepted as Fene, unless the reigning one thought you worthy to succeed her. Incidentally, this never happened.

The place was a finishing school of sorts, with the exception that this was the only school you would ever go to. You were taught the finer points of being a lady, as this was the first step to becoming a candidate for Fene. Tuition was very expensive, however. Only noble families could afford it, though it wasn’t entirely uncommon for a middle-class girl to be enrolled.

My first sight of the school was awe-inspiring. It seemed like a giant monument of marble and alabaster. It shined bright and white like the sun, with glittering golden statues of half-horse half-men flanking the dome on the roof. A wide set of stairs let up to the doorless entrance. Just inside, sheltered from the sun, people moved; most were women, dressed in simple white linen frashes. A few were men, fathers, husbands, and brothers to the students. Each one had a chaperone, as men were not allowed to be unattended in Rose School.

There was a desk made of some dark wood set against the wall farthest from the entrance. My mother put a hand on my shoulder as we walked beside my father up to the desk, the carriage that transported us waiting outside. In the male-oriented society I was used to, this was strange. I later found out that the school was the only place where both genders were equal. Exception going to the school and the temples to Shashra, anyway.

The woman keeping the desk, wearing a yellow frash, looked up as they neared. She pasted the usual smile on her face.

“Can I help you?”

Her eyes, a soft brown, though surprisingly calculating, flickered down to me, though only for an instant.

“Dazsk Cadenca for enrollment.” My father answered formally.

The woman, who had obviously been expecting this, was ready with her reply. “Six years old?”

“Yes.”

They waited while the woman fished out a neat form, no doubt made with the new block press, and filled out my name and age. Everyone knew all the other nobles, explaining what knowledge she drew upon for this – all of the employees in positions of importance at Rose School were nobles.

“I trust you have the first 400 dali installment?” she asked with arched brows. My father hid the frown I knew threatened his face as he dropped the pouch of gold before the woman. Hiding her grin just as skillfully, she scrawled ‘Dazsk’ on the soft leather with her heavily inked quill and set it aside – at the time, I didn’t know what she was doing, but it would be rude to count the money in front of nobility.

“Ferinza!” she called out into the crowd. As no one seemed to notice her, she frowned and called again, this time louder. A woman in the white linen with indigo-sleeved frash of a Fene candidate, called obe, appeared in the midst of the crowd. For a candidate, she was surprisingly clumsy, I observed. It seemed almost rude that she should be considered a rival for Amershka. She nearly tripped over the hem of her garment as she stood breathlessly in front of the woman at the desk. Her eyes, too, flickered down to me before returning to the desk woman’s face.

“Take Lady Cadenca to the fitting room, then bring her back to the lobby. Oh, and she’s in class C.” she added, as if an afterthought.

Ferinza bobbed her head, and looked at me with a warm smile that reminded me of my mother. Her hand became tight on my shoulder as Ferinza took my hand. That hand was loath to let me go, I felt, as my wide eyes turned to look back at the pair who bore me, my mother’s expression hidden by the veil she wore. As we disappeared into the scattered people, I looked back to what seemed the mammoth height of Ferinza.

“You’ll love it here!” she said, beaming down at me. “Everything is so elegant.”

She may not have been graceful, but she was nice.

The fitting room was empty when we arrived. White linen was stacked in flat grass baskets in rows and columns, according to size and rank. Ferinza led me to the shelves of beginners’ frash, stopping to look me over. She looked thoughtful as she mumbled to herself, looking over the number labeling the baskets. She pulled out one labeled with a three and unfurled it, handing it to me.

“See how that fits.” She offered.

I did, and the robe’s sleeved were too short. Ferinza found a size five that fit me, carefully folded it back in the basket, took my hand, and we set off down the echoing marble halls again. Everyone looked identical in their linen frashes, but they moved with such grace. What you would call a crowd did not apply here; ‘crowd’ suggests chaos and disorder. There was nothing chaotic about the people in these halls.

At length, Ferinza returned me to my parents in the lobby.

“Session C starts in month set.” She said, handing the basket to my mother. “Bring her back on the first day, with luggage.”

With that, the obe disappeared. My small body thrummed with excitement. Set was next month! I saw myself quickly rising to be an obe, dancing as beautifully as Amershka Shahr. I dreamed of captivating the whole city, or going out onto the sea and awing the fish. The visions of beauty still in my head, my parents led me back out of the school and into our waiting carriage.