Bryn pressed her shoulder against the stone archway and watched the reigning champion run through her routine. The elf moved like water, blades catching torchlight in perfect arcs. Every strike landed on the downbeat. Every transition flowed without effort. The crowd around Bryn murmured approval. Bryn traced the sequence with her eyes, mapping each move against the music. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. The champion spun left, blades crossing high. Bryn's hand twitched. That cross came a half-beat early. She pulled a colored marker from her jacket pocket and sketched the flaw on her palm—two quick lines showing the timing gap. The crowd saw grace. Bryn saw the crack in it. She watched the champion finish to thunderous applause, then looked down at the sketch on her skin. If the best they had could slip, then a dwarf who never slipped could win. She stayed through two more runs. Each time, the same error appeared at move thirty-two. The champion had built her routine around hiding it—the next three moves drew the eye away with flourishes and spins. Clever enough to fool judges who wanted to be fooled. Bryn folded the marker back into her pocket and pushed off the archway. The gap between elven artistry and perfect execution wasn't as wide as they pretended. She just had to prove it where everyone could see. Bryn walked to the edge of the ornate stage and studied the carved wood beneath the champion's feet. The stage itself was designed to make performers look weightless. Its polished surface caught every movement, amplified every grace note. But precision didn't need amplification. Precision needed witnesses who could tell the difference between beautiful and flawless. She turned away from the crowd still clapping for the champion's third run. Her own forty-three moves had no timing flaws. Now she knew that mattered.