The stage remains silent.

Bella forces a spotlight on her, but this isn't a play, it's an excuse. A paper thin veil, that a rabid animal might look back later and tell herself she was justified. The latest in a proud tradition of lies, carrying on the family business of holding her together. Reasoning was exiled generations ago; it won't find any welcome here.

As to her audience, she says: What audience? The chief qualification of an audience was that they held a scrap of care. Who here will shed a tear if a lioness is cut to ribbons before them? The Azura? At best, they might grouse at the indecency of foreigners, staining the floors with their scandalously red blood. The assassins and their helpers? Someone else is bleeding, which means a fine day's work for them. The gods? Not without calling on their favor first, and now that the moment is here, no name springs to her lips. No, there's no performance to make here. No decision other than if she will bleed holding her sword or her glaive.

...no. No, that's not right.

Amidst the whine of charging ELF, and a nightmare in talons and silks flying towards her, through the burn of the spotlight, one soul sits in the front row. One who watches her with all their attentions. One who [i]needs[/i] to see her performance.

The glaive springs to her waiting hand, erupting in shining blade and rippling gravity. She leaps, and at the flex of her fingers it pulls her through three different trajectories, all away from the demoness' first strike. She will get no closer than a glaive's length. The room echoes with her  battlecry, a song for the one watching her, and gasping.

"Not! This! Time!"

So she swears. 

Go, dear heart. The mission needs you.

[Vasilia is kept busy by Bella, while Dolce sneaks off after Jill. The Pair are now Working Alone.]