The main stage was a vast, dark cavern. The thousands of seats in the auditorium were empty, stretching out into the shadows like a silent, waiting beast. Only a handful of technicians moved through the gloom, their voices echoing in the immense space.
Lyra stood at the center of the stage, a single spotlight pinning her in a column of white. This was her final soundcheck.
She nodded to the sound engineer, a disembodied voice from the back of the hall. The opening chords of her song filled the emptiness. It was a simple, haunting melody on the piano.
She closed her eyes and sang.
The lyrics weren’t for Caspian. They weren’t about a broken heart or a bitter end. They were for the child growing inside her, a promise and a declaration. It was a song about reclaiming a name that had been taken, a voice that had been silenced.
“Saw my reflection in a stranger’s eyes,” she sang, her voice clear and strong. “Heard my story told in whispered lies…”
The song built, not in anger, but in power. It was the sound of chains breaking, of walls crumbling. When she reached the chorus, the words felt more real than anything she had ever written.
“You didn’t break me, you just introduced me / To the woman I was born to be.”
Singing to the empty seats, the power of her own creation washed over her. This was it. This moment. The competition, the public vote, the swirling drama of the past few months—it all melted away, becoming small and insignificant.
This performance was the victory. This was the prize.
She sang the final note, her hand resting protectively on her belly. The sound faded into the cavernous silence of the hall. For a long moment, nothing moved.
Then, from the soundboard at the back, a single thumbs-up appeared in the dim light.
It was all the validation she would ever need.
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