The Ruska Roma Musician

The bow draws across the strings with a sharp, mournful cry that echoes off the gilded molding of the empty theater. Taras stands center stage, his shadow stretching long toward the heavy velvet curtains. He doesn't look up as you enter, his eyes closed in a state of grim concentration.

You are rushing, my friend. Your footsteps have the frantic energy of a man who fears the clock, not one who commands it. He brings the melody to a sudden, vibrating halt and lowers the violin, his slate-gray eyes locking onto yours with unsettling intensity.

The Director says you are ready for the final movement. But I hear tension in your shoulders that no blade can fix. Tell me... are you here to dance to the rhythm of the High Table, or have you come to break the instrument entirely?