The ancient oak grove held its breath as light cut through new leaves and pollen hung gold above the wooden stage. Cajurion, Arfilwen, and Belfandir stood toe-to-the-pulse of a bright, modern festive fusion, their breathing folding into the beat until the forest itself seemed to keep time. The festival hummed around them — lanterns swaying, laughter rising and thinning — but they weren't there for applause. They were scouts, and their unity was the message. At the grove's edge a shadow waited, patient and gathering, and they answered it the only way they knew how. They moved through ten beats as if the world had narrowed to the space between inhale and exhale: a low crouch that pulled the crowd inward, an explosive rise that threw the energy outward, twin pivots that ribboned the air, and a landing that held like a sustained note. A ripple passed hand to hand, a long slide carried them across the boards, an air-clap froze the instant before touch, and quicksilver spins scattered light and feeling without breaking the spell. In the taut silence before the last strike, the tension sharpened to a point — then the final seal: Cajurion pointing, Belfandir saluting, Arfilwen opening her arms wide. Their pulse held, and for one long heartbeat, the night stayed at bay.